SLAM!
The sound of wood hitting wood was sharp, deafening, and violently dragged Ezra from the deep, protective silence of the void. He gasped, his eyes snapping open. Confusion was a thick, muddy taste in his mouth.
He wasn't on the cosmic battlefield. He wasn't bleeding out under a collapsed star.
He was sitting on a hard wooden stool in a cramped, humid room that smelled overwhelmingly of stale beer, wet wool, and roasting meat. The space was a riot of noise and low light—the guttural conversations of rough-looking men, the clatter of tankards, and the crackle of a massive stone hearth.
He was in a pub. A tavern of some kind, dimly lit by tallow candles and a few hanging iron lamps.
Ezra looked down at himself. He was dressed in a worn leather tunic over a thick linen shirt, dark breeches, and heavy, laced boots. Simple, common clothes that felt both alien and strangely restrictive. His bare forearms, usually covered in ceremonial silver armor, were exposed.
Directly across the bar, a massive man with a face hidden behind a colossal, bushy red beard was staring intently at him. The man's arms were thick as tree trunks, and he wore a stained leather apron over a dark gambeson. He was holding out a heavy, wooden cup, condensation running down its side.
"Here you go, John," the bartender rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly bass that cut through the tavern noise. "On the house. You look like you need it, sittin' there for an hour like a dead man."
Ezra stared at the cup, then up at the bartender's wary eyes. John?
He slowly took the cup, the wood rough beneath his fingers. It was full of a dark, amber liquid that smelled strongly of honey and fermented grain. Mead.
"I..." Ezra began, his voice hoarse, foreign in his own throat. "Where am I?"
The bartender chuckled, a deep, rolling sound that shook his immense belly. "Same place you been for the last three days, John. The Royal Reds. And if you drink any more of our mead without paying, you'll be sittin' in the stocks by the morning bell."
Ezra ignored the threat. He took a long, deep pull from the cup. The mead was sweet, strong, and instantly warmed the icy pit of dread in his stomach. He set the cup down, the clatter drawing a few curious glances from the patrons.
Ezra: Mmm... Not bad, (he murmured, appreciating the immediate, calming effect of the liquor. He looked up at the huge bartender, a cold, focused intent replacing the initial confusion in his eyes. He needed answers, and this man was the key.)
Before he could form the question, the atmosphere in The Royal Reds shattered.
KRASH!
The heavy wooden doors of the pub burst inward, slamming against the stone walls with such force that the flickering candles nearly extinguished. A frigid gust of outside air and snow swirled into the humid warmth.
A sudden, absolute silence fell over the tavern. Every conversation died instantly, tankards froze mid-lift, and all eyes snapped to the doorway.
Standing framed in the splintered doorway were four men. They were a stark, jarring anomaly against the rough patrons and rustic setting. They wore clean, immaculate white three-piece suits, their clothes unmarred by the grime and decay of this world. Each man wore a large, pristine white hat, mirroring the style of the dirty, brown hat Ezra now realized he was wearing.
Their footsteps, crisp and deliberate taps of polished leather on the stone floor, echoed in the complete silence as they advanced into the pub.
One of the men, lean and smiling with an unnerving confidence, stopped and looked straight at Ezra. His gaze was bright, predatory, and full of immediate recognition.
"Ah! There you are. John Ze'nielson. Told you we'd find him in his most treasured home."
The colossal bartender moved with a surprising, deadly speed. He didn't speak. He reached beneath the bar, pulling out a huge, old-fashioned Brown Bess rifle that he aimed with steady certainty at the group of intruders.
"What are you twats doing in my pub?" the bartender demanded, his gravelly voice now stripped of its humor, laced instead with pure, hostile warning.
The man who had spoken to Ezra barely spared the bartender a glance. "Is this not a public place?" he asked, his tone radiating condescension.
"For all but you outsiders," the bartender returned.
The man in white let out a sharp, genuine laugh that grated in the heavy silence. His eyes, fixed on Ezra, suddenly began to glow a bright, unnatural yellowish light.
The effect on the tavern was instantaneous and violent. Every single man inside tensed up. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, and they rose as one, abandoning their drinks and stools. The collective growl of hostility rising from the patrons focused entirely on the four men in white.
Ezra pushed his mead cup aside, the clatter echoing in the heavy silence. He stood up, spreading his arms wide, his voice cutting through the rising tide of hostility, not loud, but possessing a resonant quality that demanded attention.
Ezra: Woah, woah woah. Lets all just settle down.
The lead man in white, his eyes still faintly glowing with that unnatural yellowish light, scoffed in surprise. "Voice of reason, for once. You all know better than to listen to him. You are all still mortal, insects that can die at any second if you act."
Ezra looked at him coldly as he heard the tavern customers all grunt, sit back down, and continue with what they had been doing. The bartender, his arms thick with muscle, slowly lowered the massive Brown Bess rifle, putting it away beneath the counter, but keeping his eyes locked on the four men.
The lead man, his eyes fading back to a normal blue, gave a slight, condescending smirk. He told his three companions to wait for him outside before he walked deeper into the pub, his highly polished shoes tapping against the stone floor. He reached the bar and sat down on the stool next to Ezra.
The man took his large white hat off, revealing short, neatly combed yellow hair.
Ezra: What do you want? (He asked, his tone flat, avoiding the man's gaze.)
"What do you mean?" the man replied, his voice laced with feigned innocence, sliding a closed note over to Ezra across the damp counter. He then raised his voice. "Bring more mead."
The bartender slammed both hands on the counter. "Why don't you go—"
Ezra: Hey... relax. (He cut the bartender off.)
The bartender grunted before turning away to make the drink, his hostility barely contained. Ezra then opened the note, seeing it to be a crudely drawn map with several marked areas and directions.
The man spoke, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "A camp up west was found not long ago with bloodied remains. It was hard to tell what the people were."
Ezra: And the rest? (He asked, looking at the other marked areas on the map.)
The man pointed down on each mark as he spoke. "Mostly the same. Up north, however, is why I'm here tho. We've discovered an aftermath of an orc massacre. We found only one captive." He leaned closer, his breath cold against Ezra's ear. "A female elf."
Ezra's mind flashed to the memory of the female elf who had been a quiet, lethal member of the Covert team back in his own world. He wondered, Could she be behind this?
He looked at the man in white.
Ezra: Where is she now?