All was quiet and somewhat tense until the door to the tavern opened once again. Warm, pink light from the sunset outside flooded through the opening and framed a grim man in a heavy, dark, and tattered cloak. He entered slowly and with some difficulty. His face was mostly in shadow under the deep hood he had pulled up over his head. But it did little to conceal bright, moist eyes that saw only what was directly in front of him. He was followed by another dressed in a similar fashion who it seemed was trying to help him. His breathing came in wheezes, harsh and forced. One of the sleeves on his cloak had been rolled up and pinned at the shoulder where his right arm should have hung. Another man entered behind the first two and remained close to the door while his friends continued for several paces into the lounge. He was dressed in light armor and many blades and religious symbols covered his gear. His face was gaunt, dark and tired. He watched something out there intently and then nodded before letting the door close and seal out the sunlight.

"Illum," the leader hissed. He spoke with a voice that had been deprived of its depth and spirit. A breathy whisper from the husk of a dying man.

"Not going to tell them what you're really doing, you witch?" he asked.

The woman remained still. Her composure did not slip even in the slightest. The barkeep hurried to the end of the bar.

"Sorry, the place has been rented out for the evening, boys. On top of that I won't have you insulting my patrons. Go on and don't make me sort you out myself," he threatened.

"It's alright for now," Illum waved him down, "I apologize, I cannot seem to place your face to memory. Have we met? Are you aiming to come with us?"

"Don't you play your games with me!" the man jabbed a finger at her, "I already joined you once! Look at me! Look what I got out of it! Gold and riches, bah! You're a liar, a witch, and a murderer!"

He stumbled a bit while brandishing his stump of an arm. The man with him had to catch and stabilize him before he toppled into a table.

"Tell them, Illum! Tell them about the Black Wardens and the damned dragons and the fire! Tell them about the fire! I'll see you impaled and burned for what you did to us!"

Illum's patience and ease vanished. Her body visibly tensed and the look of composed curiosity transformed into defensive malice.

"You have been touched in the head," she said, "I remember each expedition as clearly as a still lake and I will not have my memory questioned. You have never had the honor of joining those men and women who have embarked on this task. I have never seen you and I hope I never have that displeasure again. Now leave. You are not welcome."

"Stuff your festering mouth!" the man screamed back. He hobbled up to the bar talking to himself in a rapid fury. His hand slipped under his cloak to his belt. The man standing guard by the door opened it and signaled.

"No drinks," the barkeep scowled, "My lady is finished with you, and so am--"

His words were severed by the short sword now shoved through his neck. The old, one armed man wrenched it free clumsily leaving the corpse to hit the bar and then slide to the floor. Two more mercenaries armed to the teeth and decorated with human teeth, various herbs, vials of liquids and an assortment of pouches entered. They already had weapons drawn.

Tara scrambled out of her seat by Nalia and backed to a wall as quickly as she could. Her eyes were wide and she looked for some sort of escape. The Essang watched the spectacle with some boredom and sucked down the last of his drink. His claws rested on the handle of a knife.

"We come for the witch!" the old man yelled at them, "We have no business with you. If you aim to keep it that way then get out! Those of you who defend this whore will be considered accessories to her evil and gutted alive beside her!"

The five of them spread out and began to close in on the enraged Illum. 

"What about this one?" the one who had been guarding the door gestured at Tahira, "She looks like one of them Outlander lovin' magic slingers."

"We'll take her too!" the old man barked.

The Essang was the first to slip out of his seat and limp leisurely over to Illum. He drew a long, jagged dagger out of its sheath, a sword to any human of smaller stature, and spun it around once, testing the weight like he always did.

"She's got adventure, escape and gold, you old scag," he hummed, "You've got crazy and a big fat dose of ugly. I mean just look at that one!" he pointed at one of the henchmen, "That man fell out of the ugly tree itself and hit every damn branch on the way down! Don't think you can just come wreck up a private party and threaten ladies and get off with out a fight."

"You're gonna die for that!" the henchmen yelled.

"We'll see," the Essang smirked.

The witch hunter lunged at them both.