From: andrea@cm.deakin.oz.au (Kadrys)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Kadrys orders a drink
Message-ID: <3107@sol.deakin.OZ.AU>
Date: 15 May 92 04:45:33 GMT

A man moves up to the bar. He doesn't Make An Entrance. No slamming doors, no
jovial shouts, no flung weapons. He doesn't zap into being in a shower of
pyrotechnics. He doesn't Lurk(tm) in any one of the ridiculously high number
of not-so-dark corners. You have no idea how long he's been here or how he
arrived. He's dressed entirely in black. "Oh no, not another one!" you think.
Well you're right. There's nothing dashing, romantic, heroic or flamboyant
about _these_ black clothes. They're worn, workaday black. Sensible black. The
sort of clothes which serve only one purpose: to attract no attention at all to
their wearer. And the man they cover is equally unremarkable: human, a little
under average height, carrying neither weapons nor armour nor implements of
magic. His black hair is unkempt and his dark eyes shadowed with weariness. Far
from being a tower of muscle, he could only ever have been wiry and lithe at
his best, but now shows the grim signs of near-starvation. Despite his terrible
physical condition, he moves with such unobtrusive ease that even his stealth
itself goes unnoticed. He is simply there, standing at the bar. Eyes turn
towards him for the first time. He scans the clientele warily, then turns
his back on them with a faint, fatalistic shrug. He stares at the bartender
with the intentness of one who has made his choice and must see it through. He
gives the bartender a slow, wry smile as he pushes a gold royal across the bar.
His voice, like the rest of his manner, is very quiet. "I am dying for a drink"
He pauses and wrestles a moment with his native caution, but it is overcome.
"Do you serve... blood?"  He awaits the answer, outwardly calm and still.
Only the sudden clench of his hands betrays the tautness of his nerves.