Illara Chronicles: The Broken Throne

Strange Bedfellows

Illara was a world filled top to bottom with shocking tales, nefarious foes, brave characters and their heroic deeds. On the continent of Taldrin, golden rays of sun lay across the rooftops and cobbled roads of Orlin, the capitol city, where a new adventure was about to begin. It was late in the first day of a new year, and the town was celebrating.

A tallish half elf man makes his way towards a tavern, where he was supposed to meet a man about a job. His skin had seen much sun but no sunscreen or shielding ointments. He has piercing blue eyes and was built of lean muscle. He wore a blue and black ring on his lift forefinger, and was dressed in a well oiled leather tunic. His face was grim, but there was an eagerness to his eyes. He was Vanyx Reslin, and he opened both double doors into The Left Handed Lady Tavern and Inn as he entered. The atmosphere was lively, but still calm. Staircases on both his left and right  lead up to a wrap around second story balcony. People leaned over the railing there, and focused on the center of the room where a man and a woman were locked in an arm wrestling match. They sat on barstools, upon a slightly raised stage, at a thin table as they struggled against eachother. What of the womans hair that was not secured into pigtails fell into her face, as she strained against the rippling bicep of a dwarvish man, whos face breaks into a knowing grin, before he pressed the back of her hand down to the table.

They wrestled with their left hands. There was a dissatisfied roar that went up in the wake following her defeat.

Vanyx scanned the tables of feasting farmers and mingling merchants until his eyes settled on a particularly odd looking collection of people in a corner booth. Standing at the front of the strange congregation was a man with a long robe on, and his hood up with a grave beared. This must be Vanyxs' new employer. The older man carries a blackened stone staff that is gnarled like the branch of a tree, and gestures with a sweeping hand as he welcomes Vanyx. "The last of our adventuring party! We've been waiting for you."

"Last but surely not the least, my friend!" Vanyx found his place at the end of the booth.

"No, not the least by any means." The mans voice was low, and worn. "Welcome. Please, take a moment to become acquainted with your colleagues." The cloaked man swept a hand in gesture towards the table.

"This ragtag group?" Vanyx cocked an eyebrow as he took them in.

"You took your time Half-elf." The thick accent came from the groups largest member. He was a weathered looking dragon borne, with silky black scales contrasted with intermittent scar tissue. His ragged cream tunic and breeches didn't fit. A jeweled ring hung from a string around his neck.

"It's an important evening! I wanted to look nice." Vanyx retorted sarcastically as he swept fingers through his hair.

"I am Boone." The daunting creatures sharp teeth flashed as spoke his name.

"Whats the rush mate? We're all here. We can finally begin." A typical looking man spoke up at Boone. His skin was young and fair. He wore his light brown hair up in a long bun. Long stubble dressed his unshaven face. A longbow peeked up over his shoulder.

"Now this seems like an agreeable fellow!" Vanyx grinned.

"My name is Roran, and I say we are raggedy, and there is a bunch of us. Lets get this done."

Stuffed between the others, low in the booth was an odd looking dwarf, with grey skin and purple eyes. His hair was long, braided and bound with metal clasps. He was badly scarred, missing an ear and two fingers  on his left hand. 

Roran held out an upturned palm towards the dwarf. "This is Toramir. I did find him in rough shape on the road but we made it here well enough." His voice was bright as his eyes.