[u]Dan Halen, Hunter of the Wind[/u]

The city of Einbroch was one of the dirtier places on Guildaris. The realm itself was a very lovely place with a varied climate and several shining cities, but like all realms it had its underbelly; that was Einbroch. It was a dark and grimy area where the streets ran narrow and foreboding, each one of them not unlike the sort of dark alley that featured all too often in slasher films. Rats scurried along the corners of the walls and sidewalk, their dark grey fur blending in with the vile muck that had piled up from garbage and neglect to the road's repair. Any lights in the city were dim, even at full power, as if Einbroch's darkness were actively resisting their intrusion. The smell of filth hung in the air, draping itself over the buildings and the streetlamps like a horrid scarf that one is forced to wear because the relative who knit it is visiting, and the city itself seem to retch and squirm as it was traveled. Even the rain, normally cool, pleasant, and welcome everywhere, turned rancid and foul as it fell on the city in black droplets, only furthering the darkness while doing nothing to halt the spread of dirt. Not that it bothered the people; if anything, they were even worse than the city might suggest. At this time of evening, not even an hour beyond sunset, there was not an honest man to be found on the streets. Ruffians and gang members roamed in packs, searching for anybody that might be off by themselves. Angry drunkards wandered the sidewalks, bottles in hand as they hunted their next drink for the night. Some of them found it; others found fights instead or simply collapsed on the ground in a drunken stupor. Here and there a man or woman in a nice suit would appear to be alone, but if someone tried to accost them a streetlight above would go dark for just a moment, and when it resumed the would-be assailants were gone. Sometimes there was a small blood spatter where they had been standing, but very often there was nothing as the suited individual pressed on as if nothing had occurred. If ever there was a city that could be called a swarming hive of scum, it was this.

A man paused under one of the dim streetlights, his hat being bombarded by the blackened rain as he considered his orientation. A man who, like the city, was finding himself under siege by a cloud of dark sorrows. Dan Halen was a hunter by trade, which gave him an innate sense of direction, but in such a place as this- unfamiliar, obscured, and altogether unfriendly- he decided he would be far better off finding a place to sit down until the rain let up. Tugging his hat over his eyes, he made his way to a nearby bar and pushed the door open. A glance from corner to corner as he entered told him the place was quiet, mostly filled with people minding their own business. That was good, he thought as he walked to the bar itself and sat down on a stool. 

"What can I get for you?" came the bartender's voice as he fruitlessly polished a glass that looked as though it would never be clean again.

"Dark cherry rum on the rocks." he replied, scarcely looking at the barkeep, "Please." he added.

"Rum on the rocks? Can't say that's one I get called to make all that often. Sure you don't want it mixed?"

"I'm quite sure, thank you." Dan said dismissively.

A few seconds later a small glass of rum with three ice cubes was slid in front of him. He took a small sip, swished it through his mouth, and swallowed once he was certain nothing undue had been added to the drink. He nodded to the bartender as thanks, and set back to watching his surroundings.

"I take it you're not from around here?" the man said as he resumed cleaning the old and dirty glass.

"I wasn't exactly being subtle about it."

"No, I suppose you weren't. What brings you here, then?"

"Travel. I'm looking for a place I can hole up for a while."

"You on the run or something?"

"You could say that."

"What'd you-"

The barkeep's question was cut off by a stern glare from the man as he sipped more rum. Dan's golden irises affixed on his own eyes, and he felt like a rabbit staring down a hawk.

"That," the hunter emphasized very strongly, "Is a question you do not want to finish asking."

"I suppose so. Any place you were thinking of looking?"

"Someplace quiet, mainly. Far away from people."

"Ah. Wrong place for that here I'm afraid."

"So I gathered from my first five minutes in this... heap."

"You might try the northeast part of the continent, if solitude's what you're after. Bit more rural areas up around there, lots of forests and mountains."

"I see. Thank you for the tip."

Something outside the window drew the barkeep's attention, and in a hushed whisper he bent down to tell Dan something.

"Don't look now," he said, concern coming over his voice, "But you're going to want to move in a minute, these guys aren't-"

"HEY, my ear's itching! Benny, you talkin' bout me over there?"

The door of the bar crashed as a young man swung it open very forcefully. He stood roughly six feet tall with broad shoulders, and was decked out in a leather jacket with fingerless gloves, torn up jeans, and what looked like cheap combat boot knock offs. Every bit the stereotypical gang running punk. Close behind him was a ragtag assembly of similarly dressed men, obviously the front runners posse. 

"Too late," Benny said as he lifted his head again to acknowledge the pack of men, "Just do yourself a favor and keep quiet, okay?"

"No need to worry about me." Dan said as he sipped his rum some more, not even bothering to look up.

Of course, it didn't take long for the gang to notice the new guy. Everybody else in the bar seemed to shrink a little as they made their entrance, almost like giving way to the gang. It was fairly clear that they were the dominant power in the building. And, as the apparent leader's narrowed eyes seemed to indicate as he bored a hole in the back of Dan's head, they weren't likely to brook trespassers. 

"Well, well, well," he said as he sauntered his way into the bar until he was standing right behind Dan, "Who do we have here?"

Dan, for his part, simply continued to sip his rum in relative peace. "Nobody you should be concerned about, as long as you stay out of my business."

"Really now?" the punk said, clearly drunk off of his supposed superiority, "You don't know who's bar you're in, do you?"

"I would presume it was his." Dan said as he indicated Benny.

"HA! Benny? Yeah right! Listen here buddy. The name's Axel, and this is MY bar, MY neighborhood, MY turf!" 

By this time, the entire bar was averting their eyes. Clearly what they expected was a bloodbath, and none of them wanted any part of it. Axel, for his part, seemed to sense this and promptly pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. As it popped open with the trademark, audible *CLICK*, he licked his lips in delightful anticipation.

"And you're sitting in MY seat."

Dan didn't look up. He barely even acknowledged that a knife had been pulled. All he did was take a single, sideways glance toward it before returning his attention to his drink.

"Put it away, kid. This is a fight you don't want."

"Pretty big talkin' for such a small-lookin' guy."

"I've killed things twelve times your size and not gotten a scratch on me. If that knife goes anywhere except back into your pocket, you're going to regret it."

"Really, now. You come in here. Into MY bar. And start telling me I'll be the guy regrettin' shit? Don't know who you think you are," he said as the knife began to twirl and then fly forward, "But I'm about to-"

Everything happened in the blink of an eye. One second, Dan was still sitting at the bar. In the next he was standing upright, with one hand pushing Axel's knife hand aside like nothing. Before the hooligan could react, Dan's hand locked onto his wrist like a raptor talon and dragged it forward while his other arm slammed directly into the gang member's shoulder, dislocating it and rendering the arm useless. As it draped next to Axel's body, Dan gripped him by the throat and brought him face to face with his golden irises, which started to glow with an unearthly light.

"You want to know who I am?" he spoke softly, his voice like liquid steel, "My name is Dan Halen. I've fought in three separate wars and countless small skirmishes on two different realms. I've led hundreds of armies of men and women into battle with everything from swords and arrows to guns and rockets. I've witnessed beauty you could never believe and horrors you could never imagine. I've experienced betrayal, deceit, faithfulness, and sacrifice, I've been stabbed in the back just as much as in the front, I've won and lost a dozen fortunes, saved more worlds than you've walked on, slain [i]thousands[/i] of men... and loved only one woman with the kind of passion a [b]worm[/b] like you can't even begin to understand. [i]That[/i] is who I am. Now, go home before I REALLY lose my temper."

As the light faded from his eyes, Dan released the ruffian and let him crumple to the floor. By this time, the entire bar was watching him, and the last thing he wanted was unneeded attention. He turned back to the bar, slugged the rest of the rum, and pulled a bill from his jacket to pay for the drink.

"Northeast you said? Sounds like a plan to me. Thanks Benny."

A burst of wind pushed aside the rest of the gang as Dan made his way back out into the rain. He closed his eyes and listened to the air hum around him for a moment, then set off up the street toward the city's edge...