"Not often we get your type here."
Dark hood obscuring his features, the imposing entity gazed wordlessly at the bartender as he entered the tavern; the distinct ring of a bell signaling his entrance. As expected, the interior of the bar was similar to the many scattered throughout the city. The scent of alcohol and ale mixed with the scent of sweat was commonplace, albeit in this specific tavern there was also the scent of something else.
Black tinted glasses shielded the barkeep's eyes. The clothing he wore was quite fancy, a noticeable step-up from the other deadbeats and drunkards littering the tavern. Of course, it was expected granted his position. Compared to his patrons, he was the sole human.
He would live.
He gave a nod of affirmation, before stepping over to take a seat before the barman. A simplistic mag lay in his grip, currently in the process of being cleansed of any impurities. Various mugs of different kinds lined the tabletop, some filled to the brim with ale, others toppled over and empty alongside their snoring owners.
"Business, or pleasure?" The barkeep questioned, attention focused on the mug in his grip.
"Business, as usual." He replied absentmindedly, adjusting the cloak that lay across his face.
Faded long coat draped over his shoulders, the vermilion color certainly made him stand out amongst the other men littering the tavern; elven, bestial, dwarven, or otherwise. Black pauldrons lay strapped around his shoulders, not unlike the plates at his knees and elbows. Intricate designs lay etched into his fingerless gauntlets and boots, the leather material a sullied gray.
"You a mercenary?" The bartender peered up curiously, his bald head tilting in the slightest hint of interest at the sight of the necklace hanging from the hooded figure's neck.
"A decent hunch, but don't compare me to those scum." He scoffed, lips curling into a small smile as he noticed the slip-up. "Not my line of work."
Tucking his necklace into the collared shirt beneath the shirt of scaled mail covering his chest, he allowed his dark gaze to fall to the polished wooden top of the table.
"Well, who you are and what your profession is isn't any of my business." The bartender quipped with a welcoming smile, the mug he had been cleaning replaced with a dirtier one.
"Appreciated." He commented dryly, placing an elbow onto the tabletop before leaning a cheek onto his hand. Bringing another hand upfront to his face, he unclenched it to reveal a singular red gem within the center of his leather-clad palm; the crimson jewel faintly reflecting the illuminated room.
"Can't say the same for the rest of the kind souls here." He whispered in boredom.
"Pardon?"
He gave no answer to the barkeep, silence having fallen across the entirety of the tavern upon his revealing of the crimson gemstone. It continued to shimmer within his palm, gaze focused on its dull luster. As he rose from his seat, a faint ringing filled the silent room; earning a few gasps as snoring drunkards were roused from sleep.
"I've heard myths about this place, this city; you see." The hooded figure remarked flatly, his gaze turning to meet that of a beastman at the far corner of the tavern; golden animalistic eyes not unlike those of a cornered beast, typical of a beastman. His midnight fur blended with the shadows, complementing the dull gray of his robes and pieces of plated armor.
"They say in the slums, there exists a ring."
"This ain't no jeweler, ya hood wearing freak." A voice rose, the source, a rugged elven man, receiving a few glares from various other patrons. Oddly enough, his pointed ears appeared to end in furred tips, akin to those on a wolf or half-transformed beastman. Even so, their eyes returned to the gem within his grasp, disappointment clear across their faces as it was slid into his vermilion coat.
"Ah, I suppose I was mistaken. It is not the ornate kind of ring."
Yet a beastman in the far corner found a grimace growing across his snout, fangs glinting menacingly within the dull light. It did not go unnoticed by the vermilion-coated figure, who turned to return the glare.
"You know of what I speak, now don't you, Crosghol?"
The beastman rose quietly, golden eyes focused on the man whose face was cloaked in shadow. From the moment he entered the tavern, a dark essence unlike any other had flooded the air, the aura driving his instincts wild. His black fur prickled, standing on end as if he were nothing more than a wounded animal.
Yet that paled in comparison to what this man appeared to know about him. Not anyone knew him by name, so how had this man discovered it? Why was he here?
"Who the hell are you?" Crosghol questioned, his claws flexing apprehensively, fearfully. He couldn't deny the hesitation and slight wavering to his tone of voice as he spoke; earning a few looks from the men littered throughout. Even the drunkards had sobered up. Had they felt it too? Or was he going mad?
"Claimed by the wielder of destruction. Given an illusion of the future. Granted a shape beyond comprehension. Bloodstained. Savior." The hooded figure proclaimed, the wooden floor of the tavern squeaking faintly with each step he took towards the beastman.
"You can't be..." Crosghol gasped, his golden eyes wide in fear.
The hooded figure grinned dully, revealing fangs, not unlike those whispered to exist on vampires or an unchanged beastman. Yet, he was neither. No, he was something far greater; something even they feared. Dreaded by all.
Up close, he could discern the beastman's fear, taste it even. The same went for the men around them, elven, bestial, and dwarven alike all standing. Their hands gripped the hilts of their weapons, varying from daggers and swords to axes and maces.
"Now, now," He uttered in clear acknowledgment, raising his hands mockingly. "There is no need to be so cautious-"
The hooded figure drew a breath, the tip of a blade meeting his neck; drops of scarlet leaking from pierced flesh. Even so, he grinned upon meeting the primal gaze of Crosghol, pants slipping freely from the lupine beastman's maw.
"...What a shame." The hooded figure mocked, adamant as a hand tore the cloak covering his face away. Gasps of all sorts flooded the tavern; chin-length and parted down the middle, the figure's ash white hair contrasted the dimly lit interior of the tavern. Bangs framed his face, still youthful yet with a hint of authority. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties at best.
"A daemon?" A dwarven man rasped, faint dust of fur forming across his bared arms and face, brought on by instinct no doubt.
As if his hair were not enough of a clue, the men's gaze locked onto his eyes, their vermilion color ethereal and otherworldly. At his perceived helplessness and at their strength in numbers, Crosghol's tense stance lessened ever so slightly, fangs glimmering as he continued to scowl.
"If introductions must be in order, I suppose it'd be most fitting for you to refer to me as Arvroth."
"What does a daemon like you fulfill by coming here?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Crosghol." Arvroth answered mockingly, vermilion gaze piercing through the primitive eyes of the black-furred wolfman. "After all, as a fellow sinner, you should know my reasons more than anyone."
"...You must know what a fool you are."
"...Fool? You misunderstand. I did not come here to kill you or anything of the sort."
"Oh? Then what did you come here for? With such a pitiful vessel, you surely must realize how callous your action has been in coming here alone." The wolf daemon retorted, struggling to maintain control of the situation. He knew better than to anger one of his own, yet if he were already here... then negotiating would be a lost cause.
Perhaps, such realization served as an explanation for the innate fear that plagued every muscle, why his instincts were beyond his control. His vision was far too clear, his sense of smell heightened beyond compare, and he could hear each drop of blood as it trickled down his blade and fell to the floor below.
The scent, it threatened to drive him into a frenzy.
"As I stated, I am not here to claim your life, Crosghol." Arvroth reassured, vermilion eyes unyielding yet calculating, as was any daemon’s. His grin remained as smug as ever, his prey in the throes of disorientation.
"No, I came here to claim you."