Antlers
Shifter_Master
Neziul
Iluvtoji
IAmTheIsland
Bugman
Passable Writer
Fetzen
Not a Sayan
Stanifly
Thursday dawned gray, damp and peaceful on the bolted city gates. On this kind of morning, the citizens of Enn would traditionally sit by the hearth with a cup of tea to discuss the weather -- but today they sat at their windows, peeking through the curtains at the clean cobbled streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of who would respond to the Traveller's call.
Beside the silent gate sat a weathered old wheelbarrow filled with iron birdcages of varying size and quality. It had not been there the evening before.
The hour specified on the flyer came and went. Another hour passed. The sun rose properly over the wall and dried the morning dew, and still nobody came to greet the small hopeful crowd that had gathered at the gate.
Just when it seemed clear that the flyer had been nothing more than a cruel trick, the Traveller approached sleepily from a night at the city's cheapest hotel. His appearance lived up to the rumors spread about him: the metallic grinning mask, the perpetual hood, the exotic clothes, the sword and pistol at his belt. He walked with his masked face tipped toward the clouds, a rucksack slung over one shoulder.
The Traveller stopped on the street. He stared at the crowd for a confused moment.
"Hi." He raised a gloved hand in greeting. His voice had a youthful pitch, and he spoke as if he were grinning through his words -- but his expression was hidden completely by the mask. "Call me Spook. You guys ready to go?" He stepped forward again, cutting his slow way through the crowd until he reached the front. He surveyed the group again, completely oblivious to anything they might have to say about the excessive wait they'd endured.
"I'm gonna ask you guys to split up," he said finally, making a noncommittal gesture. "You five there -- yeah -- you'll be . . . Broccoli." He pointed, and made another vague gesture that separated Team Broccoli from the rest of the group. "You, you, you, you and . . . you. You'll be Carrot. You people over here," he drew a circle in the air to encompass a group to his left, "you're Eggplant. The rest of you are . . . Rutabaga. Got it? Great. Each of you pick a team leader and grab some cages. We're heading out."
Spook turned and motioned over his head at a guard standing atop the wall. The heavy wooden gates began to creak and groan and rumble with rusty disuse. They had only opened halfway when the Traveller walked through them with a whistle, leading the way down a weedy road that curved between rocks and bushes and sunny groves of trees.
