Snippet #2824946

The Stranger calmly takes the flask from his lips, setting it back inside of the jacket he wears. He exhales slowly when he hears the words "Burial," an old, familiar phrase he had spent a lot of time hearing, in the times before.
He had once had a job, akin to gravekeeping. It wasn't glamorous, and indeed he was often hated, vilified even for it, his distant demeanor earned through his kinship with the dead. He looks over to the side, eyeing the collective of soldiers, situated around a feast, of sorts.
He pushes his chair back from the bar, holding up a single finger to the other two, as if to signify that he'll be gone only a moment. He then rises to his feet, and lumbers over to the table where the men-at-arms are seated, taking slow steps, as if to stabilize himself.
When he reaches the table, he stands awkwardly outside of it, at a corner where nobody is seated. He holds up, again, a single finger, asking those seated to wait, before drawing out a notebook and writing on it for a couple seconds. When he's finished, he again holds it up, facing the group of soldiers, patiently waiting for them to take notice.
He again writes in Common, a language he presumes is known to them, and the message is as follows.
I offer my services to assist in this burial. I have some experience as a soldier, and the matter of respect and death is something I value. I do not ask for pay. I simply wish to help.
He nods politely, as if in addition to the message.