Garth Brumear's Story

Garth gave a welcoming whistle at the sight of the place. Spread out before him were rows of farms. A great sea of wheat and corn rose to meet him. Though that was hardly the most interesting sight to take in. That title was for the cost little town that lay in the center of valley. Even from down the road Garth could make out the houses. Humble looking things, most being no higher than two stories. It had been months since Garth had stumbled across such an idyllic place. Not for lack of trying mind you. It was just that his job tended to send him to corpse filled battlefields, besieged keeps, and burning villages. Sure it tended to be him making the corpses, sieging the keeps, and burning the villages but that’s not the point. Garth’s right hand reached for the hilt of his Scimitar. A smile danced across his face. His hand moved away. There would be time enough for that later.

He entered the town without so much of a guard noseley inquiring on his business. No vengeance seeking manics charged forth to challenge him, raving on revenge and the like. Not a single wanted poster, graced with his handsomely scarred face, adorned the streets. “Oh my, now this is a warm welcoming.” His smile widened with delight. The people of this little villa had not a clue what lay waiting for them. Oh he’d love to leap into the town square. Annonce his presence and mission. He’d watch their faces turn to horror. There’d be screaming, shouting, and shoving galore. “Still, what man ever caused chaos while sober. Not a true man I say. Wine, wine, its the bread on which true men dine. Ale, ale, it shall raise the spirits of any true men without fail. Liquor, liquor, that’s what living is for.” He hummed the old song, one he’d learned from a band of roaming outlaws. They had been kind enough folk. Till he’d remembered to mention he’d been sent to kill them. They’d taken not to kindly to that, not one bit. “Now then about that Pint.”

Down the street he spotted his goal. An inn. Inns meant ale, ale meant a good time, a good time meant a hanger, a hanger was dealt with by drinking ale, inns meant ale. It was a vicious circle, and one that Garth adored being apart of. Sure this northern piss water was hardly Antivian Ale, or Gorianthian Spirits, but it would suffice to get him drunk. Garth Brumear was more then content to drown in fine wine. He burst through the inn door, a smile spread across his mangled face. “The sooner a mug, filled with the finest brew, is placed in my hand the sooner you shall see my coin.”

Armor clanking with every movement, Garth sauntered into the Inn. Cozy looking place. Candles lined the walls. A fireplaces lay ablaze in the corner of the room. Though it was what lay behind the bar that interested Garth the most. Massive barrels, hopefully filled with the most delectable wine his tongue had ever tasted. Sadly though it seemed that instead of the Alcoholic infested pit of sin that Garth longed for, it was almost empty. A few patrons lingered at their tables. Nursing their drinks. They kept their gazes downward. Some glaring a whole in their tables. Cozy, but dreary Garth noted. He was certain could liven the place up. Now if only he could finds the means to get drunk.

Almost as if summoned by the thought, a woman approached him. She was a lovely looking lass. Long raven black hair cascaded over her shoulders. Garth’s smile widened as she informed him on the fine news. The finest ales, the finest wines, and what looked to be the finest wenches. Perhaps even after his little personal business was dealt with he might stay a month here. Garth gave a booming chuckle, “There are a few things I’m after my dear. A lovely lass, and a cold pint. See as you’re hear that just leaves the pint now doesn't it.” His voice was loud, yet held a certain charm to it. Jovial in tone, as if every word he spoke was some secret jest at his own expense. “Though, it seems my manners have deserted me.” Garth gave slight bow toward the sable haired lady. “I am Garth Brumear, now then, about that ale.”

Crispin would silently saunter down the wooden stairs of the inn. He was groggy from a short and unrestful sleep in the confines of the scraggly, uncomfortable inn bed that he was accustomed to. His own insomnia not befitting his line of work. He had recently been caught up in the endeavors of a local arms dealer. Venturing out of town to handle a few bandits that had no doubt been unfortunate enough to take advantage of a small caravan. The poor blacksmith had relied on it, and what he had left had gone to pay half the price necessary. Usually he would disallow half payment. But this had been a good man, and though he covered it as if it was because he had a personal vendetta against the outlaws to which he knew not even their names, deep inside he had realized it may be the man's only hope. They were quick work, hardly knowing how to wield their small daggers and unwieldy bows.

Upon setting his eyes upon the ground floor he took in the unusual sight of the marshal, Jack Mercer, a strange boy that appeared to the eyes unnatural. And a dark skinned man that screamed, "braggart!" He caught the last of the man's voice, an air of overconfidence with an undertone of some distant darkness: "..it seems my manners have deserted me." He would scoff, looking from the man to the inn keeper, most lovely and gentle in her manner, Meredith. He felt a protection of her that he didn't for most people as if she were a sister or close friend. Not by relation, but rather her lack of judgement and willingness to rent a room out for so long to a mercenary somewhat hated and somewhat praised about the town.

The floor would creak as he took the final step off and onto the wooden floor of the inn, fluid and eloquent in his motion. Several easy strides and he would be at the bar, taking some not so very noticeable glances at the new faces and fellow patrons.

Garth’s gleefully followed the Innkeeper toward the bar. As he marched after her his eyes scanned the inn once more. It seemed that while he’d been charming the fair lady, a few townsfolk had slipped inside the inn. Out of the corner of his eyes Garth spotted him. A man sat slumped in the shadows in the corner of the bar. Cloaked in the shadows the reclusive figure seemed to stare outward across the inn. The figure made no move to order a drink. It seemed content to simply sit and listen. A chill ran down Garth’s spine. There was something off about the figure, in-human almost. “Perhaps, this far north though. In public, they were never social creatures.” Garth muttered under his breath, and happily looked else where.

Garth continued to follow after this lovely Inn keeper. His eyes looking everywhere but upon the stranger in the back. As they approached the bar he spotted two other patrons. His smile widened at the sight of the first one. A pale skinned youth. The boy’s face that smarmy smirk that Garth adored. Truthfully he despised such smirks, they tended to be wielded by the egotistical of the world. What Garth did enjoy was wiping such smirks from their face. He tended to achieve this by removing said smirkers head. He winked at the youth as they passed by. “Perhaps when you're older, eh boy?” He meant nothing by the comment. Simply words between strangers.

They reached the bar with only caused the disgustingly large grin on Garth’s face to reach ear to ear. He seated himself beside the other patron at the bar. Simply by looking at the poor fellow Garth knew. A hangover, or a bad morning, they tended to be interchangeable. The Innkeeper placed a mug of ale on the bar for Garth. He lifted the mug into the air. “To hangovers, the only thing to keep me from drowning myself in ale.” With his cheers given Garth shoved the cold liquid down his throat. The Innkeeper hadn’t lied. It was damned fine ale. The kind found in the cellars of high lords and ladies. With a satisfied sigh slid the slammed the mug back onto the bar. “At the least I can’t call you a liar my fair lady, a fine vintage you carry. Perhaps the finest I’ve tasted in years. Which is saying something.” He lifted the mug in her direction. “For I have tasted many.” He winked her way. “Though I must inquire, did you mean to slight me.” His smile slid from his face.

It was an odd sight to see a sour faced Garth. His eyes seemed to lose their luster, his face seemed darker, and there was an air of menace to him. His free hand once again reached for the smicatar at his side. “Perhaps things are different here in the northern lands. When a guest gives his name, it is customary for the host to return the favor.” There was a darkness in his voice. As if every word were some veiled threat. His lips parted to revel Garth’s row of teeth. It wasn’t a smile he wore, but a grimace. A grimacing Garth had been the finally sight for many a man. ”Where I come from, to not give your birth name is a grievous insult. To withhold it means that you feel the other party is unworthy of even knowing their host. Let’s try this once more my lady. I am Garth Brumear, and you are?”

Crispin would have silently and casually moved his hand to the hilt of one of his two daggers, resting at his belt. The man was boisterous and loud, and if he truly understood the means of a hangover it would seem only courteous not to bellow. That was one thing, but to act as if he was going to take to arms against a woman innkeeper. There were lines you just shouldn't cross. With his other hand he'd be calm wrapping his hand around the mug giving a crooked smile to Meredith as if letting her know it'd be alright, and for the first time he would speak, his voice solemn and quiet yet noticeably confident and suave. "Thank you, Meredith, for the ale." And then he'd turn his head slightly to stare the dark man in the eyes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Garth Brumear," He would add emphasis to the name as if making a point of saying it. "It'd be a wise thing to lighten your heart, such outbursts are rather unnecessary." With that he'd tilt his head back taking a long swig of the ale before returning it to the counter. His index and middle finger of his dagger hand would play gently along the hilt. "You talk of manners, but truly are forgetting yours." His gaze would darken as his eyebrows became more acute. His voice would follow the example of his gaze as if there was no room for arguing with what he had to say, "It isn't customary here, in these northern lands, to challenge a woman in ways of combat." And as if to break the tension or rather challenge the man to calm, he would crack another smile, summing him up with measured calculation. His obscured view withheld to catch every slight movement that may be made within the vicinity of his vision.

One thing, Lady Mstovarelli always had time for, was to go out and walk among the common folk of the towns and villages. This way she could always held the hand at the very pulse of society, knowing the latest rumors and what-not from the first hand rather than her spies. Sometimes she would do it in disguise, so nobody would know it was her - one of the most mightiest persons of kingdom, while other times she didn't try to hide her persona.

Rachel was wearing her usual everyday outfit. Simple, but effective leather armor with rapier on her belt. Even if she had accompanied few guards, they were nowhere to be seen. So she could very well be alone as well.

Reliquitia was that kind of towns that she liked most. Small, quite and important at the same time, located at the strategic point of the Kingdom. It was easier to hold everything under control in such places but it had its own drawbacks as well. For example, the townsfolk that knew each other very well and acted as one in times of need. This could interfere with one of her beloved tactics of "Divide et Impera" (Divide and Rule).

Visiting Farah's shop was first destination of today. Rachel knew the talented shopkeeper and her charming sister very well, as it wasn't the first time she would stop to refill the stocks of some potions and herbs. Farah was so kind in fact that revealed few simple recipes to her, though nothing like her most precious secrets of course. Rachel even winked at Rhyannon once, stating jokingly that "Only person still holding secrets from her was her sister"

The inn was next where Rachel would want to go, especially now, when one of her boy-scouts brought the news of the new face arriving in town.

First thing she said stepping the foot inside the building was that her horse needs some attending. Immediately few young boys appeared out of the nowhere and she threw a gold coin to one of them. "Clean it and give some food" she said. At the first glance, she chose the boy randomly from 4 or 5 likewise individuals, but in fact the choice was pragmatic. One boy had horse-manure on his boots and some straw sticked to his cloths. He was also tanned more, from working in the field and had crooked legs, like riders have. It was clear that while other boys were simple townsfolk, this one had worked on a farm and would be the best choice to give horse to him. All these took couple of seconds for her to realize. Another 3 seconds went on observing the room and counting the number of all customers. 5 more seconds for spotting the upcoming tension between newcomer and hired-blade she very well knew already.

Crispin Grey may never met Lady Mstovarelli, but she knew quite a lot about his deeds. For example she already knew that he have dealt with an outlaws who were quite a headache for outskirt farmers and traders.

Other man was typical southerner, obviously had seen more than his share of battles and by all signs was suitable for the job, she was seeking the mercenary for. Because of that she didn't want the fight to occur, as one of the useful recourses could be damaged, or even killed off, but nevertheless she decided to wait and see what would happen.

Coming at the bar one of the townsfolk jumped up and offered her the chair he was sitting on previously. Rachel gifted the man with her half-baked smile and sat down, putting the coin on the bar. "The best of yours Meredith"

Garth’s brown eyes bore into the Innkeepers. Garth had once boasted that his glare could light a candle alight from twenty paces. An utter falsehood simply uttered during a drinking match. One that’d shamefully lost. Still the memory rose in his mind. His glare intensified. Perhaps if he glared with such glower, and menace, the Nameless Innkeepers head would simply implode. What a sight that would be. On the downside it would take days to remove all the chunks of her from his armor. On the upside he’d have another reason to drink. Garth would have been content to glare till his bread turned white. Sadly for those wish to see an imploded head, of which Garth could suppose were a great many bored folk, something else drew his attention.


The Stranger next to him spoke. Garth turned the full power of his glare upon the stranger. The fellow paid it no mind. Instead the stranger went on thanking the Innkeeper for the Ale. Thanking her, and calling her by name. The glare dissipated. it was replaced a wide smirk. It had been a while since a creature with such wits had graced Garth with his presence. Glares would have no effect on such a man. Simply looking at the stranger Garth could tell this was a man who could kill, had killed, and refused to be killed. Without thinking of it, the sellsword’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. His fingers tapping against the cold metal. The bloodlust was clear in Garth’s glinting eyes. He reeked of eagerness.

The stranger spoke of manners, and the treatment of women. Garth chuckled at the stranger’s words. “Some fine words you’ve spoken. If I may not challenge the fine ladies of these northern lands. That just leaves the men to challenge, Ser.” Garth eyes stared downward at the man’s hand. He watched the stranger’s hand dance along the hilts of his weapon. The sellsword’s raised his eyebrows at the sight of the weapons. He’d been right, the man knew his way around a weapon. Mostly far more trained than simply, stick them with the pointy end. If they fought now who might win their contest of steel, and bloodshed. The man had clearly just awoke, he would be tired slow. The Ale, and the threat that Garth posed had no doubt got the strangers blood pumping. Would it enough though? Garth slid the hilt of his sword forward. The steel of the scimitar glinted in the candlelight of the inn. The stranger knew how to fight. In real battle Garth stood a chance of being wounded. Perhaps even losing. He’d have to slay this well-spoken stranger in one swing. One vicious, bloody, corpse producing, swing of his blade.

With a sigh, Garth slide the blade back into it sheath. His hand pulled away from the hilt to rest on the bar’s counter. He turned to smile warmly at Meredith. “Meredith, Meredith, Meredith.” He spoke the name it some exotic wine. “No fault of your own lass. The only shame is that I didn’t such a lovely name would be put to such a lovely face.” Garth waved a hand as if to push aside the issue. He gave a bellowing chuckle. Raised his mug, finished his ale, and slammed it back onto the counter. Garth finally took notice of the company that had gathered. The figure had slunk forth from the shadows. Up Close it was perfectly clear what it was. Thankfully its attention was given to another fellow. Some man had, to Garth’s immense pleasure, paid for another round of drinks. Most odd of the bunch was the lady in the back. With her cloak, and secrets. There was an air of mystery to her. To all these folks that had gathered. All of them were certainly interesting. “Lass,” He pointed a meaty finger at Meredith. “It seems I’ll be spending some time in this town of yours. A room will be needed, name your price. If it means waking to your grace then I shall pay plenty.”

"The service. That's what I like in your place Meredith" Rachel told the maid after she brought the bottle of finest wine to her. "And I won't even ask about the wine" Taking a sip, she baked the smile and put the cup on the bar. "Perfect"

Observing the southerner, studying him through and through, Rachel was ready to interfere, if the actual fight would occur between Crispin and him. Though it was visible that fight could be ended swiftly, despite both sides looking equally menacing and able. Scarred man was flirtatious and clearly in a good mood, while Crispin looked serious and to the point.

Rachel took another sip from the cup, hearing how southerner said: “It seems I’ll be spending some time in this town of yours. A room will be needed, name your price. If it means waking to your grace then I shall pay plenty.”

Meanwhile, one of the customers was playing with his rotten apple, which he turned into fresh one with a help of an acorn and some handful of magic skills. She took a note of this person as well, but her attention was back to the sell-sword soon enough.

Rachel drained the cup in one last gulp and stood up, stood up and went through the door. After about a minute, kid approached scarred man with a piece of paper and little sack of coins, enough to pay for the week of living at the inn.

"Milady Rachel Mstovarelli sends her regards kind sir" Little boy said, little bit scared of the southerner's brute appearance. "She told me give you this"

The letter contained only the address (though it wasn't really necessary, as everyone in town knew, where the residence of Lady Rachel is) and couple of words: "Be my guest. Sooner - better. Best regards. Lady Rachel"

At first it appeared the man was preparing to fight, and though Crispin's body language was rather nonchalant he had been prepared as well. His fingers were meticulous as they left the hilt of the dagger as if not wanting to stab the air to hard. He allowed his focus to balance itself out once more and nodded in respect to the man for dropping his violent approach. He had the feeling it would have been a harsh squabble, and by the looks of this man he would have had to rely on his agility and speed rather than his build. He turned away lifting a hand politely to cover his mouth as he yawned. Then went back to his mug of ale, gulping it down thoughtfully. It warmed his very blood and thus made him tired. The place had picked up and was somewhat of an oddity today, mysterious people slinking about.

He stole a glance over his shoulder. Odd women to the likes he'd never seen before watching with peculiar interest all that was about the inn. And some melodramatic man with strange hair at the piano. Already he was distraught with the loudness and boisterous natures of the patrons today. Their shaded natures that had him on edge. And the interest that had him disturbed as she looked at this Garth fellow.

With measured grace he stood, taking one last drink of his mug and nodding to Meredith before exiting the inn. Staring side long at that strange lady before pushing out the door.
The fresh air felt rejuvenating kissing gently at his skin, filling his lungs in ways the musty air of the crowded inn had abused. Silently he reflected on the faces, running his fingers through his naturally on end, dark hair. A damp sickly sweat had formed on his temples, and he felt ill suddenly, falling back into the wall for support.

That strange group of folks that had formed to witness the fight dissipated. The cloaked figured chugged down the contents its mug then departed. Leaving behind only curiosity, and secrets. The Well-Spoken Stranger stumbled from the bar looking less for wear. Garth’s heaved a sigh. He’d almost fought the man to death, over manners. If he was someting to find it then he’d have to act with more tact. A thought crossed Garth’s wandering thoughts, he chuckled at the notion. “Here we were, ready to slay each other over a name, and I don’t even his. Its the little things, it really is.” He snatched his mug from the counter and pressed to his lips. It was empty. Something that could be easily rectified.

Garth turned to find Meredith. Instead he found a frightened child starting up at him. Clutched tightly in the boys sweaty palms was a slip of paper, and small pouch. “You smell of horseshit, stable boy,” Garth said. The Southerner let his smile curl up in delight as he watched. The boy’s eyes widened in shock. No doubt wondering what southern form of dark magic the scarred man had cast. Truthfully the boy simply reeked of horseshit. With a gulp the boy shoved the paper, and pouch, forward at Garth. With an ever growing smirk at the sight of the boy, who looked ready to piss himself, Garth snatched both the paper and pouch. The boy scampered off. “Children these days, no manners,” Garth muttered to no one in particular. Upon closer inspection the paper was letter. A letter for him. He tore it upon viciously. The Sellsword’s eyes swept over the few lines of text. As he read his eyebrows shot up. “I enter town for a few hours, and I’ve already garnered a secret admirer.” He squeezed the pouch, feeling the coins within. “A rich secret admirer. The best kind really.”

Garth slipped his hand into the coin pouch. He pulled out seven silver coins. With coins in hand he strapped the coin pouch to his side. Garth held the letter up again. Reading its contents once more. “Perhaps, I should divulge this to lady Meredith. Inform her of her competition. Though it would be wrong of me to inspire jealousy.” Garth held the letter over one of the many candles that lit the Inn. It took only a few seconds for the letter to begin burning. Garth pulled the letter from the flames. He rose from his seat, and marched across the inn. As he marched the flames of the letter began to lick at his fingers. He abruptly turned, and shoved the burning letter in the drink of a sitting dwarf. The Dwarf leapt from its seat. Its grubby hands reaching for its axe. Garth unceremoniously tossed the silver coins the tables. “That’s five more drinks on me dear friend.” Garth spoke with his same jovial tone. As if he’d done the Dwarf a favor. The Dwarf looked at the coins on the table, then up at Garth’s wide grin. With a dissatisfied huff the dwarf tooks seat. “Its nice to we could come to an agreement.” With his thanks given, and the letter destroyed, Garth made his way toward the door of the Inn. The sooner the better the letter had claimed. He bid the dwarf a good day then departed from the Inn. Who was he to keep a lady waiting.

Msotavrelli's residence was not as big as King's palace or town's most infamous trader's mansions, but it was strongest building in town, strategically placed in such a part of the town that it had quick access to all the major buildings, while itself not standing at any of the main streets. Possible invaders would be busy ransacking other buildings first, before approaching this one.

It was 3 store structure, built next to the town-wall, in one of it's strongest and biggest points. Small stone bridge was connecting second floor of the structure to the wall, so Lady Rachel could approach the wall anytime and observe the surroundings easily.

It had large basement, partly used as an armory, wine-house and storehouse, while at the other hand there was the main dot in which three secret passages were connecting. Two of the secret underground tunnels were leading outside the town. One to the north, in the woods, and second to the south, at lake-side. Third secret passage was leading to town's dungeon where the most feared and important criminals were held.

First floor held quarters for the servants and guards, which were not too many. Second floor had big hall and dinning room as well as few smaller rooms for guests with as much comfort as Lady Rachel's not so demanding taste would afford. There was also a cabinet, where Rachel kept her large library and where she was hosting her guests for business conversations or military planning. There was a small bar with finest wines, big table with Kingdom's and world maps and few other, usable items. The third floor was basically just a tower and had one room, which was always locked for anyone but Rachel and her most close butler. There she had kept most of her secret documents and conducting her alchemical experiments when she had time.

Lady Rachel's taste was simple. Maybe even too simple for noble woman. Interior of her residence was never striking with lavishness as in Merchant's mansions or never meant to surprise you with servants wearing expensive cloths and guards having all kind of unnecessary equipment sticked to them just to underline the importance of their Master. No, everything here was strictly to the point, grim at some points and fitting the Master's character very well. She never cared for comfort too much, spending most of her teen years in the field of wars or at the back of the enemies, ready to stab them there any time. Once she had to hide for 4 days among the pile of rotting dead bodies, just to be able to wait for the right moment to take out her noble victim. One could imagine after that, that silky clothes and jewelries were not her primary interest.

"We have a guest today Gerard" She told to her butler, while sitting in her cabinet at the small table of chess, playing with mechanical, wooden player (constructed by great Master as a gift for her). "As soon as he arrives, let him in. He has big scar on his face, you'll recognize him. No other visitors for today"

"Yes Milady" - The butler said and went away.

The Stables were as a quite as they’d been for hours. The Stablemaster had gone home to his wife. The Stable boys on the other hand had cuddled up in a bale of hay. The smell of horse manure filled their noses as they drifted off to sleep. They slumbered to deeply to hear the horse’s stamp their hooves in fright. Too tired to hear a certain Sell Sword from the South sneaking about. A stable door opened, Garth slipped inside. “Boy,” He whispered. “Wake up or I’ll gut you like a fish.” The Stable hand remained sleeping. Garth rolled his eyes. With a bit of venomn in his swing, he smacked the back of his sword against the boy’s head. That woke him up. The Boy swung his hands out wildly. It was rather amusing to witness. “W-who’s there.?” The boy’s question was answered in the form of a sword tip against his jugular. “You still smell of horseshit boy.” Even in the dark Garth could see the boy’s eyes expanded in fear. “Garth Brumear at your service, now then, why did she send you?” With his question posed Garth let the tip of the blade dig into the boy’s throat. A small bit of blood slid down the stable hand’s throat.

“I don’t know.” The fear in the boy’s voice was near palpable. It was too dark to be sure but Garth could smell the piss in the Stable hands pants. The Sellsword’s smile swelled. “No jest intended boy, but horseshit you don’t know. Why give you the letter, what did she look like?” Garth pulled his sword away of the boy’s throat. The boy gasped for air. Garth just gave a low chuckle. Swung his sword, and left a gash on the boy’s left cheek. “C-cloak. She wore a cloak.” Garth stepped back into the shadows of stable stall. The boy raised a trembling hand to his cheek. He could feel the blood slowly running down his flesh. “What color was the cloak?” The boy’s eyes peered into the shadows trying to see the Sellsword. “Grayish.” Silence followed the boy’s answer. The silence was broken by another low chuckle. “Who’d have thought, a spy so close to me. Sitting right there. Could have sliced her damned head off. This is what I get for going drinking. Is it them, can’t be. Best deal with the boy then.” Garth’s voice vanished. The boy opened his mouth to scream. Before he could utter a sound a sword slipped into throat. Instead of screaming the boy made a gurgling noise. The sword slipped from his throat. The sound of a stable door opening, then closing filled the stall. The boy’s blood spilled onto the pile of hay. Dyeing it a hideous crimson. It was going to be a long night.

Garth eyed the winding road with disgust. He still wore his smile, though it threatened to become a scowl at any moment. It had taken hours to find the stables. Only for the brat of a messenger to offer nothing on Garth’s host. He was walking into a trap. This Lady Mstovarelli, was a strange creature indeed. Using stable hands to deliver her messages. The boy hadn’t even put up something resembling a fight. Garth reached the end of the street. The Mansion wasn’t horrendously large. Still it reeked of wealth. A smell Garth Brumear could become used to. “And here I am having left my invitation at home. Didn’t even dress up.” Garth rolled his shoulders and began the march toward. Step after step, behind him the sun began to rise over the mountains. Casting its warm lights over the town. Scampering around town in armor hadn’t been his grandest idea. He tapped on the door. It swung open, and the Sellsword was greeted by a strange man. Thin, grey of hair, attired in fine clothes. Their was as subservient aura to the man. “I take it you would be the ladies guest.” The man stepped aside, guestering for Garth to enter. “Garth Brumear, at your service, where is my host.”

The servant, or butler, or whatever the old bastard was, lead Garth upward through the mansion. On occasion Garth would see a maid shuffling about. The Mansion lacked the grandeur he’d expected.They finally came to a large oaken door. “The Lady is inside awaiting your presence.” Garth smiled warmly at the wrinkled covered butler. “Piss of then you old bag of dust.” With his greetings given Garth entered the room. It was dark, annoyingly so. It took a few seconds but he could make out his host. “Lady Mstovarelli, I presume. I am Garth Brumear, I’ve killed your stable boy. The body has been hidden away. The letter you left me is disposed of. I was not followed here. With the trivial matters aside, why am I here exactly?”

The room was pitch dark, unnaturally so. It was like an abyss had been shoved into the room. A small window at one end of the room. Through which came the welcomed light of a new morning. The only other light was the withered flame that law atop a candle. The candle sat burning in the center of room. Illuminating the unamused face of Garth’s host. Lady Msotvarelli, hidden in shadows, and secrets. Garth had heard tales of her. None of them exceedingly pleasant. He stepped into the room, closing the massive oak door behind him. The Lady raised her eyebrows at his deleraction. It was clear in her voice that she found the action unnecessary. Unnecessary, and dangerous. Garth didn’t repeat himself. Instead he marched across the room. Taking a seat the table across from his host. On the table sat the slowly melting candle, and a chess set. He’d seen a few of them in his days. A game of stratagem of there ever was. Garth refused to play it simple due to the disgusting lack of a Sellsword piece.

He looked away from the board. Hoping to finally see this mysterious woman in the flickering candle light. He looked into her eyes. Goosebumps sprouted, a shiver ran down his spine, his smile widened, and his hairs stood at attention. They were a deep, damning, dark blue. Like the bottom of some watery grave. It was like starting down an ever encroaching glacier. Lady Msotvarelli reached out to press a button the side of the table. She commanded her servant to retrieve the body. Garth waved a hand, mouthing the word ‘later’. The distaste was clear in his Host’s voice. Garth began to unleash some witty retort. The icey blue eyes told him it would be an unwise course of action. Garth kept his trap shut. For his efforts he was offered a drink. The Sellsword was more than pleased to accept such an offer. Lady Msotvarelli took the time to unveil the entire reason for the visit.

What an unveiling it was. Firstly she introduced herself. Garth resisted laughing aloud. She had witnessed his fiasco in the Inn. After all, it was her in the cloak all along. It seemed she’d taken his idea of manners to heart. Then she gave her one rule. The smile withered on Garth’s face. No one ever hired a Sellsword for peaceful means. Still there was that clause of a necessary death. It would make things far more interesting. Msotvarelli began rambling on, and on. Speaking of conspiring against conspirator’s conspiracies. Murdering and backstabbing, two traits Garth had acquired the hard way. For his part Garth nodded when needed. Finally she handed out her payment. Laying a bag of coins on the table. Garth snatched the bag off the table. It was heavy, very heavy. If he played his cards right he’d walk away a richer man.

“You pay for my ale, pay for the whores who warm my lap, and I get to kill some high born lad. You know how to please a man, my lady. Who knows maybe by the end of this you’ll be the one warming my lap.” He vulgarly winked at his host. Her cold eyes simply stared back. “Consider this my official employment.” He rose from the chair with the bag in hand. He marched back across the dark expanse of the room. As he reached the door he turned around to glance back at Lady Msotvarelli. “As for the boy, I saw an old windmill to the south of town. I’ll move the body there.”

Garth exited the manor with a broad smile on his face, and a heavier coin purse. “She hired me. She should have been shoving a knife into my gut. Instead she hires. These Northern lasses are something else. Now then which was that stable. Three down, two over.” Garth moved his way through the slowly waking town. It wasn’t long before the stable was in sight. The southern moved faster. It wouldn’t due getting caught moving the body in the morning sunlight. “Ah, this is troublesome.” Garth pulled his sword from his sheath. The stable door was open. He’d closed it. This left three options. Either one of the living stablehands had to take a piss, a horse had snuck out for a piss, or someone had snooping around when they should be pissing off. Garth slipped inside the Stable. He could hear the voice. Two of them. One he recognized easily. The Innkeeper, meredith. At the sound of her voice he slipped into the shadows. Things were about to get complicated.

Two, two voices. One was definitely Meredith's. The was male by the bass of it. Garth slipped forth back into the shadows. His breath was held. It was only snatchs of the conversation that he could make out. It was enough. If he didn’t do something soon he’d find himself on an execution. Who knew one unattended corpse could cause so much trouble. Garth eyed the door of the stables. He could make a run for it. Grab a horse, and be out of reach of the law in a few day. He lowered a hand to feel his coin purse. He’d stay. If he ran then the gold that awaited him for his work would vanish. Garth would be damned if he was going to let such a fortune slip through his fingers. He could return to Inn. Cower in a room and claim he’d been there all along. Wouldn’t work either. The patron’s wouldn’t vouch for him though. That left two options.

Garth silently pulled his scimitar from its scabbard. He would slay the male first. He’d have the element of surprise. Except his new employer had informed that killing anymore of his majesties subjects would result his termination. That left one option for Garth to pursue. One that he’d loath to follow. Still it seemed his only option. “Lad, oh, boy where are you?” He whispered out the question. Just loud enough to be heard. “Lad, is that you.” He edged out of the shadows. Scimitar clenched in hand. “I swear if this is some child’s hoax, I’ll give you a beating you won’t walk away from.” With each word Garth edged closer to the stall from where the voice came from. “Is that you boy?”

Garth felt his feet dragging him closer. The Scimitar held tightly in his sweaty grip. It was the faintest of whispers, but the voices were still talking. The hushed tones told Garth all he needed to know. They’d taken the bait. Now just to reel them in. “I can hear you whispering Lad. Its bad manners for a host to hide in the shadows.” As Garth spoke a figure began to emerge from the darkness of the stall. It was only a second, but Garth swore it was the lad. He blinked the delusion away. From the darkness stepped a all too familiar face. The pale faced stranger from the Inn. The one that even now left Garth feeling unease. A tremendous feat at the best of times. “You get a letter as well?” The Sell-sword edged forward then paused. The pale faced stranger was armed. “That’s a lovely butter knife you've got there friend. I’ll put mine away, if you’ll put away yours.”

Garth moved to sheathed the blade. A tap on his hip. Garth spun round, the sword arced through the air, stopping inches from the child's throat. The Sellsword instantly regretted not completing the swing. This little brat would complicate matters. The stranger he could deal with, Meredith was a complication all on her own, this child though. Garth tilted his head. Was it a child? There was something off about the girl. Something not human. “Who am I?” Garth repeated the question with his standard whimsical tone. “Why, I’m a very busy man, lass. Why not run along. The adults are talking.” He pulled the sword away from her throat. Shoving the weapon back into its scabbard. He turned back to face the stranger. “Let’s leave the child out of this shall we?”

it didn’t escape Garth’s attention that the Pale Faced Stranger still held his sword. It matters little. All that matter now were the words coming from the Southerner’s lips. He chose each word with care. Dropping hints with delicate discretion. Would the man who offered to sheath his sword truly kill a child? Would the man who wanted to leave the child alone, really a killer? Garth prayed to the Southern God such questions were running through the strangers mind. Doubt would make a far better weapon than a sword. The stranger spoke of the dead child. The Sellsword raised his eyebrows at the knowledge “Shit,” Garth spat out the curse. He’d have to play this right.

“Well hasn’t this night taken a turn for the rotton. Our host is dead and-Gah!” Something jabbed Garth in his rear. He turned around to see the child staring up at him. The in-human looking youth barraged him questions, each more absurdly arbitrary then the last. Garth took a breath then answered, “The one I’m about to see, Garth Brumear, I cut myself shaving, no comment, more than enough, to make myself richer, you’re talking to him lass, strong enough, what now, a good shave couldn’t hurt, grass green, I’ll be finding out, 42, Which came first, it is known the egg came first, lost count.” Garth paused for breath. “Inquisitive lass aren’t you.” It was time of the big one. The question that had puzzled many a scholar. “To love something is to want it. For example, I’d love for you to stop asking questions. You follow what I’m saying Lass.”

With the brat dealt with Garth spun back around. This was getting tiring keeping up with both of these annoyances.The stranger began asking questions that Garth would have prefered not to hear. They were blunt. It was blatant that the stranger hadn’t quite bought into Garth’s pantheon of lies. He’d have to drag this out till he had a plan. “Let’s visit this so called dead boy of yours first.” Garth smiled down at the little girl. “I’ll be right back. Why not think of one really good question till I get back, lass.” With his orders given Garth strolled past the stranger and entered the stall.

Meredith sat pressed against the one wall of the Stall. The fear was clear in her eyes. “Looking lovely as ever,” Garth said as he gave a small bow in her direction. With greetings done it was time to deal with the dead elephant in the room. The body had been pulled out of the stack of hay where he’d hidden it. Wishing he was anywhere else, Garth moved closer to the body. The gash on the boys neck had swollen. Garth pulled back at the sight of it. His eyes looked else where from the body. He clenched his eyes shut. “Damned, it hasn’t even started smelling yet. Never did like the dead.” Garth steadied himself then looked again. In truth he’d seen enough dead bodies that the sight of them almost bored him. Which was the entire point of act. Would a man who couldn’t even stand the sight of a corpse, be the killer? “Lass, you friend outside, said this boy was dead. Kind of understatement.” For the first time since he’d entered the stall Garth looked Meredith straight in her eyes. “How’d you two find this body?”

Garth ran a finger along the neck of the slain boy. The blood around the wound had dried. He’d give it an hour before it could be smell. Which left a very important question that had yet to be answered. As he stared at the boy the voice behind him drones on. The few words he cared to listen to left the all too familiar smile on his face. Of all the boys, in all the town, it had to be this one. Leave it to Garth to kill the one kid of this Pale Faced Stranger felt affection for. Then again perhaps the blame could be heaped upon his dearest lady Spymaster. Though it would require quite a bit of lying, and bribing. Hardly worth the coin. It seemed the only option left was to shove a sword through both of their throats. Twas a shame really, Merediths was quite the gem. “So much for laying low,” he whispered to himself.

Garth moved away from the body. He could feel the glare of the stranger digging into the back of Garth’s skull. Like a warming tingling. The southerner turned around to face his foe. The Stranger still held the sword tightly. Garth shifted his center of gravity. It would have to be quick for sure. He’d have to cut down the stranger before Meredith got away. Then the stranger opened his mouth. Absolving Garth of his crime. It return the Sellsword raised his eyebrows. The Stranger issues orders then left the stall. Garth sighed feeling the weight of the day finally crashing down on him. Bar fights, political intrigue, and playing detective with a possible vampire tended to drain ones enthusiasm of the night life. He looked down at the body, the cause of all this mess. “Unexpected being an understatement, eh lad?” Of course the rudely didn’t responded.

Garth exited the stall with a feed bag lugged over the shoulder. This time it carried something a bit heavier than straw. In the dark of the stable he could make out three figures. The stranger, Meredith, and the in-human child. Garth approached them with a welcoming smile. “Of course he stills smells of horse shit.” Chimed in Garth as he moved closer. From what he could overhear the two were arguing about the child. “Let her have my room at the Inn, that way when I get back she can have that question ready for me. You two lovebirds have a good night then, I’ve got some digging to do.” He winked cheerfully at the strange group then departed. This was hardly going to be a joyous experience. As Garth marched down the road, feeling the weight of a corpse on his back, he spotted something. A person moving down the street towards the stables. “Nosy little town, full of nosy folks.” Garth muttered his curse with a smile. He was just an armed, and armored man carrying a sack of horse feed. Best to just smile and move on. The person edged closer and closer. Garth stopped, laughed, and smiled wider. It was the man from the Inn. The one that Garth had almost gutted. The well spoken stranger. “Well if it isn’t my well mannered friend. Small town in a small world it would seem. What brings you out on an early morning such as this?”

Crispin had smelled many a rotting corpse, his own dried blood and that of others. It was heavy upon this man. His ears would be perked and himself alert, as it was so early. He would raise a skeptical eyebrow looking at first, the bag, under the mirage of some kind of feed bag. And then the southerner. “Well if it isn’t my well mannered friend. Small town in a small world it would seem. What brings you out on an early morning such as this?” He remembered the man and his lack of civility earlier in the day. Garth, he realized the name. He looked up to the sky and gave a crooked grin to the still dark morning, his hand would be unnoticeable as it glided to the hilt of his sword, his nonchalant and friendly stance deceiving as he prepared to do what he may very well have to do. After all, he was fairly sure that, there was some oddity within that feed bag. Perhaps a dead animal, but no, why would he hide the carcass and carry it about in a feed bag. The man certainly looked capable of killing, but would he just so casually do it, and then be careless in stopping to talk to someone with it upon his shoulder.

"Looking for Meredith, actually." He would take meticulous care to make a point of looking at the feed bag set upon the man's shoulder. Though his voice was slightly drowsy and strained it held a certain authority about it and the tone was overall that of a pleasant young man. "And I'd ask the same of you," He would hesitate, pulling his gaze to the dark man's eyes. Flicking his tongue over one of his canines before continuing, "Why out and about on this early morning?"

It you could smell the brewing conflict in the air. The sight of it was enough to send shivers down the spine of any honest man. Garth with the corpse of stripling boy he’d slaughtered, the well mannered stranger reaching for his weapon. It was as clear as the look of mistrust on the stranger’s face. Things could get messy with a few words. Garth smiled warmly, at least as warmly as one can when carrying a dead body. The suspicion was clear on the Strangers face. Behind his smile Garth was mentally kicking himself. The smell. The damned smell. He’d hoped that the smell of horse manure would be enough. He’d behead the next beast of burden that crossed his path. To the murdering sellsword’s delight the stranger inquired upon the whereabouts of Meredith. “Looking to snuggle up close with the fine lady? A noble effort lad, sadly a vain one. She’s already with another. Male, strong-silent type. As for what I’m up to.” Garth felt the weight of the boy digging into his shoulder. “I’m sure you’d love you know my business as much I’d adore knowing your name. How about a trade between dishonest men.”

Crispin's smile would grow as he calculated every movement. Acute in his estimations, and for a few seconds the silence would be tense and as if by the will of some God it would be broken calmly and not with the sound of steel exiting it's respective sheathe, "I'm not in the business of trading secrets, I'm afraid." He would hesitate a moment before continuing, "Only in keeping them." His head would cock slightly to the right, though he overall decided to dismiss what was said of Meredith. The thought of cuddling up to her, definitely a strange thought. Wherever she may be, he hoped this "Strong-silent type" meant her no ill will. But soon he would be upon that and if it were that he did or it had befallen her..

The thought was disrupted as he decided it wasn't enough, and he worked to concentrate on the task at hand, the obstacle before him..In an ironic way, proposed justice if it were deemed necessary. He would hold a stare with Garth as if challenging him to disagree with his unknown request. "Now, I'd enthuse you to let me know what you happen to be carrying?" His iron will would flash as he struggled to read the man's face in the vacant darkness of the early morning. But to try and keep Garth un-nerved to the point of feeling as if it would be no use lying. He would add to his statement. As Garth's own resounded in his troubled mind.

"How about a trade between dishonest men." It brought a feral feeling of predatory instincts to Crispin's heart.

"After all then, Garth. What's a litte honesty between dishonest men?" His smile would become crooked as there was a deep sign of the facade of manners in the moment fading as it began to unveil itself as a hostile and rigid encounter.