His cloak was as dark as the night sky, and his smile was as sharp as a knife. As soon as he walked into the inn, Kaitlin knew there would be trouble.

"A tankard of your finest ale," the man said, ringing rain water from his cloak, "It is a cold and dreary night, and I need something to relax." He looked her over with his dark eyes and flashed his sharp smile again. "And mayhaps to warm me up a pretty young girl to comfort me in the night?"

"At once," Kaitlin said, ignoring his last statement and turning to the ale cask. The cudgel sat beneath the edge of the bar, oak hardened and heavy. She hoped that she wouldn't have to use it, but she had seen his kind before. He would talk kindly to her, flirting and teasing, and everything would go fine right up until she said no. She had seen the knife strapped to his belt, and she was certain that he had others hidden on his person. She shrugged to herself. She had handled worse before. She drew a draft of the ale and slid it across the bar to the man.

"My thanks, my beauty," the man leered. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her close. "Come to my room tonight," he whispered, "and I'll make it worth your while." As if from nowhere a gold coin appeared in his hand.

Kaitlin sighed. Normally they got drunk first before they got so blatant. Ah well, he probably hadn't intended to pay for the ale anyway. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for her brother Michael. He was a big man, pale and balding, with a gut like a cask and fists the size of tankards. He had been a great use in many a bar fight.

Unfortunately, he wasn't there. "Damnation," Kaitlin thought. He must have left for a piss. No one was taking much interest in her and the randy stranger. A few foreigners with golden hair sat in one corner, their hair shining like gold, speaking in their queer guttural tongue and playing at dice. A drunk sang softly to himself as he fell asleep. A hooded man in a travel stained grey cloak sat well away from the others, nursing a tankard of his own. No help from any of them. Well, there was always the cudgel. Men underestimated Kaitlin, and if she could get a solid blow in she might be able to daze him long enough to get Michael to throw him out.

"I'm sorry sir," she said, twisting out of his grasp, "but I have to run the bar well into the evening."

"I'll wait," the man said, grinning. "Waiting is half the excitement, and your a prize worth the wait."

"My thanks for the interest," she said carefully, "but I'm not interested." She slipped her hand beneath the bar to grip the reassuring weight of the cudgel. The man's smile evaporated.

"Now look here you little whore," he snarled, "you'll be interested when I tell you to be interested, do you..."

"Excuse me?" They both turned to look at the speaker. It was the cloaked man from before. He had come up so quietly that neither of them had noticed him.

"What do you want whoreson?" The man said angrily. The other man looked him up and down, carefully, deliberately. Kaitlin had the impression that he was weighing his options. When he spoke, she was surprised at how flat he sounded, almost as if he was bored with the whole encounter.

"I believe there has been a...misunderstanding." He pulled out several gold coins and placed them on the counter. "These are yours if you'll leave now."

"What?" The man's dark eyes flashed in anger. "Who do you think you are? You have no business with my private conversation with the wench. Off with you!" The hooded man sighed and shook his head.

"I gave you this opportunity," he said. And then, in one fluid motion, he grabbed the other man's arm, pulled it towards him, and slashed it open from elbow to wrist with a dagger.

"What?" Whispered the man, his eyes filled more with surprise than pain. In answer, the hooded stranger plunged his dagger into the man's neck, and threw him to the ground. As the man lay bleeding and twitching, the stranger calmly pulled out a rag and started cleaning his dagger. In horrified detachment Kaitlin noticed that the dagger appeared to be made out of some queer black glass. The inn had gone silent. The foreigners watched the man carefully, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The drunk had passed out beneath his table and was snoring quietly. Once the blade was clean, the hooded stranger sat down and pulled back his hood.

His face was either old nor young. His skin was deathly pale, and his hair as dark as a raven's wings. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were a deep, dark grey. And, without a doubt, they were the coldest eyes she had ever seen. He smiled at her, but his smile seemed false and strained. His eyes remained impassive. He reached over and pulled her gently by the arm towards him. Even through her woolen dress his hand burned with cold.

"Hello Kaitlin," he said, still smiling his strained, fake smile. "I've been searching for you for some time."

"Who are you?" She whispered. This man seemed deeply unnatural, wrong and out of place, a violation of nature.

"They call me many things, but for the moment I am called the grey man. I came here tonight for two reasons." He glanced down at the corpse of the first man, which had already begun to cool. "The first was to save your life. The second, well..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rose. Kaitlin looked at it carefully and saw that it was made out of exquisitely wrought iron, perfect in every detail. "I need you to deliver a message for me. Sooner or later, a young man will enter your little tavern. He will be short and small, with dark hair and green eyes. One of his arms will be... unusual. You will see what I mean. Oh, and he will have a medallion in the shape of a white star on his chest. When he comes in, hand him the rose, and tell him that I have kept my end of the bargain."

Kaitlin licked her lips. They were dry and cracked, and it was all she could do not to run from the man and his terrible false smile and cold eyes. "And what should I say next, my lord?"

"Tell him that the others will be gathering at the base of the Eastern mountains. Tell him that the battle is coming, and his help will be needed. Tell him... tell him that I will be waiting." She picked up the rose gingerly. Its thorns were sharp, and one scratched her finger despite her care. It was ice cold. The man stood up, and walked over to the door. "Fail me, and you will die slowly Kaitlin," he called over his shoulder. "I do not appreciate failure." She nodded mutely, tears welling up to her eyes and slipping down her face. After the grey man had left, the foreigners returned back to their dice game, and Kaitlin was left to stare in silence at the corpse on the ground, with its flat eyes and red smile and its cloak as dark as the night sky.