I was sitting in a dive of a tavern called the Shady Pig, a dimly lit place that smelled of stale beer and wet straw. It seemed to me a gathering place of rogues and scoundrels, wastrels and wanton barons. Just another dark hole for those who enjoyed the twilight life of 'enterprise'.

I'd taken shelter from the rains and muddy roads here in the hopes of a hot meal and drying off but looking around I felt distinctly uncomfortable at the suspicious looks I was getting, from men with hard stares and jaded eyes that spoke of a life spent shedding blood.

When the barmaid approached me, her face twisted with impatience, and I ordered only water and the cheapest thing on the menu she gave me a look that would scald water.

What can I say? The life of a wandering scholar does not pay as well as I would like.

I heard her mutter, "Cheapskate," as she walked off. Honestly I sympathise. We all have to make a living. And since I did admire the curves of her figure as she walked off I decided to at least give her a few extra coppers.

When the food came I have to admit I was underwhelmed. A thin slice of stale grey bread and a thin soup with a jug of water that tasted of old boots and grass.

From the shadowy mass of patrons, all of whom made me feel as if they'd rather stab me in a back-alley than break bread with me, a figure detached. It moved swiftly, effortlessly through the sea of drunkards and benches.

It's face was swathed in shadow obscured by a hood and cloak, so I cannot attest to his true build but in that smoke filled tavern he loomed like the specter of Sanguine himself. As he sat down I was struck with the uncomfortable feeling of being targeted.

At first I assumed he was a shadowy peddler trying to sell me another of the various purgatives or love potions of dubious origin that were all too common in these types of places. You know the ones, made from various parts of a trison's anatomy or powdered ursaphaunt and guaranteed to sharpen your quill, as the saying goes.

Well I was not going to fall for that, of that I was sure.

He offered to buy me a drink but I politely declined. I am not so foolish as to accept drinks from a stranger. I've met too many alchemists with looser morals than a dockside hussy to ever trust a drink I did not pour myself.

"Do you believe in the Gods?" he asked in a strange voice. My earlier assumption went out the window faster than a Canis runs from a hunter and I gave an internal groan loud enough to be audible.

Not another itinerant priest! The roads are all too full of them these days. I do sometimes wonder what I pay taxes for. Doomsayers and salvation peddlers the lot of 'em. Their words not worth the paper they're printed on.

"I do, or at least I do believe in something greater than us." I replied.

"Then do you believe in fate?" He asked.

"No, I do not." I said. "Fate is another excuse for the randomness of the cosmos." Any true scholar does not believe in such fantasies but in the immutable nature of reality. In facts. Numbers. Observations. Science.

I dare you to find me a scholar, even a Zygethian one who would believe such superstition.

"Ah, but my good sir, I do." His hands went into the folds of his cloak and I tensed up for an instant. Was I going to get stabbed? Bleed out on the tavern floor?

What he drew out however was not a knife, but instead a rolled parchment which he handed over.

Slightly trembling hands unrolled the parchment. Blame me if you must, but I was afraid.

As I read the words, I felt my heart start racing. What I was reading was something so dangerous that I could not believe my eyes.

Citizens of Arkadia,

Every day you languish in toil under the cruel grasp of a tyrant and yet you soldier on.

Do you feel represented? I say no!

Do you feel oppressed? I say yes!

Our king is a tyrant who wastes your taxes on corrupt sycophants! Who spends your hard earned taxes on pleasure houses!

In the capital the nobility sups the finest and you slave away to pay for the pleasure!

The king grows fat off your backs and yet you face a daily struggle to survive!

No more, I say!

Be not afraid for I have come to liberate you! No longer shall you languish under the threat of the King's ire. No longer shall you have to forgo your native language in favor of the brutish common tongue.

No longer shall dissenters be slaughtered! Join me, brave citizens of Arkadia! Join me in liberating our fair land from a tyrant!

Your comrade in arms and defender of the people

Duke Raziel

Treason! There in black ink, was treason given words! Granted whoever had penned this did have a point. These days everything was corrupt. The roads have suffered, I can attest to that.

Even entire villages have burned, unable to pay the leeches known as Taxmen. And yet, this was an incitement to war, where countless innocents would die.

"What is this?" I asked the shadowy man. "Your liberation," he replied smoothly, his hands in open view of the table. "We shall take back our kingdom from those who would corrupt it in self gratification."

I took a few minutes to digest that. It was a ludicrous proposition. Taking back a kingdom? The king had an army of highly trained men. It was suicide.

"Out of curiosity, what's to stop me from handing this to the nearest patrol and having all of you hanged for treason, your duke included?" I asked.

The man leaned forward, lower half of his face visible as he smiled his white teeth gleaming in the dim light.

"You are," he replied. "I see you for what you are. Lonely. Poor. Your hands stained with ink, yet no one can afford to pay you for your services. You are one of us. One of the downtrodden, the neglected."

He was right about that. Of late I have even had to grind my own gall. Not a pleasant prospect, I assure you. That stuff stinks like Daemon's own fire.

"I'm not much of a fighter," I replied, trying to dissuade my new companion.

"Doesn't matter, we need scribes and scholars as much as we need soldiers. Who else is gonna write up our letters to mum?" He replied, shrugging his shoulders.

A hard choice. Fight for what was right, or at least right-ish and possibly die, my writing calluses replaced by those of a sword? Or go back to a life on the road, eating hard tack and jerky every day with only an irascible donkey for company?

I made a choice.

"I'm in," I said, hoping my voice contained steel. The man reached over and clasped my forearm. "Welcome comrade, to the true Arkadia!" He raised his voice so that it echoed amongst the rafters.

The tavern erupted in cheers as people stamped and clapped, knocking their mugs against the wooden tables, sloshing beer in great flowing arcs.

It went on for a bit and I gave a sickly green smile. Out of all the things I have experienced in my life, it was one of the most curious sensations, being scrutinized by those hard, scarred faces with smiles and mirth in their eyes.

When it died down I asked my new companion. "Just wondering, but what would have happened if I'd said no? Would you have killed me?"

The hood shook in what I assume was denial. "No, I wouldn't have killed you." He nodded to a point behind me.

"They would have." He said with a harsh laugh. I looked over my shoulder to see two broad burly men, arms crossed and swords at their side, give me crooked smiles. I tried not to let my knees shake too much and failed.

That was how it all started. How I joined in the Liberation of Arkadia.

May the Gods smile on us, glorious fools, one and all.