Private Tales Training Day with Faramund: Hector

[Hector]

A whistle through the trees. Hector, barely holding on to his saddle, slummped. His ear hurt something fierce. Pain crept out from the wound, but worse still was the drain he felt coursing through Analon beneath him.

"There now, boy, just a while longer," the half elf whispered. The horse blustered as it trot up the path. Its legs seemed to struggle with the weight.

Hector clicked his teeth, dug his heels into the beast's side. The horse slowed. Hector hopped off and pat Analon's neck. Placed his head against the rouncey's muzzle. "You did well, Analon, to take us this far," he reasured his comapnion, gave a scratch behind its ears. "Go on, find yourself some water, make your way back on your won time, friend, I must press on,"

Like his rider, Analon was none too pleased at the prospect of leaving Hector behind. In that way of animals, it was behind the eye, in the tension of its muscles and the defiant shake of Analon's head.

"I'll move faster alone," Hector assured. "You push yourself any further, and you might break a leg, or, well, worse," why was he arguing with his horse.

It had been hours since they'd ridden away from Syr Faramund. One question pounded at the back of his mind. Is he still alive?

"Well well!' came a voice from on high, the pull of bowstring, the bend of hornwood "Cydonia, correct me if I am mistaken, but, didn't young Hector have two ears last we saw him?" the bow let fly, and the arrow whistled across the sky. Struck the trunk of the tree beside Hector.

The half-elf went wide eyed, drew his sword.

A sharp laugh. A rustle. From the shrubbery appeared Syr Rimeboll, Sworn Knight od Dusk. Bow in hand, strange handle to an unseen blade at his hip.

"What's got your tongue, boy?" the cat-knight said with sharptooth poking over his smile. "Or should I say, what got your ear?"

---

Faramund Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Cydonia gave a frown at her companion's jest, and then even went so far as to click her tongue as he loosed an arrow. Of course the arrow wouldn't hit Hector, instead sticking cleanly into the larch behind the young half-elf. If Rimebol was half as good with his words as he was with a bow, he could've led a whole kingdom.

"Don't torment the poor boy," she scolded as she rustled out of the brush behind the Dusk knight. "Can't you see he's exhausted?"

Too exhausted to hear the call she'd given through the trees. A deadly mistake, and now all three of them were out in the open, instead of sitting comfortably in the cover of the forest.

"But Hector, you do know better." With a gauntleted hand, Cydonia reached past the squire and gripped the arrow. It pulled out with a tug. The tree bled clear, crisp-smelling resin, the tip of the arrow glinting with some of it. "A path wide enough for a horse to gallop down is no place to catch your breath."

Faramund Hector

 

[Faramund]

'Would you two hurry the fuck up! We're gonna get left behind if you don't move your arses!' Frustrated, Baz of the Stonehammers shot an irritable look over his shoulder at the two mercenaries bringing up the rear. 'Move it, would ya! Boss ain't got all fuckin' day.' Wounded, and limping from a spear to the thigh, Azra made her own frustrations known with a rude gesture. Honestly, of all the people who had croaked it so far, why couldn't Baz have been among them?

'We're going as fast as we can!' The third and final member of their party called out. ''Course, we'd be going a lot faster if you'd quit your yapping and gave us a hand.' Sweating profusely from both the exertion and the telling off he had received an hour prior, Desmond of Brille tried and failed to get Baz to help them. Scoffing, the selfish bastard turned his back on them, hurried on up the track like his life depended on it.

It did, but he didn't know that.

'See you idiots back at base!' He shouted back to them, gap-toothed and grinning. 'Try not to get lost, eh?' Laughing, he disappeared around the bend up ahead without even bothering to wave them goodbye. Azra sighed. 'Asshole,' she cursed, 'Won't be doing any favours for him again, that's for damn sure.' Narrowing her eyes, expression pained, she turned her head to regard the man by her side.

Desmond of Brille was many things, but never had she seen him so scared.

'Everything okay, Des?' Azra asked, regretting her words the second they left her mouth. 'Me? Oh, I'm fine, Azra. Just peachy.' She could tell from his voice he was lying. 'How about you? Leg still hurting?' Shrugging, the she-elf put a brave face on it. 'Could be better, could be worse.' Desmond grunted, right.

He could tell she was lying. As if anything could get any worse right about now. Four men dead. Their band discovered. And the cherry on top? The ones to do it had escaped, fled the scene to inform who-the-fuck-knew of what had happened. The boss had called it a "right royal fuck-up."

Desmond reckoned he was right.

'They were knights, weren't they?' Azra spoke up, fighting to keep her face straight as she limped along beside Desmond. He had her pack thrown over one shoulder, his own over the other. 'Of Anathaeum, you mean?' Azra nodded. 'Yeah.' You heard the boy call the big one 'syr,' didn't you? her gaze seemed to say, though, he was probably just imagining it.

Had the boy used the big one's name during the scuffle? Had the others found useful information in the knight's saddlebags? Desmond couldn't remember.

Something snapped up ahead. The mercenaries went quiet.

'What was that?' Desmond's voice had a hint of worry to it. Dropping their packs, he drew his sword slowly. 'Baz?' He called out. He heard Azra move off to his left. Then, a sharp intake of breath. 'Des!' Azra's warning came suddenly, too late to keep the blade from his throat.

Freezing up, Desmond of Brille let slip his sword and raised his hands in surrender as the steel nipped at his skin. 'Please!' He begged, unable to make sense of the shadowy figure standing in his periphery. 'Please don't kill me!'

Grim-faced, Syr Faramund relieved the mercenary of the dagger at his hip with nary a sound. 'Don't give me a reason to,' he warned the man, waving to the she-elf as she tried to back away slowly into the trees. 'That goes for you, too! Any funny business...' And your boyfriend here gets it. From the fear he saw in the woman's eyes, he knew she understood.

'Let's take a walk, shall we?'

Hector Syr Cydonia

 

[Hector]

Hector cast his eyes down, face hot with shame. "Right, I... I should know better," he said, mixed up in his feelings. He shook his head, set his jaw as his hands clenched tight. "We ran into a band of outsiders," he said firmly, looked up to Syr Cydonia, and Rimebol. "Syr Faramund stayed behind to harry them, sent me to go for aid,"

His eyes looked back upon the road he had traveled.

Leaves fluttered in the wind. The boughs and branches swayed to the flow of the air. One ear wrapped and bandaged as it was, pained as it was, he had forgotten to trust in the Wyld. In the land that was their home.

His eys looked back to the knights. Syr Rimebol looked to Cydonia, brows raised, eyes narrowed.

"Can't leave the ol' Mund out there alone for too long," his voice was tight with tease.

"They wore the crest of Belganon, Baron's men," the squire added.

Rimebol strolled toward Cydonia, and took back the broadheaded arrow, besapped as it was. "Lead on then, Squire," the cat-knight purred.

Hector gave nod, looked ot Syr Cydonia, nod again before he grabbed up his gear from his saddle.

In the distance, there was the thunder of hooves.

Rimebol near-hissed, cat-quick as he hunched and knocked arrow. "Pursuers," the word came out like a low rolling smoke. "Into cover, now," he rushed in.

Breath caught in Hector's throat, he grabbed up his spear and shield, tried to lead Analon away.

"Into cover, now Squire!" Rimebol hissed.

Hector moved quick as Analon trot away. The oncoming storm of flesh only growing louder.

Syr Cydonia Faramund

 

[Syr Cydonia]

They had little time to catch up and relay information before the boy's pursuers caught up to them. A rumble of hooves on soft earth, echoing below their feet. The garbled sound of men shouting through layers of tree branches, and then, soon enough, the flutter of the white dog on the Belganon men's chests.

Cydonia followed Rimebol as the two knights fled the road, catching a sturdy branch and swinging herself up into the cover of the tree's canopy. The squire lagged behind, trying to lead his horse away. She watched from her perch as the Baron's men reached their swath of road.

The poor rouncey trot itself into the underbrush, but it could not hide its saddle, or ruddy brown flanks in the green foliage. The leader of the band pulled his own horse to a stop, dangerously close to where the knights Anathaeum were hiding just off the road.

"One of their steeds," he said. "Rorin, go grab that horse. The rest of you, spread out and search the area, report back as soon as you find their trail."

A lanky man with patchy facial hair nodded at the leader's words. He swung out of his saddle and began wading through the brush toward's where Hector's horse had trotted off to. The rest of the Baron's men dismounted as well, and began hacking their way off the road.

As one man walked right below Cyd's tree, she pressed herself closer against its trunk. Felt for Rimebol's presence, giving the Dusker a familiar nudge. Between the two of them, they could freeze the hunting party in their tracks. But the horse probably wouldn't be alright. She wondered how that would affect the young squire.

 

[Faramund]

Their boots crunched as they walked, one after the other, up the forest path. Syr Faramund, ever the seasoned ranger, made sure to tread lightly. His two prisoners, however, did not. 'Please, Syr!' They would beg from time to time. 'We don't know anything. It's the Captain you want! Or one of those Belganon men!' Leaf litter crunched as the one called Desmond turned to glance over his shoulder.

Faramund shoved him. Hard.

'Eyes forward.' Bowing his head, Desmond carried on. His lady friend -Azra, was it?- kept on stumbling over roots, snapping branches every chance she got. Faramund knew she was doing it on purpose. 'Stop that,' he said. The last thing he wanted to do was give their position away to the locals, like those blasted nachzehrers and arachnids.

The she-elf didn't seem to care much. 'Stop what? Walking? It's hard enough as is, let alone with this bloody...' She huffed, pointed at her wounded leg, as if it was somehow his fault. To be honest, it kind of was.

'Be a lot harder when I put three feet of steel through your back,' the knight snarled. 'You!' he gestured at Desmond. 'Help her for crying out loud!'

Slipping an arm around her waist for support, Desmond helped Azra along the path. Another branch snapped, upsetting the starling nesting in a nearby tree.

'How far is it to your base of operations?' Faramund asked the two. There was a sharp decline in the path, and the knight stopped playing the interrogator long enough to see them both down safely. 'Not far now,' promised Desmond. 'Over the next rise, cross the creek, and we'll see it.'

Faramund hoped so. The she-elf was growing more disgruntled by the minute. And weaker.

"How many of there are you?' Faramund continued. The two mercs shared a look. 'There were twenty of us.' Azra, disgruntled. 'Four went after your squire. Captain's orders.' Fara saw her smile, all nasty-like. 'Probably carved him up by now, taken his ears for trophies. Poor boy.'

In a blink Azra was on her face, fighting the pain in the back of her skull.

'What the fuck!' Desmond cried out, sinking to his knees beside Azra. 'Why'd you do that? She didn't mean nothin'! They were just words!'

'Like fuck they were!' Lashing out with a boot, Faramund put Desmond on his ass, stooped to grab Azra by the back of her tunic. The woman stirred as he raised her up, up out of the dirt. 'Any more talk like that, and you won't live long enough to regret it,' he promised the woman, letting her slump back down to the ground. He turned his anger on Desmond.

'How many men did Baron Belganon send with you?'

'What? Who said anything abou-'

Faramund took a step forward. Desmond shrank backwards. 'Fifty!' He bellowed, fear making his voice shrill and girlish. 'Fifty men! We were to move to Seehoben and- and "pacify" the people there.' Faramund frowned. 'Seehoben's under the Order's protection,' he said slowly. Desmond paled. Faramund felt something in his stomach twist. 'What?' he asked.

'Seehoben was under the Order's protection, it's true,' bowed Desmond. 'The Baron's men moved in three days ago, just after dawn's first light. The militia did not gather to meet us.' He paused. 'The Ealdorman's doing, I heard.'

Three days ago? Four fuckin' days ago Seehoben had been Baron-free. The villagers had welcomed Faramund and Hector with open arms. They enjoyed hosting guests, just as they enjoyed the freedom assured them by the Order. Clearly something had changed.

'Coin changing hands?' Faramund reasoned. Desmond shrugged. 'That would be my guess, syr,' he said. 'From what I heard around the campfire of a night, Seehoben had been on the Baron's wish-list for a while. His men practically confirmed as much.'

Frowning, Faramund took a breath. Sheathed his sword. 'Help me with her.'

Scrambling to his feet, Desmond was all too eager to join Faramund. Together, they lifted the she-elf to her feet, started walking. 'May I ask, syr... what is it you intend to do, exactly?' Fara snorted. What the boy really meant was, what do you intend to do with us?

'I'm going to take a look at your camp,' he revealed. 'See if you're telling the truth.' Desmond nodded.

'And then?'

'Seehoben.'

Hector Syr Cydonia

 

[Hector]

Hector put himself low, near enough to his belly and his hand took hold of the grip for the short sword at his hip. Nerves mounted, and his heart quickened as the men made slow pace toward him and Analon.

He steadied his breath. Loosened his grip. Smelled the stink on them. Heard each crunch of their footsteps.

Rimeboll nod to Cyd. Knocked his arrow, and let fly. The silver headed missile sank into the back of one man's leg, he groaned and yelped. The Sworn Knight's eyes grew wide as he whispered in quick hiss.

Chill winds of winter, come,

Frost across the plains,

Let life rest, quick,

To stillness, warmth undone,

From the arrowhead, crystals of ice sprang outward in a violent burst. Like a crashing wave of water, turned to freezing slush.

Analon bayed, screamed. Those who tried to wrangle him struggled with the reins. Half scared-witless. The Ice washed over them, horse and all. Cracked and crept ever so.

Hector shout as he broke out from his cover. Bulled toward the creature, his steadfast companion.

A warhammer caught him flush against the chestplate. Dropped him down hard onto the ground with a gasping of air. The dent from the blow still rang in his ears. His chest racked with pain. It took labor to breath. Each draw of breath, pinched and pressured.

Another arrow flit down, and ice crackled about the man with the warhammer. Froze them in place.

Syr Cydonia Faramund

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Control was a problem for Cydonia.

Where Rimebol's arrow was precise, where his words were clear, her anima ran rampant and wild beneath her skin. Unshaped, listless, it eagerly swelled to fill the mold that Rimebol had given her. His spell became hers. Her mana became his. Cydonia grit her teeth as the full force of the winter winds buffeted within her skull, and the ice expanded in a wall across the forest floor.

It should have been over in another instant, but the horse bellowed and whined in fear, and its squire could not bear the pain of its passing.

Her eyes widened as Cyd realized what the poor lad was doing. "Hector, don't go towards it!" she called out, bringing gazes and arrowtips to her hiding spot.

A warning unheeded. Hector broke cover and bolted for the beast, only to be caught by one of the Lord's men. The blow of the warhammer ringing out against plate armor broke Cyd's concentration. The feed of power she had given the cat knight dwindled.

Leaping from the tree branch, Cyd bounded towards the felled squire. She'd drawn her sword, but the assailant was already dead, a thin membrane of frost crystallizing over his skin. Rampant mana still fed the ice, made it unpredictable for a few seconds more. Cyd fell to her knees and shielded Hector from the worst of it with her own bulk. She felt the biting cold crawl up her right side, gnawing through padding and into flesh. Pain became numbness, and numbness became nothing as she lost feeling in a few of her fingers.

Cyd gripped the rim of Hector's gorget with her unhindered hand. Though she shivered from the cold, and her right arm seemed not to be able to move, she did not cry out. Her concentration narrowed to the squire's heart. She gave him whatever energy he had lost in the fights that had come before this one, and then some.

"Find your breath," she commanded. "Make yourself a fire."

Hector Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The camp was exactly where Desmond had promised him it would be. Crouched down amongst the long grass, Faramund spied a half-dozen bodies ambling about in the day's fading light. Survivors from the earlier kerfuffle, or just the remainder left behind, it mattered little.

There was a noise from behind him. Crawling on his hands and knees backwards, the knight made to investigate.

'What is it now, Des?' he asked upon reaching the treeline. The man in question, trussed up like a prize turkey, tried to speak through his gag. Faramund pulled the scrap of cloth loose. 'They're there, right?' Desmond's voice was pitched in the higher octaves, but not too high. Couldn't be alerting the camp now, could they?

'Yep. They're there.'

'So?' A pause. 'You're going to let us go, right?'

'Nope.' Drawing a knife from his belt, Faramund approached the two prisoners. They tried to create some distance. Bound as they were, they didn't make it very far. 'Easy!' Faramund cooed. 'I ain't gonna kill ya.' The fear in Desmond's eyes said he didn't believe him. Azra's were full of hate. I should probably stick you and be done with it, the knight thought. Instead, he reversed his grip on the blade.

With a gentle toss, he threw it on the ground between them.

'Gave you my word,' he explained. ''Sides, for what it's worth, you got the shittier end of the deal having to keep her in check.' He eyed the she-elf cheerfully. 'I do not envy you. Anyhow!' Faramund climbed to his feet. 'I'd best be off. Seehoben's not going to free itself, after all.' Or maybe it would. The villagers -the woodsmen in particular- were stubborn like that.

'Remember: If I see you again...'

'You'll kill us. Y-yes, we know!'

'Good.' Heaving his pack onto his shoulders, Faramund made his way back into the forest. By the time they worked themselves free and told the other mercenaries what had happened, he would be long gone. Perhaps he would see them again in Seehoben.

If they had any sense, he wouldn't.

---
​

The journey took longer than expected. There were constant patrols along all of the main roads leading into Seehoben, and without his horse, Faramund had to ruck all of his equipment himself. Travelling through the forests didn't help matters.

A day came and went by the time he reached the village. The sight that greeted him was none too pleasant.

'Well, that's new.' The knight removed the scarf from his face as stared up at the hanged men where they swayed amongst the leaves. Plaques with painted words decorated their bruised chests. One read "murderer." Faramund couldn't quite decipher the others. 'Grim sight,' a voice called out to him from off the road.

Turning, Faramund regarded the approaching peasant with tired eyes. He hummed his agreement.

'Picked a bad time to come to Seehoben, friend,' he continued, eyeballing the dead men as he came to stand beside Fara. 'What did they do?' he asked. The peasant snorted. 'Got in the way.' Raising his arm, the man began to point. 'Willam there refused to give up his arms. Was on the militia, y'see. Felt it was up t' us village folk to protect what was ours. Didn't appreciate the Baron's men trying to encra-... encroach on our freedoms.'

'The man next to 'im, I don't know. He is... or was a stranger, one o' those out-of-town types, y'know?' The man didn't seem to notice Faramund was also one of those types. Or perhaps he just didn't care enough to bring it up. 'Some of the baron's men took a disliking to 'im when he brought up tell of the Knights Anathaeum.'

The peasant chuckled darkly. 'Apparently they don' see eye to eye, or somethin', took him for a "sympathiser."

Faramund's frown deepened.

'Anyways, the last man was Ryk Wylder. Owned one of the sawmills upstream of Seehoben. A pretty profitable enterprise from wha' I hear.' The peasant scritch-scratched at the back of his neck. 'Parently 'e came home from the lumberyards one nigh' to find a few soldiers makin' free with 'is wife and daughter. As you can imagine, ol' Ryk wasn' too happy about that.' The peasant sighed. Faramund sensed a connection there, but decided not to press.

'Strung 'im up the next day, and took 'is wife and daughter in for questioning.' The peasant grew pale. 'No-one's seen 'em since.' He turned to regard Faramund. 'I'd suggest you skip this place. Ain't no good awaitin' you inside Seehoben, mark my words!'

Nodding, Faramund cast one final glance at the hanged men. A strong gust of wind set them swinging. The sight stoked his anger. 'Know where I can find the ealdorman?' he asked, taking the peasant by the shoulder and steering him out of the way of an oncoming wagon.

'Did you not 'ear what I said? You-'

'I heard what you said,' interjected Faramund, perhaps a bit too roughly. He pushed on. 'But it's clear to me the longer the Baron's men stay here, the more Seehoben's people will suffer. I aim to do something about it.' Meeting the peasant's eyes, Faramund smiled encouragingly. 'So. What say you? Where can I find the ealdorman? Furthermore, who was in charge of your militia before it was disbanded? I imagine they have a few scores to settle.'

Hector Syr Cydonia

 

[Hector]

Hector looked on, wide eyed. Short of breath.

A fire.

Syr Rimeboll let off arrow after arrow. The steady thrum of his bow snapped and twanged in the air above them. Mercenaries ran for cover. One felled with shaft through neck. Another pinned through the flesh of their calf.

Hector heard the hammer blow still in his good ear. Clear and sharp, it still rang. There was no time for his doubts. No time for his fears.

A fire.

Bright as day's light. Warm as the noon sun. A fire to gather round. A fire to forge.

A hammer's strike. A spark. With the beat of his heart, a wash of warmth pulsed through him. A sword of fire cracked into being, there in the air behind Cydonia. Embers dripped from its flame-tongued point. A thing alive with its own heat, its own pulse.

Hector's eyes saw the shape of their foe, and his hand struck toward them. The sword of fire followed with a trail of cinders and sparks.

---

At the forest's edge, Hector pulled tight his cloak, as he peered across the way to the town of of Seehoben. They'd sent message via Sending Stone, the enchanted tool dropped into clear pool, and dodged patrols to win their position.

Still, there was much left to be done.

And somewhere behind the distant walls of old homes, freshly sundered for sharp palisades still being risen, was Faramund.

Hector let out a breath. And turned to Syrs Rimeboll and Cydonia. "How can we be sure he's still alive?" he asked the veteran knights.

Rimebol's lip cut into smirk. "Yeah, Cyd, how?"

Faramund Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Good thing young Hector was diligent in his studies of the healing arts. As they rested a moment at the edge of town, Cyd flexed her bandaged hand, grateful for the continued use of her fingers. She glanced at the squire. If they had been closer to home, if the circumstances were less dire, she would have asked him how he was alright. But here and now, it was a worthless question - Hector needed to be alright, at least until they were out of danger.

The squire asked a question. Cydonia let out a huff at Rimebol's prodding response, adopting the felonnin's own haughty air for a moment. "Because he's a stubborn muckspout, that's how."

It was a short-lived burst of rancor. The task at hand pulled her out of it, and her eyes set instead to hardness as she looked out at the shattered homes of the fieldfolk. "I'm more worried about what sort of trouble he'll stir up. Rather not storm the whole village, but if the good Lord's men see chrysanthemums, we may not have a choice."

 

[Faramund]

A bell tolled, somewhere in the distance. Looking over his shoulder, his fishing rod momentarily forgotten, Faramund huffed. 'Late,' he said, more to himself than the other fishermen sharing his stretch of quayside. Honestly, how much longer was he going to have to wait?

'Patience!' One of the old hands sighed. 'He'll be here.'

'Yeah?' It had been three and a half days since he had parted ways with the young Hector. Having stashed his equipment in the riverbank outside town, Faramund had made entry through the front gate. A bit of dirt on his face and a likely excuse was all it had taken to win his way past the guards, not that they had been trying too hard.

Lazy, slovenly sonsabitches, they had shown more interest in a deck of cards than they had him.

Not that I'm complaining. Having donned the guise of a simple fisherman, he had made his way about town, making contact with the few locals he trusted not to rat him out first chance they got. The news they had shared was... bleak.

The ealdorman had sold his soul. The militia had been disbanded, replaced by a "town guard" whose interests didn't exactly align with those of the townsfolk they were supposed to protect. Anyone who spoke or acted out of line had been imprisoned, the militia leader included. Well, until a certain jailor misplaced the keys to his cell. How the resistance movement had managed that bit of subterfuge was beyond Fara.

'Caught anything yet?'

Staring out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the dawnling grunted in surprise. 'Nope!' He replied, offering up the rod. 'Ain't been caught yet?' The stranger standing over him smiled, cast a line. 'Nope,' he said, voice like iron. 'Though not for lack of trying.' The whole town was abuzz with talk of his brazen escape. Doors had been kicked in, friends and family questioned. Not that they knew anything.

Better that way.

Standing, Faramund looked out across the river. A barge sitting low in the water drifted out from one of the quays. Laden with logs, the steersman had a hell of a time keeping it from ploughing headlong into the far bank. 'Must take some strength,' he mused, glancing sidelong at the stranger. He had the look of a warrior about how, and those scars...

'Making sure all that there wood doesn't end up in the drink. Know much about boats, Alberich?'

'Can't say that I do,' the militiaman responded gruffly, grinning as he met Fara's eye. 'But I do know a couple folks who'd be more than willing to ferry your friends into town, if that's what you're after.'

'Maybe.' Faramund admitted. 'Or maybe I'm simply trying to make conversation.'

'I'd rather you didn't.' Alberich sighed, cursed. He wasn't having any luck fishing either. 'Sorry,' he apologised. 'Long week.'

'I know the feeling.'

Alberich hummed. Giving up on the pretence, he handed the rod back to Faramund who, just as swiftly, handed it back to the local he had borrowed it from. Faramund offered the man a coin for his trouble. 'Keep it,' he said, glancing at Alberich. Faramund noted a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A blue star.

The man nodded.

'Come on, then.' Alberich turned to leave. 'I suppose you'll be wanting some information but... not here.' He looked around. 'Too many eyes and ears, and not all of them friendly.' Humming, the dawnling followed the tall militiaman to a tavern along the waterfront. Dock workers lazed about in the sun, chattering away idly. A few stared as Faramund and Alberich ventured inside. No-one said a thing.

The place was practically empty.

'It usually like this?' Faramund asked, following Alberich through to one of the backrooms. 'No, not usually,' said Alberich. 'Used to be you couldn't move in here, there was that many people.' Faramund saw his expression darken, rainclouds move in. 'But?'

'But times change, and not always for the best.'

Hector Syr Cydonia