James Mallow's Story

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.

(OOC: Sorry guys this was a test please ignore.)