The Night Watch

by **Isana Lin** on May 15th, 2014, 5:12 am

64th of Spring, 514 AV

Isana Lin stood atop the gates and contemplated the world beyond. Beyond Syliras' walls Leth's touch brushed upon distant fields, a wind she couldn't feel through her armour rippling across line upon line of carefully cultivated grains. Somewhere, cloaked in the dark, the walls of Mithryn Outpost rose out of the ground. She wondered if there, another knight stood staring in the direction of Syliras.

"Come on Sera, keep up!" The squire was already a half dozen paces along the wall ahead of her, following at the heels of his patron - not too close, though. This was a senior squire; after all, and Sylir forbid he look anything less than completely confident. Even if he kept tugging at the straps securing his plate every five chimes.

"You need not harbour any concerns as to my ability to keep up, Squire Tamson." Isana peeled herself from the view and fell into formation alongside the pair. That much was true, at least. The leather and mail Isana wore was a good deal lighter than the plate encasing her comrades - though still easily heavy enough to remind her she was wearing it if she ran. Unlike them, she also carried a spear in place of the traditional longsword.

"Never doubted you, Sera." Tamson grinned. He was old, for a heredity squire, bordering on his twenty-first summer. All going well, it would not be long before he went before the Windoak and Tamson knew it. It was a fact that Isana found incredibly irritating.

"Tamson." The brooding figure walking to Isana's far right spoke up. Varner was Tamson's patron within the First Regiment, the single silver sword pinned to his armour marking him as a full knight. He wore a silver-trimmed cloak over his plate, head hidden beneath the hood. Isana thought the whole thing was a touch melodramatic. He raised a gauntleted hand to the towering structure on the inside of the wall, white and blue marble stretching above the height of the wall itself. "What am I pointing at?" Tamson looked at him as though he were mad.
"Dyres District, Ser."
"Mhm." Varner jabbed the finger again. "What else?"
Tamson was silent for a few breaths, frowning. "The Grandmaster's residence?"
"Yes, I suppose. Not what I was looking for." Varner ran a hand over the hilt of his longsword. "Give it some more thought. I expect to hear your answer by the end of this patrol."
"Of course, Ser." Tamson gave a shrug and a half-chuckle, as if at some private joke. Isana arced an eyebrow.
"Is there something here that I am unaware of?"
"Not particularly, Sera." Tamson actually grinned this time. "He's been doing it for years. Asks some pointless question or another when he gets sick of me talking. You watch, he'll have forgotten all about it by the time we turn in."

Varner gave a pointed cough, cutting off Isana's rebuke before it left her throat, and waved at the smattering of thatched roofs ahead of them. Detached from the bulk of Stormhold Castle - though still safely within the boundaries of Syliras' wall - the small settlement surrounding the gates housed most visitors to Syliras, as well as the city's taverns. It was late, and most of the scattered buildings had dimmed their lights, but a few torches still burnt in brackets on the walls, and the odd shout drifted up to the watchers on the wall. A rowdier night than usual, then, and all the more reason for the patrol to make an appearance. Isana let him lead the way as the trio descended into the sprawl surrounding the gates.

by **Isana Lin** on May 15th, 2014, 10:18 pm

"You can leave that here." Varner nodded at Isana's spear. The gatehouse was quiet this late in the night, though the flickering of the sentries' torches atop it reached halfway down the stairwell to the wall itself. "It's a patrol, not a battlefield."

Isana nodded and slotted the spear into a nearby rack. They were the same rank, but the First Regiment tended to carry a certain degree of prestige that Isana wasn't willing to butt heads over just yet. That aside, Isana was a guest on his patrol and she had to admit that he had a point. The spear was a versatile weapon outside the walls, but in the confines of the corridors that made up Stormhold Castle, and without similarly-armed knights to support her, the man-height weapon was more of a hindrance than an asset. If the situation called for it she still had her arming sword and stiletto at her hips.

After a final check of each other's armour, the trio descended the gatehouse stairs and stepped into the sprawl.

Though the sky was dark the gates district was still very much alive. The merchant's carts and caravans that dominated the daylight hours had been replaced by roving groups of travellers - pausing before a tavern here, latecomers frantically haggling for a room there. The knight's quarters within the citadel were busy too, of course, but it was a directed sort of chaos. Everyone had a task to do and was either in the process of doing it or weaving through the crowds to get to somewhere they could do it.

By comparison, the gates were positively lethargic. Groups stopped in the narrow streets beneath the open sky - that in itself a rarity in the enclosed city - to argue the best breed of horse to pull a wagon or bet over who had consumed the most alcohol that evening. The fortress itself was a place of directed action. This was a place of entertainment, passing travellers looking to fill their heads and mugs with something other than the thought of tomorrow's road. Bored travellers eyed the passing knights - some with trepidation, others openly. All; however, stepped out of their way. Regardless of where you came from, armed men encased in armour sent a very clear sort of message.

A handful of stragglers, a haze in their eyes that spoke of harsher chemicals than alcohol staggered up to Tamson and pestered the squire for directions to a suitable inn. Varner and Isana shared a look as the squire stammered out a response, his tone almost comically deep. Beneath his hooded cloak, Isana was certain he could see the older knight's shoulders jumping as he chuckled. Perhaps it was not such a useless investment after all. Tamson glared daggers at his patron for a moment before a grin split his face.

"You did well, Tamson." Varner laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Even if I wouldn't have called him 'Sir', personally."
"I thought you made a lovely tour guide." Isana shot.
"That's all there is to it then, Ser?" Tamson ignored her, a touch of disappointment in his voice.
"Not quite." Varner said. "You're not too far off though. It's not all banners and battle, lad. Particularly not here. You'll spend more time guarding people against themselves than anyone else. I thought you'd know that by now."

Isana stood apart and let Varner give his lesson. In truth patrol was not a new experience for her, but it was one she had not undertaken in a good number of year, which made it practically new. The Green Company patrolled, certainly, but it rarely meant interacting with anyone besides the odd passing caravan. The farmers kept to their fields, and the knights kept those fields safe. It was a straightforward arrangement that worked well for all concerned. It also meant that the she was used to watching for different signs altogether; damaged wagons, tracks in the woods and missing animals spoke to her of danger - not the human expressions Varner and Tamson needed to read.

A deeper dark settled over the city as the night ticked on. The flow of people on the streets slowly dwindled to a trickle and, by the time the trio veered off the main thoroughfares to patrol the deeper regions the taverns were almost silent. That was when they heard the first scream.

by **Isana Lin** on May 16th, 2014, 11:34 am

Another scream split the sky a moment later, deep and guttural - closer to a battle-cry than an expression of pain. Isana was already moving, pushing off the dirt laden cobblestones, sword jumping at her hip. Her leg still felt heavier than usual - a relic of an overambitious training session - but she forced herself to ignore it. Behind her, there were a pair of heavier thuds as Varner and Tamson rolled into motion, leather boots slapping at the stone. Despite the weight of their amour, they quickly reeled in her lead. No words passed between them - there was no need.

There is a curious instinct common among knights and small dogs. Namely, a tendency to run, at full speed, toward sounds that calmer, more sensible creatures would rather avoid or, at best, approach at a slow creep. Perhaps it was because both were protectors of a sort. Perhaps it was simply a shared desire to protect territory marker as theirs. Regardless, the trio pushed on until their legs screamed in protest beneath their plate.

The alternating screams and bellows lead them to a row of buildings - six or seven dwellings back from the thoroughfare - Isana had lost count on the run over. It would have been a stretch to call it decrepit, but it lacked the carefully-tended window boxes and signs that lined the main street. Instead, a battered sign hanging over the door identified the place as The Screaming Mule. A faded donkey scowled at potential patrons out of a wooden panel that may have once been polished and still had fond memories of the occasion.

Varner was the first to the door and inched it open with a hand on the hilt of his sword. Two men stood with broad backs to the door. Steel flickered in the hands of the man on the left, gleaming by the flickering light of the hearth. A handful of patrons were clustered around the far wall of the bar, eyes staring ahead at the men. As she watched, the man lowered his blade to the floor and another scream tore the night air. With a shock, Isana realised there was another figure curled on the floor between the men and the far well. When the swordsman raised his blade again she saw blood on the point.

"That will do." Varner stepped into the room, his own blade slipping into his hand as naturally if it had grown there. Isana and Tamson followed suit, tugging swords from their scabbards and stepping into the room with the clinking of mail. As one, the tavern turned to face them.

by **Isana Lin** on May 17th, 2014, 7:32 am

"No. No, I don't think it will." The armed man gave an easy grin. He had the look of a wildman about him, a scraggly beard clinging to his jaw like a vine desperately hanging to a cliff. Isana's hand curled tighter around the hilt of her sword as she recognised the tell-tale slur of drink in his speech. From his tone, he could have been someone's uncle discussing the country fair. If you could ignore the murderous gleam in his eyes. "This little piece of shryke called me a liar." Isana caught a glimpse of mercenary leathers beneath his shirt as he jabbed the sword towards the prone man, stopping just short of touching flesh. Worryingly, his victim did not so much as twitch.

The wildman's companion, a tall, taut man with the physique of a greyhound and a sword at his waist eyed the blade's point with morbid fascination before slowly twisting to face the knights. His clothing was far plainer, little more than double-layered homespun. Where the wildman's eyes were hard and murderous, this man radiated enthusiasm, watching his companion's actions with careful attention before flicking his eyes over the knights and away again, dismissing a trio of armoured soldiers like most men would shrug off a morning shower.

"And us here, we don't take kindly to name-calling." The mercenary raked his eyes over the bar behind him, looking for support. Anywhere else in Syliras, he would not have found it. But this was the traveller's district, and many here only knew of the knights in stories or by the roads they built. Besides, these men were warriors - mercenaries - and alcohol surged in their veins, false courage drowning out the parts of the brain that normally intervened in the name of self-preservation, and many met his eyes with nods of agreement and growls of assent. Many, but not all. Some wiser locals retreated back into the shadows at the sight of the knights, recoiling like crawling insects exposed to the light. They knew what came of openly defying the order. Nonetheless, the number who averted their gaze was far fewer than Isana would have liked. She ran the numbers in her head as best she could.

On her side, three knights in armour. On theirs, the wildman and his silent friend, as well as maybe four or five supporters from the bar behind him – including a myrian with a tattooed torso as thick as an old oak. Piercings of bone and metal dotted his dark skin like miniature stars. He met her gaze with a lazy smile that betrayed none of the intoxication that laced the mercenary's words. In spite of her tabard and mail, she felt a shiver curl its way up her spine. After a long moment, it was Isana who looked away first. None besides the wildman and the greyhound were visibly armed, but that meant next to nothing in a tavern full of mugs and chairs – both wooden, but still tough enough to split a man's skull if swung with sufficient force. Besides the obvious fighters there were six or so men and one woman in simpler clothing, probably locals, edging as far away from the brewing conflict as the tavern's musty walls would allow.

"Be that as it may." Varner's voice was as cold as the steel in his hand. "I say he has had enough. You are bound by law to lay down your arms." There was no grandstanding, no arrogant boasting. Varner spoke with the icy calm of an aristocrat – the sort of man who could not imagine any response to his commands other than complete and immediate obedience. The wildman sneered, but behind him there were a few hesitant second glances. Isana felt like someone had her stomach in a vice. The tension in the air was palatable. The fields had their share of conflict, but bandits and creatures of the wild simply attacked or fled on sight. To see the violence coming from so far off set her teeth on edge. She tugged at her scabbard, checking the straps.

Silence ruled for what felt like years. Then, the wildman turned to the man behind him and uttered a short sentence in a smooth, lilting language that reminded her faintly of a child tapping at glasses, his free hand rising and falling like a boat upon the ocean swell. It seemed far too delicate a tongue to come out of the wildman's mouth. His companion, the greyhound, gave a short bark of laughter, the sound harsh and grating in the tavern's confines and responded with a whisper of his own. Then, as the silence moved to reassert itself, all hell proceeded to break loose.

by **Isana Lin** on May 17th, 2014, 10:30 am

The wildman lunged at Varner, sword swinging in a wide arc, uncaring of the thin line it etched in the roof as it passed. Varner stepped forward into the swing, twisting his body so the blade fell to his side, bringing the tip of his longsword up to impale the mercenary as he closed, to let the force of his own momentum drive him onto the blade. It was a deadly movement, and brutal in its simplicity.

Then, the wildman simply wasn't there any more. In one practised movement he lowered the point of the sword, letting the attack fade away, and stepped to Varner's unarmed side to strike at the knight's face with his free hand. All in less time than it took a heart to beat. Isana caught a flash of steel in the wildman's hand - a dagger, likely hidden in the folds of his sleeve -, saw Varner's arm start to come up - too slow, far too slow - heard Tamson's strangled cry and felt a sudden rush of movement behind her followed by a clatter of metal, and then the greyhound was upon her and she had no further attention to spare for Varner.

His first slash very nearly finished the fight. Isana scrambled back against the wall as he thrust at her stomach, barely staying out of his reach. Dira. She was out of her depth here. She'd trained for fighting charges in formation, a bristling wall of shields and spear-points, not frantic brawls in a darkened tavern with an unarmoured opponent at close quarters. She sidestepped a slash aimed at her shoulder and gave up trying to settle into a proper guard, as Varner had. There simply was no room. It was all she could do to avoid ending up on the point of her opponent's sword.

Thankfully, her opponent didn't seem to be too focused either. His eyes kept darting back to the fight between Varner, Tamson and the wildman, sidestepping her feeble attempts to strike as if she were no more than a particularly distracting insect. Isana didn't spare the fight so much as a glance, attention focused solely on the shifting arc of silver in the greyhound's hands. He stepped forward, a lunge at her unarmoured face. Almost on instinct, she raised a gauntleted hand to slap the blade aside, as Varner had. As she focused on the greyhound's sword, she lowered the point of her own blade. Only slightly, only for the space of a blink. It was what the greyhound had been waiting for.

He slapped her blade aside, taking advantage of her inattention, even as his own thudded into the wall next to her head with a shudder of protesting timber. Pain exploded in her ribs as he drove a fist into her side, letting his own blade clatter to the ground. She gasped and staggered, a second blow hammering into her mail. In between flashes of pain she saw blood on her opponent's fists, torn by the mail.

What sort of creature tore their own flesh apart on armour? Still, he came at her again, and this time she twisted, aiming an armoured knee between his legs. He sidestepped and his lips twisted into a grin, exposing sharp rows of teeth. "Sina rarnin caliu?" That same floating language he'd used earlier, now spoken in rapid gasps. Isana paid it no heed and stepped back to avoid a wild haymaker aimed at her face - and found the curve of a table beneath her knees instead.

Isana felt something in her face shift as the blow hit home. Pain blossomed somewhere in her jaw and she stumbled backwards, knees buckling beneath her. She would have gasped, had the breath not been crushed from her. She rolled as she fell, tumbling to the ground in a tangle of chairs and stale mead. Isana scrambled to get her hands beneath her, but her head was a haze of pain and competing signals. Everything spun. A knee slammed into her chest, forcing her back to the wooden floorboards in a rattle of mail.

A face swam into vision above her. The greyhound, yellow eyes radiating hate. He sat atop her chest neatly, his weight pressing metal links into her skin. She clawed at him with a hand he neglected to restrain, twisted in place, struggled with every inch of fibrous muscle the order had instilled in her - but everything was a haze and she felt as though her blood had been replaced by treacle - heavy and slow, each message to her limbs sent as though it passed through an intermediary, as though the body that bucked and winced beneath another volley of punches belonged to someone else.

The greyhound grinned again and Isana realised that she was going to die. Not in some great battle, or an old woman with a dozen knighted squires under her belt, but a junior knight with the life beaten out of her in a tavern brawl. For some reason, that didn't seem as horrible as she thought it should have.

Dira protect me. Find me and guide me. Let the journey be swift and the seas calm. She would have spoken the prayer aloud, but her mouth didn't seem to be working. It was a simple prayer - one Isana had heard spoken at funerals at Mithryn. That was all right, though. Death was a simple thing. She clenched her teeth again, fighting her drag her exhausted mind back to the reality of her body, away from the darkness creeping at the corners of her vision. If this was death, she would face it to the end.

by **Isana Lin** on May 17th, 2014, 11:02 pm

A cry split over the tavern, another word in that strange language. Isana didn't know what it signalled - did not care. All that mattered was that, for a heartbeat, the man atop her froze mid-punch, yellow eyes widening in disbelief. Isana's brain caught up with her body with a lurch, a thousand slight pains springing into place in the absence of the man's blows. Slowly, painfully, her hand slid down her side to the stiletto at her hip. The steel was heavier then it had any right to be, but she tugged it from the scabbard with an effort that felt like shifting stone.

The greyhound's eyes skated back to her, teeth bared in a snarl. Then he saw the blade in her hand and froze. Just for a second, just the barest fraction of a moment. His hands began to move to pin her wrist, but she was already moving. The narrow blade punched into the soft flesh just above his hip and Isana pushed it further until most of the steel vanished into his body. She felt blood on her hand, slicking the grip. The greyhound gasped, and stared, enthusiasm in his eyes replaced by something far more primal. Fear. Anger.

Then the weight on her chest shifted for a sparse second, and it was not a man hanging over her but a wolf, her stiletto still buried in its side, gnashing teeth inches from her face. Kelvic. Suddenly, all his misplaced enthusiasm and constant glances at the wildman made sense. She twisted the knife and the kelvic snarled, yellow teeth lunging for her throat. Isana tried to roll, tried to shift beneath the weight, but her armour was heavy and those terrible teeth were sliding closer-

A pair of arms like old oaks closed around the wolf and tossed him from her like a smith discarding old iron. She heard a heavy thud as he hit the floor, but didn't turn her head to look. A faintly familiar figure swam into view above her. Tattooed chest, piercings glittering in the firelight. The myrian gave her a look that spoke more of disdain than a thousand patron's angry lectures and extended a hand to her, barking a short, guttural command. "Stand."

She winced as he pulled her to her feet, swaying for a moment before her sense of balance reasserted itself. Across the room, Varner and Tamson were still locked in combat with the wildman, his blade darting and parrying, dodging cuts and knocking away thrusts. As she watched, Tamson aimed a cut at his stomach and the wildman dodged, tossing a nearby mug at the squire with his free hand. Only the need to parry another incoming blow from Varner prevented him from lunging forward and cutting down the squire while he staggered. It was some of the finest swordwork Isana had ever seen. Even so, he was tiring. A thin film of sweat had settled across his face and was dripping down that scraggly beard.

A man from the crowd huddled against the wall inched forward, as though moving to assist the wildman, and the myrian lunged at him, pinning him back against the wall. The rest of the group paled. After a long second, the man relaxed, thinking better of joining the fray.

Behind her, there was a whimper. She turned and saw the greyhound - in human form once again - slumped against the tavern wall, blood pooling around him. The stiletto lay at his side, fingers scrambling for it like a drowning man reaches for land - but he didn't quite seem able to lift it. Isana turned her gaze from him and retrieved her sword from where it had fallen, pushing the pain in her jaw from her mind. He was no longer a threat. Later. Pain was something for later. For now, she settled the blade before her and advanced toward the melee spinning in the centre of the room.

The wildman fought like a cornered beast, lunging and swiping at the trio of blades that now encircled him. Sweat washed off him in waves, blade continuing to force openings that only another knight's sword prevented him taking advantage of. Then, he misjudged a lunge. One mistake. Tamson darted to the side of the attack, and Varner stepped behind the wildman, swinging his sword almost nonchalantly into the wildman's back, like a woodsman felling a tree. Isana's sword followed a moment later, sinking into his chest, and struggle ceased.

A strangled scream carrying more anguish than an entire funeral party tore from the greyhound. Isana turned, and saw the man pulling himself towards his fallen master, using the tables as handholds. Agony twisted his face, and each deliberate inching slide left a thin patina of blood on the tavern flaw. Tamson's face grew pale.

"Mercy." The voice was strained, croaking. With a start, Isana realised the greyhound was not pleading it for himself but for the wildman already still before them. Varner stared at him, but something in his eyes said that he saw little.

"Tamson." Isana's voice sounded distant to her ears. Thick and slurred like a drunk's the word prompted a series of painful clicks from her jaw. The boy turned to her, eyes wide and distant. "Tamson. Go to the gatehouse. Tell them-" She wanted to say more, but her jaw kept on getting in the way.

"I-" Tamson looked as though he was going to throw up. Isana skewered him with a glare.
"Now." The squire looked prepared to argue further, but finally gave a quick nod and darted from the room. Isana heard something that sounded suspiciously like someone being ill on the street outside moments after the door closed.

"Please. Mercy." Isana met those pained yellow eyes and saw a trace of the lost hound within. The wildman was dead. No mortal mercy could turn Dira's gaze from him now. She had no doubt that the greyhound would follow him soon. The stiletto wound was not wide, but it was deep. It may take long, painful minutes, but it was unquestionably fatal. Even if he survived, he was still guilty of attacking a knight. She had no doubt that he would have killed her, had he been able. No. There was only one way this could end.

"Mercy." The cry was weaker this time, pleading. Isana retrieved her stiletto from where it had fallen and gave what mercy she could.

by **Isana Lin** on May 18th, 2014, 1:12 am

"Whuy did yu-" Isana's attempt to talk without moving her jaw was cut off with a wave from the myrian. Varner stood at her side, the hooded knight slowly regaining some of his earlier composure.
"Sylir's breath Isana, you're a mess." She winced. She didn't need Varner to tell her that. Her ribs ached, and her face was a mess of roving pains. Her hands and mail were still coated in the kelvic's blood, and crimson fist-prints dotted her face where his torn fists had crashed into her head. Varner had been luckier. No. Not luckier. Better. He ran a hand over a thin scrape in his gardbrace and rolled the shoulder beneath it forward, already shaking off the impact that had caused it.

"Yes." The myrian nodded enthusiastically, agreeing with Varner. "Mess. Fighting like child." He batted his own hand away, mimicking the ease with which the greyhound had knocked her sword from her hand. Isana bristled at the comment, but she knew he was right. The fact her jaw ached too much to form a proper response was testament to that.
"You knew that man?" Varner pointed at the fallen wildman and received another nod from the myrian.
"Not knew." He paused, searching for words. His common was rough, guttural. However; after seeing him pull the wolf away from her neck, Isana was more than willing to let that go. "Not-family? Coin-clan." He shook his head. Despite Varner asking the questions, he directed the response to Isana.
"A mercenary?" Isana forced the word around her teeth.
"Yes. Coin-clan." The myrian nodded again, and then waved her closer. "Here, shatter-jaw." She stepped forward until there was a half pace between them. Then, the myrian raised his hands to her face, rough fingers prodding at the bones in her face.
"Stop that-" The big man raised a hand, silencing Varner. Isana should not have been worried. If the man wanted her dead, he needed only have waited and the kelvic would have done the job. Nonetheless, she felt her heart beating faster in her chest. "Not broken. Sit." He dragged a chair to the wall and waved her towards it. Not quite sure what else to do, Isana complied. Varner continued the interrogation as they moved. Around them, the few patrons who had not already fled as soon as the wildman fell edged their way from the bar and the corpses. The myrian did not seem unduly bothered by the bloodstain he stepped over on the way the the wall.

Varner had already checked the man who had been on the floor when they arrived and bound his wounds as best he could. He was still unconscious, but breathing - despite the wounds on his legs and arms - and neither of them felt up to moving him, so Varner had directed a group of the escaping patrons to carry him to a nearby healer and return when it was done. So far, no-one had.

"Yes. Mercenary. Guard." The myrian clunked around the new word. "He and I and -" He pointed to the greyhound's body. "And two others. In different bar, though." He stood and Isana made to stand with him, but a hand like an iron weight pushed her back down. "Stay still. Will hurt. Open mouth." Isana did. The myrian reached behind the bar and re-emerged with a thin polishing cloth that he proceeded to wrap around his thumbs.

He then placed his thumbs in her mouth, fingers cupping her jaw, and pushed toward her chest. A fresh wave of pain shot through her jaw - not the sudden pain of a punch, a slower, stretching sensation that burnt and tore at her mouth. She tried to grit her teeth, but the myrian glared at her. "Still." She tried to relax, white knuckles clutching at the stool. Then, there was a click and the pain in her jaw settled to a dull ache.

She raised an armoured hand to her face and rubbed it. With an air of faint approval, the myrian tossed the rag aside and wiped his thumbs on his trousers. "Did not scream. Good." She thought better of pointing out that his fingers had prevented her from doing just that. "Still fight like puppy though." The myrian waved at the fallen kelvic and laughed at his own wit. Isana scowled, but refrained from comment. After a moment, she attempted to speak and found that she could form words. It still hurt, but it was manageable. There was something she need to know.
"Why did you help us?"
The myrian shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. "This -" He gave an all-encompassing wave. "Is Syliras. You-" He reinforced the word with a prod at the Windoak emblazoned on her tabard. "Are hosts. Do not kill hosts. Would be rude." He paused for a moment, considering. "Also did not like Branner." He nodded at the wildman. "Was like bird. Constant talk without thought." He flapped a hand, opening and closing it like a mouth.
"And I would wager that with him dead, you get his wage." Varner's voice was harsh. The myrian simply shook his head.
"No. Already paid. Celebrating." He waved around the bar. "New journey tomorrow. Will not take money from dead." Varner settled a little at that. Isana raised an eyebrow. The last thing she wanted now as to hang around, but she had one final question. "And what would your name be?"
He paused for a moment, considering a little longer before he answered. "Matar of the Tempered Steel."

There was a gentle scrape as the door swung open, revealing one of Varner's runners. He gave a hasty bow. "He's with Baura, Ser. Three streets from here. Would've taken him to Dieden, but he wouldn't ope-"
"Baura will do just fine, thank you." Varner waved the man away. He retreated quickly, glad to leave the bodies behind. Matar heaved himself to his feet shortly after, and after a quick exchange with Varner throughout which Isana tried to avoid looking at the bodies, vanished through the same door.

Varner and Isana remained in the empty tavern until a clatter on the street outside announced the arrival of a patrol from the gatehouse, Tamson at their head. The handover was quick and, with the innkeeper nowhere to be seen, the patrol set to the grim task of dragging the bodies away. The trio left them to it, and made the slow limp back to the Dyre's district in silence.

Continued in Fracture Lines.

NoteOwing to the Screaming Mule not being a proper location (whoops!), the events in this thread will be treated as having occurred in the Broken Casket in the docks in all future threads.

by **Serendipity** on May 18th, 2014, 3:30 am

Isana :

Notes :

If there are any problems/issues or questions with the grade, please don't hesitate to drop me a PM- Even more so if I have misinterpreted and I need to adjust your lores!

Skill	XP Earned
Weapon (Arming Sword)	+1 XP
Weapon (Stiletto)	+2 XP
Brawling	+1 XP
Socialisation	+3 XP
Observation	+5 XP
Unarmed Combat	+1 XP
Endurance	+4 XP