A man with a broad beard streaked with white wore a sailor uniform, a crisp white hat perched atop his head. His eyes were as blue as the ocean, his hair white as snow. He glanced toward the entrance, where a lady stood with an unsheathed sword in her hand, calling out to him.
"What's this little runt want from me?" he muttered, rising from his chair, beer mug still in hand.
Froth spilled onto the wooden floor as the bartender scowled but stayed quiet, unwilling to start a fight.
The man slowly approached the girl and shouted, "I'm Warren Dunn!"
"What do you want, you little punk?"
Elizabeth turned toward the man and lunged, her sword slicing through his beard. That was enough to stagger him. His movements grew sluggish and weary. He tossed his mug aside and drew his gun.
He fired, but the shot went wide.
"What..."
The sword flashed again, striking his temple and knocking his senses loose. Yet it was far from over. The dull blade swung once more, this time smashing into his ribs.
Crack.
The bones gave way on impact. The sailor gasped and raised his trembling hands. Water gathered at his palms, a mist churning to life around him as he roared.
Elizabeth brushed her ring, and a protective shield shimmered into corporeal form around her.
She stepped back, keeping her sword trained on the sailor.
The sailor did not relent. With trembling hands, he traced a motion through the air. At once, a streak of surging water burst forth, washing toward her. Tables, chairs, and several unfortunate bystanders were swept away in the sudden tide.
The bartender ducked for cover behind the counter.
A faint clicking sound flickered through the air. The sailor did not notice it.
Elizabeth's shield was beginning to give way. The waves crashed against it with overwhelming force, driving her backward. She struggled to keep her footing and thrust her sword into the floor. It did not sink far, yet it held enough for her to use it as an anchor.
The rushing water nearly drowned her shield and her vision, swallowing everything in front of her. But in the split second before the torrent consumed her completely, she caught sight of something: a burst of purple flame igniting in the air behind the sailor.
Suddenly, the torrent of waves halted, and the pressure upon the shield began to ease. Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, finally able to breathe freely. The water dissolved into mist, and as the vapor thickened, the bright morning dimmed until it resembled the edge of night.
Thud.
Something hit the ground and rolled to her feet.
A head.
The sailor's head.
She looked up at once. A man in dark clothing stood amidst the fading mist. He looked like a magician; purple flames flickered from the slight motions of his wrist. With a practiced flourish, he removed his top hat as though concluding a performance, then bowed.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Sleep."
He did not pause before continuing. "I am Josan Decruz, a member of the Men in Black," he said, stepping toward her.
Elizabeth slowly crouched and gathered the severed head, pushing it into a sack. Throughout the entire motion, her gaze never left the man standing before her.
When she finished, she rose and asked, "Why help me, Mr. Decruz?"
Around them, the shaken patrons were beginning to recover. The bartender crawled out from his hiding place and shouted at them to take the confrontation outside. Neither Elizabeth nor Josan moved. Terrified, the man fell silent and instead yelled for the others to clear the bar. The crowd scattered in a rush.
"I was not really helping," Josan replied. "But if you wish, you may assist me with something." He set his hat back on his head and adjusted his coat, though his eyes remained fixed on the sailor's corpse.
The body was twisted at the neck, detached like the limb of a broken doll. Deep, unnatural marks wound along the torn flesh.
Josan's eyes narrowed. He shifted his attention back to the seemingly ordinary girl.
Her sword was raised toward him. Though its blade was dull, a strange aura gathered around it, thickening the air.
"I did not ask for help," she said, her voice stern.
Josan takes a whiff of the mist. His lips had unnatural curled up smile.
He did not insist. Instead, he touched the brim of his hat. Purple flames flickered around him, and he vanished in an instant.
Elizabeth's expression tightened, her face twisting in confusion.
'What? That's i—' Her thought broke off as, in the corner of her vision, purple flames suddenly ignited.
"Surprise!"
A hand burst from the fire and closed around her neck. In the very next instant, she was swallowed by convulsing lights of shifting colors, all spiraling endlessly toward darkness in an eternal cycle.
Then she heard a whisper.
It was close, impossibly close, yet she saw no one near her. Worse, she could not feel anything at all. It was as if she existed only as awareness suspended in a void, without a body.
"Ever-fuming Flames of Ananta tend to cause psychological problems for newbie travelers," the whisper murmured. "So, try not to look too deeply into them."
"Anyway, we are already close to Anta, so sit tight, M' lady."
The lights before her twisted, converged, and collapsed into a single point. In the next heartbeat, the dizziness snapped away, and reality returned.
But it was not the bar.
She found herself standing inside a room. The furniture was dark and old, and the walls were blotched with patches of sickly yellow fungus, spreading in uneven, veined patterns like plague slowly devouring the place.
There was a table in front of her. Upon it rested a small statue of a man with wings on his back. On the opposite side stood a single chair, and seated in it was Josan Decruz.
"Sit," he said, gesturing toward the empty chair.