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Winds of Fate - A Thieves' Adventure (Semi-Tabletop)

Skarsat

_{The Faded Lantern}

Oh, look! Lord Vargas could talk! So who was a simple Tork to bargain with such a noble man ? From Skarsat's point of view he had already achieved his goal and that had been to make that man not only open his mouth, but to actually produce something humble and reasonable with it: an apology! Five hundred gold sounded like a lot, but also really just that: It sounded like a lot. He did not really know whether this amount was adequate for the job at hand or not. However, so much one might ask in order to be fair, did Lord Vargas himself know what the job really was ?

Yeah. Thanks to Nora he had already picked up that it was about some kind of recently discovered ancient grave they should relieve of its riches, but that was not the point. The point was the bunch of people in here: The burly man looked like a sailor and gave a rather honest first impression, but all the girls in here ? Something back in his head told Skarsat that it could only be matter of days until the party would start suffering from... internal disintegration ? With that possibility in mind one could interpret the job description of 'make sure that this lot makes it back to make' in a much different way. Maybe this all was not about defending against overly enthusiastic competitors, but about giving the people here a whipping if necessary ?

It left Skarsat wondering why Vargas would put together such a difficult bunch of people in the first place though. Was one of the major leaders in this damn port running out of men ? An interesting thought, but again Skarsat found himself in desperate lack of real knowledge. He'd stick to Nora. If the woman had shown her true nature downstairs just before than they likely could work with each other. Anything else would be highly problematic anyway...

"I have nothing to add." Skarsat responded to Y'Vanna's question. Then, after having glanced over towards Nora briefly, he thought twice: "Oh wait! I ask for a hammock!"

He had sat on the chairs in the main hall, he had already looked at the kind of seat they had offered him here and with departure having been announced for eight in the morning it dawned upon Skarsat that the bed in his room might turn out to be the third item in a row of utter inadequacies. A hammock was much less prone to size problems and, if oriented properly with regard to the boat's course and the current winds, could also compensate for the swell and save him from being tossed out of bed again and again. No need to make a laugh out of oneself is a simple request could prevent this!

Hopefully Nora would not turn out to be an ex-member of some highly official army or whatever those Easteners tended to have around here in their kingdoms. Just by looking at their armors, one perfectly matching the other, one could already guess that being a soldier there involved a lot of highly valued 'standards' being rammed up one's butt. 'Standards' was something many travellers found an appalling lack of within Torkanian territory so he himself would not like any dictate about how exactly to do things, arrange things, eat things or whatever else could come to one's mind!

Neh'miah made an important point though: They'd all have to make sure they had proper equipment. If Lord Vargas had just allowed for all of them to go out over night this would not have been that much of a problem in a sprawling place like this, but now ? Could Percy really be trusted to do important business ? Neh'miah certainly believed so -- or he had just given up already.

"Erm, Lord Vargas ? What if I need more arrows before we leave ? Percival probably doesn't know what kind of stuff I'm exactly looking for. Eight in the morning is a little early for buying things before departure, isn't it ?"

Winds of Fate - A Thieves' Adventure (Semi-Tabletop)

For a brief moment, Skarsat just kept standing right behind Nora and let Percival slip past him without doing as much as turning an eye towards the man. The scenery that unfolded right in front of him was just too interesting to process it in the time it took for Vargas to give his directives to Nora and for Nora to forward them. And, just as this happened, Skarsat's mind identified exactly this event and a major downer for his current mood: Had he just been demoted from someone having an appointment with Vargas under four eyes to a mere henchmen of a woman he had not ever met before ?

Now that too was a way to make problems with one's miserably failed schedule disappear, but the Tork didn't like it. It all happened at his cost, be it one situated purely in the realm of morale and mutual respect or not! A castling a little too long for his taste. This Lord Vargas might be the king in this room, but the way he had pushed around the literal tower here before even speaking one word had quite some potential for inner outrage within Skarsat. What equally hurt was that he just couldn't point that out in the most straightforward way possible for even he had already heard about Vargas being dangerous.

So Skarsat's face did not make much of a secret out of his mood even though it was not on purpose, but out of pure lack of interest to hide it. He watched the others in the room, mostly women, and listened in to more things not finding his approval. Judging by the various statements coming out of various mouths some kind of negotiation had already started and made significant process, 'your offer' being the most significant keyword. Now would anyone have the gratitude to fill him in on all of these facts in a chronological, non-fragemented order, or was being left in the dark a part of the job he'd have ? Weren't enforcers the most important people to know what was going on, just in case one had to reckon with unexpected competition or the like ?

Some part deep inside the Tork man wished he could swap roles with the poor bartender, thereby gaining the luxury of a reason to just leave this snake pit of a rendezvous. At least it gave the first impression of being such for all the phony kindness dripping from the words exchanged here: 'I would absolutely hate to see what she’d do to an asset such as yourself.', 'sweetie', 'You don’t want to know what that vixen does to people that piss her off.'... How long had this bunch kept him standing at the door before actually allowing him to sit down ? And, more importantly: How long would the owners of those kind words fare in a real, Torkanian snake pit ? Would they hope that some overabundancy of perfume and makeup left over from their dirty jobs would make the predators choke once they started to swallow the body parts attached to all those fake smiles with jaws unhinged ? Well he couldn't entirely rule out that possibility.

Skarsat had no real interest in taking the seat offered anymore. He did not yet really know his role in all of this, but given what Skarsat knew about his own reputation and what he had heard so far in this room his best guess was that he indeed was to join whatever was going on here as some kind of guard or enforcer. And who'd be more important to protect here than Lord Vargas himself ? A real castling ended with the tower standing next to the king, didn't it ? Well... Vargas could have it all and with great pleasure!

Ignoring the chair, Skarsat maneuvered himself to a spot somewhere behind Lord Vargas' seat and crossed his arms while he remained standing. Not exactly close enough to make the man feel the exhaust coming out of the Tork's nostrils, but close enough to be warmed by some body heat on the long run. Skarsat made himself no illusions about Vargas not being a hard-boiled fellow, but the latter had given him every reason so far to make the whole affair as difficult as possible. Also, if the women's palaver would go on for longer or the whole scenery would slowly descend into a bunch of drunkards maintained by some obedient Percival, this new position would allow for some fancy imaginations to prevent boredom: One of those certainly was taking Lord Vargas head and using it as a lever to wrap his neck around the upper edge of the back of the chair the man sat on.

The Beggars Glaive

Jared Morvayn

Name: Jared
Species: Human
Age: 32
Height: 6'10 (209 cm)


Appearance:
Jared's head features long, wavy hair of a dark brown-ish color that reaches well past his shoulders. His eyes are gray and appear to be a little striking, but his noce is fairly average-ish. His complexion is a bit on the pale side of things, but not overly much so and more like a few more days in the sun would darken it to a good average, too. He does not have any scars, at least none that could be seen while he wears clothes. His physique and overall build ? It's safe to say its indimidating: Jared's towering over pretty much everyone's head and features a densily packed, highly efficient and no less visible set of muscles along the entirity of his body that clearly betray his athleticism. Just... better don't ask about his weight.

Abilities:

• Melee prowess: Jared's not only a big guy and not only a strong-looking guy. In fact he's stronger than quite few of those who looked even more bulked up because his training has focused on real-life effectiveness instead of bare appearance. However it's not only in terms of sheer strength where Jared is a force to be reckoned with, but also when it comes to the art of fencing: He had excellent trainers and knows very well how to handle both one-handed and two-handed swords. He's no foreigner to medium armor, too, and prefers wearing either chainmail or a thick coat of scale armor all over his body.
• Berzerk: People often talk about someone 'going berzerk', but what they actually refer to when saything this, in most cases, merely is the mental state of someone being ready to work longer and harder and go to more extreme measures in order to reach his goals. Jared's method of 'going berzerk' goes far beyond that as he actually taps into his life force in order to grant him a boost. Using this kind of magic, he is able to exploit his own physical and mental resource much further than anybody could do using conventional means. It makes him even more of a fierce fighter, but at the great cost of breaking down afterwards and suffering more than he would have had had he kept going without using this power. From this point of view one can look upon this ability as some kind of emergency measure that should only be used if one's life cannot be saved otherwise. Whether he actually uses it in that way only and not just because he can is another thing, though...
• Telekinesis: He uses this rather seldomly, but what only very few people know is that he's quite talented at it. It's not like he'd like to steal from people by just reaching for their things from afar, or that he'd even like to choke them from a distance. However his telekinesis would be strong enough to do so and he, again, can use it to lend himself a helping hand by pushing himself away from the ground for a bit larger than normal jump, for example.

About Jared:
Jared might come across many people as a bit reserved, not liking to talk much initially and needed to thaw up first. One needs to gain a bit of his trust before he becomes a lot more talkative, and even more so before he actually starts revealing details about himself. He's a bit skeptical towards foreign people in general, and likes to scrutinize them even to the point where this becomes pretty obvious. He's intelligent, but that doesn't mean he'd be unable of a decent fit of rage or how to 'behave' in a more lousy tavern. Actually he enjoys tavern brawls, perhaps because he usually is the winner, and he also enjoys drinking and eating a lot. A very big lot actually which he then spends on physical exercise.

Jared was born into a family of lesser nobles, therefore he didn't have much to worry about any materialistic needs and might still have a bit of a hard time trying to understand why other people do the things they do in order to earn some coin. This shouldn't be confused with arrogance though. His education included manners, even though those might come across as a bit weird towards the poor and impoverished. He'd probably have a hard time to adapt his hard ass to a much more rugged environment.

The Beggars Glaive

Jared Morvayn

The light was fluctuating and the air getting cold. It was one of those nights when the moon would turn invisible despite the fact it was more in the light than at any other point of its neverending journey around the world, only to reappear as a growing sickle a day later. Of course some clever humans had long since figured out that this was not some god's magic mockery, but the logical consequence of the strict application of simple geometry. What none of those brilliant intellects had discovered yet however was how to keep a tavern's main hall free of annoying odours such as human sweat, dirt-cheap ale or even vomit without opening the windows.

And so, much to Jared's disfortune, the exchange of air -- and heat -- was making progress. Some of the candles had been blown out altogether, others now lacked their pool of molten wax and the remainder looked as if spending more of the precious fuel on their respective trail of soot than on generating comforting light. And all of this took place while the tavern's owner, a rather large and bearded man by the name of Gregor, was busy containing the main fireplace's flames to where they belonged.

Some of the smoke found its way into Jared's large nostrils and caused some upheaval in his lungs. He coughed and the sudden jerk was not exactly welcomed by the chair underneath him. The wooden construction was burdened quite a bit beyond its original design limits, but after many years in this place only those samples of above-average workmanship had survived anyway. It held together, although not without considerable audible protest that in turn attracted the other patrons' attention. More greedy eyes staring at him... as if he had not already had enough of those this evening!

Seeking to evade the urge of just staring back at them, Jared focused in on the molten amber in front of him. This was not actually molten amber of course, but the color matched the name of this mildly alcoholic beverage. It was a nasty, poisonous thing: Being sweet and not too rough to one's tongue or throat and cheap enough not to empty one's pockets too quickly, it was a mixture one could consume without end until even what little alcohol was in there would start to strike back even against the most hardened of heavy drinkers. Or, in other words: Jared.

Not this time though, not today. He had made that mistake earlier this week, leading to a kind of tavern brawl he would certainly not forget so soon -- simply because he could not really consider himself to be the winner of that occasion. He had not lost really either, but someone else had stolen the entire show and made a lot more out of it than a mere bunch of men beating up another mere bunch of men and vice versa. What had been her name ? Jared failed to remember, even to the point that he couldn't tell whether he had ever learned about her name at some point in the first place. He put down the now empty tankard a little more loudly than would have bene necessary, just enough to give himself some morale boost that this definitely would have been the last one for today! Then he lifted himself out of the chair.

Higher. And higher. And even higher until his head was on the verge of colliding with the wooden ceiling above. Him losing some of his scalp this way was something the others in the room had silently hoped for since he had arrived hours ago, but this place just was too big and too well built for that to happen. This was Oakfish Bay after all, not some halfway run-down victim of the war that still dared to call itself a 'city'! What would he do without the occasional visit of this beautiful, still sprawling place...

------

Probably forget about the dird-cheap room he had chosen to rent. The only good thing about it was that it was situated very down to earth and not some stories higher up, so Jared had no need to try out the shabby and run-down looking staircase. He plunked himself down onto the simple bed and only then noticed the small piece of parchment someone had put on the round table. A letter it seemed for what else could it be ? He had told his parents and relatives about his journey here just like he did every time, so they probably wanted to know whether he had arrived and was doing well.

Yet, as his massive fingers struggled to unfold the tiny bit of dead animal skin, it became apparent to him that something was wrong even before his eyes had processed the very first word on it. He knew his relatives. He knew that they were addicted to accuracy and cleanliness to a degree that had upset him more than once in his youth, but what he saw now was anything but keeping up to these standards. The letters were written with apparent haste and little attention to detail. Overapplication of pressure and speed had caused the quill to bend and jump from place to place like a spring here and there, spraying droplets of ink all over the place. The whole thing was spoiled by the touch of many dirty fingers, something he had hardly ever encountered in his relatives' households.

Jared had to read twice to actually believe it: His home village, Harthar, had suddenly become a part of the frontline ? Yes, it had been in rather close proximity for years, but equally stable. Something must have happened and now the surviors were on the run, including some of his relatives. Which implied that some others had not made it in the same direction of, quite possibly, not at all.

Who did respond well to potential family losses, even though speculative and quite a few steps away from one's immediate parents or siblings ? Jared did not, but he did not fall into tragedy either. After a bad night with his feelings in turmoil a decision had been made: He'd join this mysterious organization that called itself 'Goldroot'! Where else should he go anyway now ? His old home was no more and a new one still had to be found, but also he could not stay here without work forever. Joining them hopefully would still allow him to visit his relatives and be of assistance to them, but something had to be done about the major scope of things, too!

Ignore this

If it hadn't been for the most recent and no less disturbing insight about Polis and its current 'situation' -- if one was daring enough to call the calamity that way --, Calit probably would have just shrugged his shoulders, started packing again and left the place. If there had not been some clear evidence already that things he would have not believed in just days ago were at work here, the assassin would have considered the whole thing to be nothing but an outright comical, ridiculous situation. Half a dozen strangers, some mysterious thing calling itself 'Lalei', the promise that they'd be able to defeat a dragon the entire remainder of the world couldn't and yet at the same time they'd have to get as far away from their enemy as possible first in order to receive some 'combat training' ?

There had been many nights of feasting and cheap beverages that had produced more serious and reasonable sounding results in the aftermath that was bad dreams.

And yet he stood right there, right now and struggled with his next words because he wanted them to sound like a callout for getting moving. He was about to take this very serious, but he didn't know why. Was it because he likely had lost his family or because some part of his mind actually could make sense out of all of this ?

"Well, erm... What are we waiting for ?" and he clapped his hands together, only to burst out into a distorted smile right after that. It was a mixture of desparation, crying and a real laughter he had hardly encountered before in his life. This was not the right time to turn crazy, was it ? Trying to reconquer his own seriosity and methodic mindset, the giant start moving back towards his horse and hoped that the others would do the same whatever kind of transportation they had chosen. Elven territory was a long distance away and it didn't look like Vaeros would stick to any schedule but his own.

"I am not exactly familiar with the border regions, so I think the one knowing the territory best should guide us!"

Winds of Fate - A Thieves' Adventure (Semi-Tabletop)

Skarsat

The Faded Lantern Inn

It took an agonizing while, but ultimately even the nose of a Tork man was able to adapt to things that simply didn't exist among the nomads: the scent of sweat, vomit and cheap ale concentrated in a badly ventilated, enclosed space way too tiny. Nothing against the hearth though -- that thing was rock solid, burning much better than an open fireplace and would likely provide a lot of warmth well after the flames had ceased. Unfortunatenly it had to be incredibly heavy, so no tribe could afford to move such a thing around...

Anyway. His clothes had become dry, which meant Skarsat could start concentrating on other things. Saving himself from a nasty cold and an empty stomach were not the only reasons why he had decided to come here, but while the first issue was already solved and the second problem was about to find its end in the form of a enticingly good looking barmaiden delivering a large piece of roasted meat, his bosses' boss still was not showing up. Or was the man actually Lord Ivor's boss ? Lord Ivor had claimed so with a mixture of both reverence and fear, but who was a simple Tork to know for sure ? It could just as well be a trick to influence his whole mindset in advance about this 'Lord Vargas'.

Skarsat kept waiting. First until he had finished his meal, then until the card of games he had been watching from the distance had ended in yet another brawl and then an uncounted number of minutes further... Enough! Whoever this Vargas guy was, he'd have to talk now! Luckily mister Ivor had given him a hint about the bartender. The wooden chair creaked with a lot of relief as Skarsat raised himself to his towering height again and moved over towards Percival. The latter appeared to be in a bit of a hectic move and certainly looked like this was not the best evening for him, but Skarsat happily ignored this fact for the moment.

"You..."

One really couldn't say that Skarsat would have been the most charismatic person, but rather one whose dark voice and overall appearance gave reason to feel intimidated. Running a place like The Faded Lantern however was not an easy job either and unpleasant approaches were more like an everyday business, so combined with the fact that Skarsat actually tried to provide a friendly intonation Percival perceived the man's method of addressing him without feeling too much disturbed. He instead presented as much of a gentle smile as he could muster after what had happened earlier this evening.

"Someone told me that the man behind the bar knows more about a certain Lord Vargas. Now if my eyes don't betray me the man behind the bar is you. So could you tell me more ?"

Maybe it was a good thing that Skarsat lacked the ability to read other people's minds, otherwise he would have been able to witness an entire stampede of thoughts about his kind going off in the bartender's mind right now: often big, often bad, and more often than not even not so nice looking. Also Percival didn't hesistate to make an internal statement about the Tork standing in front of his counter being a good example for all of those aspects. None of this could be seen on the bartender's face however. He, after all, was somewhat prepared by this not being the first occasion of its kind.

"Could be, yes. Who wants to know ?"

"Skarsat. I have an... erm... what it's formally called ? Appointment! Yes, I have an appointment with Vargas!"

Percival let go of a sigh he didn't even bother to try and hide somehow. Lord Vargas was a busy man and even someone as miraculous and cunning as him could not just divide himself and keep up to several appointments simultaneously. Yes, he had told him something about another rendezvous with some Tork guy, but right now Vargas was upstairs with a bunch of people and it didn't look like that things would be over in that room anytime soon! One of the perks of being a Lord was that it was clear who'd have to wait in such cases, but unfortunatenly it was not the perk of a simple Tork man to know that, was it ?

"The schedule has gone a little haywire today, so please accept the Lord's apology for letting you wait. Nobody of us expected the king's soldiers to show up today! I'll take you to the Lord once he's ready!" Percival kept smiling. He had survived Lord Vargas not having a good opinion about his actions earlier this evening, so an unnverved Tork could not do any harm to him! He cut off any further potential of interrogation by just turning away from Skarsat, instead firmly dedicating himself to the lot of drinks people upstairs were waiting for.

Yet the stare didn't go away. The tork man kept nailing Percival with his glare and started to tap his fingers on the table. His lips more and more narrowed down to a thin line and his facial muscles started to flex slightly. As Percival did his best to resist, Skarsat grabbed himself a stool for comfort and watched the bartender dashing around and piling up beverages on his plate at a rather bewildering speed. As interesting as this was to watch, as little did it help Skarsat's interests though.

"You know, I can search for Vargas myself. Thanks for services not rendered!"

Percival's body felt as if one had tossed him from the overheated atmosphere of the tavern right into the cold waters of the harbor. No, not another session with Vargas just like the one before! If this guy would just stumble into that room... With one quick move that told a story about his experience as a barman since none of the drinks on his plate lost a single drop, Percival positioned himself in front of Skarsat before the latter could reach the stairs. Just... just how big was this walking tower of a man ?

"No need to, I am ready! I just need to pick up someone else, too! You know... you're not the only one he wants to talk to today!" He had almost forgotten about Nora! Hopefully she was somewhere around here, too...

Ignore this

I will try to get my post up this evening or Sunday at the latest. My job is trying to kill me, too. However that's pretty much the norm when there's an upcoming software release :)

The Sunday Group - Bumps in the Night

Scatter ? Had she just said scatter ? What kind of brainfucking idea of their boss was this ? So in order to cease causing such a commotion at the airport they all should run into different directions and thus expose themselves to even more people ? It made sense in terms of getting away from the attackers, but not much more.

Which didn't mean that Maël, especially alter ego Maël, couldn't find that idea quite satisfactory still. On the contrary: The lack of definition about the scope of 'Scatter!' equaled a free card to do something crazy!

Much less awesome however was the kind of trouble their drug-addict literally ran into: a security guard probably was the least preferable thing to encounter, aside from maybe a solid wall though even that was up to dispute because the latter couldn't catch. His demon ears could listen to the electrical noises of a taser and the screams of some unfortunate person, but luckily it wasn't Val. She managed to disappear into a smoke cloud of her own making, but could one be sure that she'd be safe ?

Maël decided that one could not. Even his alter ego could see the danger of losing teamwork in that kind of situation. They had to get out of the publicity, but all by themselves would also mean that they could be picked up one by one very easily. That smoke cloud would last long enough for him to make a run for it, too! So to hell with the orders!

The demonic shape the Frenchman had turned himself into was not exactly the best when it came to acceleration, but not even those security guards still standing didn't dare to intercept the monstrosity he was. A sharp pain, seizures and the fact he was suddenly stumbling unintentionally told him that yet another taser had been fired, but momentum carried Maël over and made the wires snap. He managed to disappear into the smoke cloud that granted him the opportunity to recover while noone could take aim again.

"Val!" His distorted voice thundered through the airport as Maël had spotted his teammate a significant distance away from him already. He did his best to catch up, but it still took a bunch of seconds until he was right behind her. His eyes frantically skimmed over the adjacent walls, the floor, even the ceilings. A few elevators and escalators were nearby and tried to seduce him, but no: these could be stopped and they all had definitive end points where they could be picked off very predictably!

A fundamental decision had to be made: Get out of the airport and away from it risking a lot more exposure to the public, or hide inside risking to be trapped ? A large and heavy looking door came into his view, a big red sign on it reading 'RESTRICTED'. Well that was a start...

"Wait!" he shouted out again, hoping that Val would hear and listen.

Summary

Maël runs after Val and tries to team up with her, having a quite spontaneous idea about what the very next step could be.

The Sunday Group - Bumps in the Night

I'll try to get a post up for Maël tomorrow!

Winds of Fate - A Thieves' Adventure (Semi-Tabletop)

Skarsat

Market District

The concept of 'fate' was an interesting thing to have around. It was like a bright star in the limitless darkness that laid beyond what a human's mind could understand,. It gave guidance to the intrinsic desire to find a reason for everything and to deny the possibility that anything could exist without causality. Even the greatest misery felt better if one could somehow believe in it being part of a greater plan and not just an act of sheer randomness. And yet there was another way to look onto fate: It was both a quite handy scapegoat one could blame for anything one didn't want to see in the scope of one's own responsibility and it was something one could put pretty much any kind of hope in.

So far the decision not to return to Marth might look like a bad one, but fate would decide what would come next!
There would have been plenty of other, less crowded settlements with less salt water around, but outer circumstances had kept nudging him into the direction of Guillan! Maybe he was just destined to go at sea ?
All the dirt, filth, crime and other hardships one had to endure in this place on a daily basis would not make him suffer, they would only make him harder!

Agreed, Skarsat's views on things were not quite as extreme as this, but he too would feel glad if somebody just came and told him that it wasn't all the result of his own decision and that things would indeed improve. Today though would certainly not be the day. The man who had taken Skarsat under his wing gave the impression of having a better and warmer heart than most people around here, but just like with most people around here his primary interest still was the state of his coin purse. And the spectators around him ? Their giveaways went straight into the pockets of said man's collectors and not Skarsat's own.

Money! One of the things that so far had failed to conquer the tribes of Marth. Sometimes it felt more like an infection that could make people rot while being alive than a useful and harmless invention. He too had started using it, but simply because the methods of trading he was used to didn't work here. One was nothing if one had no coin. One could and would die if one had no coin, so he had to make some, too.

And so Skarsat was standing at one end the Market District's main plaza, near a place that called itself 'The Faded Lantern', and focused in on the target that had been put up near the plaza's other end. Between it and him was a narrow-cordoned off corridor besieged by spectators. They wanted to see the next shot or they wanted to be given an explanation of how it worked and maybe have a try at hitting the bull's-eye themselves -- for a small price, of course. It was tedious work, but orders were orders. The more entertained his spectators felt there longer they'd stay and the more willing they'd be to make his employer's balance sheet look good.

The intensifying rain had actually given people another thing to look at as Skarsat had decided that a drenched shirt was even worse than no shirt at all. Now they had two things to marvel at: The precision of his arrows and the obscene amount of muscles on his body.

Unexpected commition started to set in though as the king's soldiers started to pull off a show on their own. He could see the collector's grimace as it was clear that this would only help to disperse the crowd. Even if the soldiers would disappear soon it would take much longer for people to come back, and given the worsening wheather they'd probably not at all. So... that would be it for the day ? The Tork man put down his bow on a nearby table and looked around, trying to find the person he was looking for. Yet his employer, a rich man who called himself not just 'Ivor', but 'Lord Ivor', now had his hands full shutting down his other small businesses around the place first.

While Skarsat waited, he dressed himself back up. His clothes were clinging to him like an ugly second layer of skin, but hopefully a stay inside would make them dry quickly. His sharp eyes darted towards a big tavern sign slightly wobbling in the wind.

---

Sheriff Gerranti had barely finished getting away with yet another example of successful bribery when Skarsat ducked slightly in order to get through the door. What hit him first was not air, but something that would have deserved to be burnt and buried forever had it not been gaseous. Wasn't it that alcohol, if concentrated highly enough, could burn ? If so: At which point could the stench of cheap beverages actually pose a fire hazard ? Maybe the people in here had to keep drinking in order to distract them from the fact that all the drinking had made the immediate environment next to unbearable ? A vicious circle, albeit probably a very lucrative one.

Skarsat decided not to join it, not this day. There was an interesting-looking poster on the wall and he stopped in front of it. Deciphering it would be a good exercise as the weird symbols and shit used by those Easteners still posed a vertiable barrier for him. After an amount of time that would have sufficed for others to read the whole thing several times he could make out a name: Neh’miah He’ron. Or was that strange thing even a name and not just an artifact produced by his own lack of skill at reading this ? Further down on the parchment the talk was about some kind of betrayal it seemed.

Skarsat smirked... This would have been a good job for him if it hadn't been for that damn festival. Everything had to be 'official' for these three days, then the more hidden massacre started afterwards when so many rich people suddenly noticed just how much they didn't like some other rich people or the guests who had not understood how to behave at their party. By that time the king's guards would already have found that guy, wouldn't they ?

The Tork sat down near the fireplace, trying to pick up some warmth in order to get himself dry again.