Who could say how it was that humanity had fallen? Some would say that humanity still has it's place in God's eyes, and that this is merely a test, or a purgitory for those who were not quite good enough. These were merely regarded as religious nuts, cultists, and random crazy people wandering the streets that were best left alone, or occasionally chucking money at until the left.

Some would say that it was evolution; these people were often in the minority and quite often stoned to death by the above mentioned religious freaks who could not embrace new ideas or accept simple facts in front of their eyes.

Some would say that humanity was in it's twilight hours before fading out into the enternal darkness of the beyond. But nobody likes a smartarsed ney sayer, and these people are rooted out of the world through the process of selective breeding.

Most people drunk until they forgot the question.

And yet, oddly enough, it was inside of a bar that this very conversation was talking place.

"'Ere, what are you talking about now?"
"I dunno, gimme 'nother beer."

Or... well... let's run back a few minutes there.

"Do you ever wonder what happened? Why the world is like this? I mean, why are we here?" says one man, hunched over a teetery bar table nursing a mug of beer with a frothy head so thick you could use it to shave with. He was wearing normal clothing, which most people would call a selection of stitched together rags that would normally be chucked into the compost heap and did indeed appear to have a few insects clinging to bits here and there. His hair was rough, sandy, greasy, and if used to clean the floor would leave one of those impossible to remove stains that always wound up in places that were seemingly inconspicuous area that never the less causes embarasment at the next aprty you get invited to. His hands were rough, dirty, and looks as if they had been stiched toegether much like the very rags that he wore. What he wore for shoes is just best not mentioned, and given his current level of hygene, you've only got the guess at the state of his teeth... and breath.

The man across from him wore an array of green tunics piled and laying in just such a way to give them impression that he was a very small man trying to look very large. It suceeded very well at looking like that very look. The rickety and beat up table wobbled horribly while the second man picked up his drink, nursed it, and set it back down to give him a moment's pause. "Well, you'd have to ask the historian that, right?"

"What, him? Why would we ask HIM anything?" replied the first.
"Well, because he was alive when all this happened, wasn't he. He's seen a lot, he has," explained the second.
"Yeah, he's been alive that long alright, judging by the look of the creaky old nadger. He has to have people follow him around to keep the vultures from pecking at him!"
"Well, yes, but the point is he's still alive, he's been around the bend, so to speak,"
"Yes, and the time he took a squash, smashed it over his head, and screamed 'the badger, beware the badger' isn't a sign that maybe he's been around the bend more times so often he's simply come out the other side after getting lost along the way? He's daft, he is!"
"But have you seen the clothes he wears? And the pointy hat? Those are signs of a sure mind, those are."
"So? Because he wholps passing people with his cane yelling 'I'm old, gimme!' until the give in and give him what he wants he's suddenly a sage?"
"Well, he gets the stuff, doesn't he?"
"I suppose so... I suppose so."

The rest of their conversation is lost to the changes of scenes as we move on to someone more interesting. Or at least someone that we won't catch the creepy crawlies and heebie jeebies from ten paces away.

A tall stanger, similarly cloacked in a red crimson and tattered poncho sat alone at another table in a dark corner. His drink of choice was water... it was the only thing they'd give an outsider to prevent any "trouble" from happening. But that wouldn't stop them from blaming him anyway. He sat on the fire place's wall, far enough away to slink into the shadows with ease. Occasionally, the firelight would glint along his eyes, giving an eerie glimpse of eyes that were not quite... right. Eyes that were not quite human.

Beyond him, a bit closer to the fire, a bar wench was carting drinks and small meals to various tables, with about as much enthusiasm for her job as a judge at a child's talent show after the 500th take on "Yankee Doodle Dandie" on various instruments that were all played about equally; very badly. She worked hard on trying not to let the men at the tables think that she was happy to be here, in case they decided to show her she should be "grateful" for the nice tip they were about the leave. She bused the tables and kept a sharp eye on her young charge, a girl who had been fathered by a wanderer some years before to a... "socalite" mother, who later died for some crime or another and was generally viewed as one less mouth to feed after creating so many more of them. The children had been "fostered" by various houses, familes, or in some cases, businesses.

Most of them had very quickly learned that running away was a better life.
All of those had quickly learned that even the slow death of the barren wilderness was a better life than the ones they had had before. One or two had managed to survive out in the wildereness alone, some were found by passing travelers, and for better or worse were spared a death by the hand of nature by the hands of man. And then there was the youngest one.

Given to the only person who would take her, a grimmy man with large eyebrows that came low obscuring his vision when he was younger, and giving him a nasty withered look as he reached middle age, along with his sole remaining eye, the other lost in what he told everyone was a bar room brawl that he'd ended and had met the wrong end of a glass bottle, but everyone knew he was lying. He hadn't had a glass bottle in this dump for a good ten years.

He had taken the girl out of a kind of begrudged nesscessity, something he refused to talk about, and would take drinks away from people if they asked to many questions. She was ment to be the chamber pot girl. Except everyone know that this place was too run down to even have a chamber pot.

And judging from the shabby dress that she wore, it was pretty obvious that she was mainly used as the scape goat.

Still, people tolerated it... or else she was welcome to up and leave like all of theirs had done before.


"But just becuase he was alive doesn't mean he remembers, I mean, what if he was just a little baby?"
"Well, the world couldn't possibly have changed to be all this that fast, could it? I mean, there are stories..."

Yes, there were stories. Everyone had one. About the demons that they'd nearly been killed by, about the demons, they'd chased off, about the stupid demons and how stupid they were. Life was pretty simple around these parts. And simple didn't mean "uncomplicated." Life anywhere nowdays was complicated enough as it was without "simple" people around to "help" matters.

These stories, much like everything else that came from people who had never left the safety of their town walls in their lives, were complete rubish. They mainly told about the conquering or vanquishing of a great evil that had plagued them long ago, which is why they were still safe in their walls to this day, or about how they'd once had to fight off demons for years at a time, and now all the demon blood spilled around their towns kept away the vile things. In fairness, the demons had figured that the inhabitants were "simple" quite a long time ago and had stopped going anywhere near the vicious brutes.

Still, some stories held a glimmer of truth. Perhaps, once, a wild demon beast had wandered too close to the town, or was trying to find food... or was genuinely trying to hunt people. Demons were generally regarded as nice people... many were not anything that counted as a "people" to begin with.

A man the size of a small mountain entered into the shabby bar. All conversation obligitorily stopped to allow the mass the respect it deserved.... or simply because once the space inside a room has that much additional volume forced into it, it pushes all of the other volume out of the windows, cracks, doors, and anywhere else it can manage to squeeze through to get away from the smell associated with a hulking bulk like that who can even scratch his own nose.
He sort of lumbered and waddled over to a table, pulled back a seat, which snapped like a brittle twig and was instantly turned into kindling, and sat down on the floor. He said nothing, but his large hands produced a coin from one fold or another, and mug of beer was placed before him. Coversation slowly creeped back into the room like the tide coming in.
And things were well again.
At least, until there were... a series of unfortunate incidents.
The little whipping girl was staring at everything from the corner in a kind of numbed and dazed stare that comes naturally to those who have no future. The barmaid was bringing another beer to the mass of flesh that was a paying patron, and was drifting through the tables towards him. And some guy wasn't paying attention and stood up at about the worst moment possible.
The barmaid was knocked off balance, the man knocked over the beer, the beer splashed all over it's receipient, and there was a suddenly large lack of any sound at all.
It should be pointed out that there are large men who are happy in this world. Men who have a sense of humor. Men who smile. The kind of men who would wear a pink t-shirt that says "I feel pretty" in public places, and still come out of the day laughing with the best of them.
Mr. Landers, who now had beer dribbling into his shorts, was not one of these men.
It started quickly, or as quickly as a man that large can stand up off of the floor. Fortunately, the barman was quicker and was on the spot in a second.
"Mel," he shouted, "come here and explain yourself!"
The little girl in the corner eye's grew wide and the color, what little of it there was, drained from her face. She rose to her feet, and slowly began an unsteady wobble to the scene. A little man in a crimson cloak stood and followed.
"Mel, look what you've done now. Why, I've half a mind to take this out of your hide right here and now!" shouted the barman as he scilenced the barmaid. The barmaid looked around the room pleadingly. Everyone was looking, but no one seemed to see.
"No, I've got a better idea. I'll hand you over to THIS man. And HE'LL tan your hide for you to teach you that you do NOT do things like..." the barman was cut off as the thoughts caught up to Mr. Landers. His fist moved with surprising speed, but none was as surprised as him when his fist stopped in mid-path by a man wearing a red cloak.
"I should not do that, Mr. Landers, if I was you. Even a man such as yourself should be able to tell that this isn't right," replied the man from behind layers of clothes... and the walls... and the ceiling... and the floor... and about 3 feet behind your ear. It was said in a very soft voice. It was not an order, nor a command, and yet it held an immeasurable power behind it.
Mr. Landers was not, unfortunately for him, very fast on any uptake except the one at beating everyone else to the dinner table. His other fist came sailing right at the face of the stranger and was stopped about three inches away from coming into contact with the crimson cloak.
No one saw the stranger move. No one saw the punch. All anyone saw was a very large hole in the wall, and a man in a deep red cloak suddenly cast into shadows by the light.
The stranger turned to sit back at his table. Unfortunately, the patrons at the bar had suddenly turned into a mob. A very dangerous mob that wanted to remove the stranger as quickly as possible. The red cloak stopped in it's path, and said "Yes?" in that same voice again. A few people visibly shuddered as if ice cubes had been poured down their backs.
The barman took to the front. "You get out of here, Mister. You ain't welcome here anymore."
"As you wish," said the stranger, "but you will not harm the girls."
"The hell they won't!" cried the barmaid, "you should have kept your nose out of it. Maybe we would have lived, at least." Tears began to run down her cheeks.
The man with the cloak stepped towards the little girl.
"Melenia," he said in a plain voice, "if you come with me, you will be alright. I will see you to the next town." He squatted next to her, and extended a clawed hand towards her. His arm was furry, and stripped with red and black lines, though they looked thin and porcelin.
The barmaid, swifter than the others on the uptake, quickly stood behind Melenia and said "She's my charge... if she goes, I go."
"Very well," said the man in the crimson cloak. "let us go together." The light glinted off of his eyes reflecting a very green orb. The mob had the good sense to not get involved in anymore business... in fact they completely forgot about it, cleaned up the bar, set everything back up, and went on with business as usual, not noticing that the barmaid, the girl, and the stranger ahd left hours ago.
"'Ere, what are you talking about now?"
"I dunno, gimme 'nother beer."
-End