[color=teal]"Gods, this place is a pit..."[/color]

Ingar was convinced that Novigrad was not going to last as a nation, not really. Ignar had read accounts of such places in the far past, forgotten nations to others that had left the downtrodden and the outcasts to run rampant beneath their opulent palaces and grand carnivals. Only to drown in a sea of filth, revolution, or outside invasion. Or some combination of the three, and looking at this place, he couldn't help but think that he felt poorly of this land. But, he was fortunate enough to evade encounters with the brigands and outlaws, seems folk were too busy with the harvest of the live stock. Which was good, he hated having to get into fights, it really didn't serve him well, or at all. He hated the concept, needless bloodshed for oft needless purposes. Why couldn't they just reason things out? Because they were all mortal beings, sadly.

No one seemed intent on bothering the thin foreigner, as his pacing was fast and he looked the part of someone who invited no trouble from those, less they regret their life decisions. In all reality Ingar would likely run before he would fight and stand his ground, but that wasn't something they needed to know. His garb was almost as foreign as he was, and he made no attempts to hide it. He had committed no crime, well, he had, but none they would know about. Murdering Witcher's in cold blood was technically criminal, or so the family had claimed upon delivering their verdict, but the man had it coming, so he hardly was regretful of it. Rather, that small medallion sat heavy in its pocket, secreted away about his person in a way only he, or someone intimately familiar with him, would ever have the hopes of finding. It was a dark reminder of the past, but one he would not forget, lest he have to repeat it.

Lost in thought as such, Ingar almost missed the [i]Seven Cats[/i] inn, where the good agent of Dijkstra had so kindly pointed him towards. Apparently this would be the place he would meet up with this band of agents to hunt the tales of the Wild Hunt. It had taken some convincing, to be honest, since anyone who seriously tracked such dangerous lessons tended to not resurface again. History was also startingly quiet on the matter, something that inevitably tipped the scales in favor of the agent of Dijkstra to aid him and his other chosen agents in their cause. But, with a sigh, he walked into the inn, regretting his life decisions as the disgusting pit he found himself in. But, it was hardly the worst he had seen, so he found himself seated at the counter a few stools down from some young looking lad, couldn't have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Bit young to be drowning his sorrows, but who was he to judge?

[color=teal]"One bottle, please. Thank you kindly."[/color] He paid up front, before being asked for the pay, and in short enough time he was presented with a bottle of some fairly foul looking swill. But it would last for some time, and keep attention off when he decided to make his way to the back room. The few Witcher's congregating rather obviously was, well, not sitting well with him, but he ignored them resolutely. He did mutter a comment, taking a nasty swig from the bottle before hand, regretting buying the bottle immediately, but no sense just sitting there. Would create trouble, most barkeeps and innkeeps tended to not tolerate freeloaders lightly. [color=teal]"Seems you can't even go to the ends of the world without running into a Witcher..."[/color] And that was unlikely to be a statement that could be taken well, but it was spoken lowly so only those immediately nearby, or with unfairly supernatural hearing, might catch it.

Ingar already didn't like the look of the Witchers, so he turned his mind's eye to the only other really interesting figure so far. The young looking lad drinking a few stools down. Again, the apparent youth was what threw things off the most. His pet rat was rather peculiar as well, but bothered him little. Small thing was probably cleaner than the majority of this filthy hovel. He kept an ear to the Witcher's, but also an eye on the door. You could never go long with their ilk about without trouble walking through the door. Or crashing through the window. Or bringing the ceiling down on the collective heads of everyone. Or, he thought bitterly with another swig, murder everyone worth caring for. No, that was not a fair statement, he chided himself, it was one select group that did it. Didn't make dealing with Witchers any easier though. Barring any interruption from anyone, he would eventually make his way to the back room, passing on the code phrase to find some peace from the stinking hovel that was the main room.