From the Eyes of a Provoked Wanderer

[Jack]

The wanderer walked in slowly, careful not to trip on the loose boarding. Mud stains had been tracked all over the place, though it seemed a bit too bright, though the dim lighting of the room may have explained for it. He turned the corner of the hallway, and saw a man sitting down in a chair at a table in his direction.

A white scarf was wrapped around his left hand, which hovered above his cup, dripping blood in it slowly. The glaze of his eyes failed to notice both his wound and the mess it was causing. He looked straight through him as he slowly approached.

"Uh, hi. Ah... I was told you wanted to ah... speak to me?"

The man's eyes slowly drifted up to meet his own. "No one speaks before Jack Spauer!"

The wanderer gulped, afraid of what a man of this proportions, resorting to self torture in order to extract information from himself, would do to another when offended. Jack Spauer?, he thought. He began to eye the door on the far side of the room, thinking of when a good time to make a run for it would be.

The man cut him off, however. He raised the blood-stained cup and took a drink. "We must discuss the war. No one provokes Jack Spauer and lives."

When the wanderer was allowed to leave, he did not look back. He would make a run for it, but only after he did as this man commanded, and for one reason: This man had power, but he had also lost his mind.