Well, this was quite a sight.
As Mal limped up to the town gates and ditched the stick he used for support behind a fence, he noticed the glint of well-polished armor in the distance. Numerous men in metal helms wandered around the streets, knocking on doors, careening into bars and essentially walking across the territory as if they knew the place.
He grimaced when he noticed the sigil on the shoulder plate of one of the men. In a fluid movement, he pulled his hood further over his face in an attempt to obscure his eyes as he slinked down the side of the road. The shadow inside him bubbled in frustration. This was one thing Mal and the shade could agree upon. The Imperium and all that protected them were scum.
Even so, as much as Mal would’ve liked to rip them apart, he knew his body could not handle it. He needed to recover his energy with food and a good rest for the evening.
It didn’t help that Mal had multiple accounts of murder stacked against him that got his face on the posters of many large cities.
He slinked in the shadows, keeping to the darker spots as darkness came closer. He was steps away from the inn he had passed the first time when he heard rumors of the Relics waiting in Rivenwood.
The fact that Mal had travelled all that way after assassinating a classist aristocrat only to continue searching and using his magic was probably a bad idea in retrospect, but Mal wanted to get there before anyone else, and find those things before they ended up in the wrong hands.
“Excuse me, sir,” a heavy voiced asked as Mal took his first step towards the inn. The little wooden steps leading up to the main door were only feet away as Mal heard clinking armor behind him.
“Can I help you?” Mal asked without turning around.
The man cleared his throat, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any strangers passing through that would know something about the Legend Relics?”
Mal paused, “I wouldn’t know. I’m a stranger myself.”
Before the man could continue, Mal slipped through the doors of the inn and approached the counter.
A few moments later he was in a small room tucked away in the corner of the upper floor. The kind owners had promised to bring food up to his room as he was feeling “under the weather” as he put it.
Sometimes, with just the right smile and proper politeness, it was easy to convince people to help him out. Especially if they didn’t talk for extended periods of time.
Mal didn’t waste any time. He borrowed some of the linens from the drawers of a tiny cabinet and methodically tore strips from one of the sheets to wrap around his chest and shoulders. Then, with his hood wrapped around him once more, he tumbled onto the bed. It wasn’t perfectly comfortable, but it was better than a dusty road.
Mal was asleep within seconds, with the word Zyaxomort sitting on his tongue.
As Mal limped up to the town gates and ditched the stick he used for support behind a fence, he noticed the glint of well-polished armor in the distance. Numerous men in metal helms wandered around the streets, knocking on doors, careening into bars and essentially walking across the territory as if they knew the place.
He grimaced when he noticed the sigil on the shoulder plate of one of the men. In a fluid movement, he pulled his hood further over his face in an attempt to obscure his eyes as he slinked down the side of the road. The shadow inside him bubbled in frustration. This was one thing Mal and the shade could agree upon. The Imperium and all that protected them were scum.
Even so, as much as Mal would’ve liked to rip them apart, he knew his body could not handle it. He needed to recover his energy with food and a good rest for the evening.
It didn’t help that Mal had multiple accounts of murder stacked against him that got his face on the posters of many large cities.
He slinked in the shadows, keeping to the darker spots as darkness came closer. He was steps away from the inn he had passed the first time when he heard rumors of the Relics waiting in Rivenwood.
The fact that Mal had travelled all that way after assassinating a classist aristocrat only to continue searching and using his magic was probably a bad idea in retrospect, but Mal wanted to get there before anyone else, and find those things before they ended up in the wrong hands.
“Excuse me, sir,” a heavy voiced asked as Mal took his first step towards the inn. The little wooden steps leading up to the main door were only feet away as Mal heard clinking armor behind him.
“Can I help you?” Mal asked without turning around.
The man cleared his throat, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any strangers passing through that would know something about the Legend Relics?”
Mal paused, “I wouldn’t know. I’m a stranger myself.”
Before the man could continue, Mal slipped through the doors of the inn and approached the counter.
A few moments later he was in a small room tucked away in the corner of the upper floor. The kind owners had promised to bring food up to his room as he was feeling “under the weather” as he put it.
Sometimes, with just the right smile and proper politeness, it was easy to convince people to help him out. Especially if they didn’t talk for extended periods of time.
Mal didn’t waste any time. He borrowed some of the linens from the drawers of a tiny cabinet and methodically tore strips from one of the sheets to wrap around his chest and shoulders. Then, with his hood wrapped around him once more, he tumbled onto the bed. It wasn’t perfectly comfortable, but it was better than a dusty road.
Mal was asleep within seconds, with the word Zyaxomort sitting on his tongue.