Safe Journeys, "Witch-Hunter."

[Drevant]

Thunder rolled gently over a soaked and dreary Qeynos Harbor.  The late-afternoon business had all but tailed off, as no one sensible would wish to spend their free afternoon in such a torrent, and knowing this, most citizens had retreated home, or to a home away from home for an ale or three.  Fish's Alehouse was busier than usual, it's predominantly male clientele made up of mostly sailors, craftsman, merchants and other adventurers, seemingly all from a similar, stout stock.  An ambiance of clinking glasses and roaring laughter filled the air, along with the alehouse stink of dried beer, vomit and too many men cramped together in too small of spaces.  A sinewy, balding man wrapped his swollen knuckles on the bar and caught a nod from the fat barkeep, who waddled over slowly.  The bartender scratched his bushy, graying beard and clapped the balding man on the shoulder, offering a toothy grin.

"Ain't seen ya' in here in months, Gov." said the barkeep as he continued on with a chortle, "Finally finder yerself a fat wench ta' do yer cookin' and other needs of which have needed ta' be tended?"

The sinewy, balding man raised an eyebrow but didn't deny him the satisfaction of having the last word on the matter so quickly.  He made a dismissive gesture and nodded to an empty ale flagon.

"I'll have one of them if you please," said Gov, "and fill it to the bloody top or I'm sendin' it right back."

"Alright alright, keep yer' knickers on...and ya' know we serve 'em proper here...ain't like them foofy South Qeynos pubs where people tend tae worry about things such as "spilling" on themselves."

The barkeep grinned and slid the flagon in front of the balding man, a bit of ale sloshing over the side to create a small pool at the base of the glass.  Gov took it and helped himself to a large gulp, patting his chest with his free hand as he let out an absentminded, weary burp, catching the barkeep's eye with a tired-look that carried paragraphs.  The barkeep seemed to nod in agreement.

"Damned bloody busy in here, ya ken?" said the bald man, "Though I think I do know every ole boy in the place...'cept a couple.  Old sailor eyes can spot his crew when he has ta, and these old sailor eyes see a couple-a stowaways if ya' don't mind me makin' some small talk."

The bartender pursed his lips together and raised his eyebrows somewhat mockingly, "Oh is that right?  Well do a bartender right an' inform me of my "stowaways" so that I might ready myself for what shocking business shall unfold in my, humble establishment this dark and stormy night?"

The bald man grinned appreciatively to himself at the comment and busied himself sipping his ale, then began speaking, "Far right corner, ya' got a bloke in red and leather, hooded, big-arsed blade on his back...just sittin' there smokin' by himself.  Ain't sayin' a word, ain't movin.  I can't see his face but he don't seem like the type ta' be here.  Sailors be socializin' creatures.  Merchants cannae shut up."

"Well ain't you a clever sod, Gov." said the barkeep, helping himself to an ale, "Maybe he's just waitin' fer someone ya' bloody genius.  Besides, that's the third ale he's had already an' he drinks like a sailor.  He comes in here sometimes.  What's yer next snippet of pub wisdom?"

"Ahh come on now, don't dick with me." said Gov, "That's the bloody "witch-hunter," and ya' damn well know it is.  Can't mistake that goddamn sword.  He's just sittin' there, drinking, smoking...watching.  I heard a man say he ain't the type to stay in one place long...how long's the nutter been in here?"

"Maybe an hour." said the barkeep wearily, taking a large gulp of ale and not disputing Gov's claims, "Drinking, smoking, and watching.  Hell, if I didn't know better it sounds like he was enjoyin' himself at a bloody pub, ya' right bloody plonker."

Gov squinted and helped himself to another long swill of ale, "Stop pissin' around.  Ya' got trouble in here.  Hope yer' bouncers are ready because there's somethin' brewin' in here an' I don't want to be caught in the middle.  That bastard hunts rogue mages for the Royal seal, an' if he hasn't been talkin' to anyone, that means he's prowlin'.  Waitin'.  He's a killer, just like he butchered those two mages in the Concordium.  Plum in two like I heard it.  Yessir, ya' got trouble in here."

"Thems mages were necromancers." the barkeep insisted, with a hint of stubborness, "They found the books and shite in their quarters.  You sailor-boys are worse than a bunch of fat-arsed baker gals on temple day."

"Never believe the official story...that's what me old pops used tae say.  Hell, here we go...he's movin..."

"We'll see." said the barkeep.

-

Across the room, the hooded man unrolled a parchment briefly to inspect it's contents.  He peered at it briefly before returning it to an unseen pocket.  He pulled out a pocket-watch and checked the time.  It was nearly six o'clock on the dot, and he began to move.  One last sip of ale, and he slid from his seat silently, keeping his eyes fixed on a table near the front corner of the bar where two skinny figures sat without drinks.  Just as the hooded man began pushing through the sea of pubbing sailors, a third man walked quickly through the front door, wrapped in a soaked cloak.  He strode directly for the skinny mens' table.

The hooded man slid across the pub quickly, his eyes fixed in tunnel-vision on his target as he knew he would have to act quickly.  His blade slid from his back unconsciously as he advanced on the drenched individual oblivious to the shouts of warning that now chimed up from around the tavern.  The two skinny men at the table's eyes widened as they saw him approach, apparently warning the cloaked figure who spun around just in time to see the hooded man's enormous sword driving straight for his chest.  The crowd of patrons let out a sailor's groan as the shining steel struck home, driving clean through the figure's body, which went limp immediately.  Silence fell over the tavern.

The hooded-man lowered his hood revealing a mop of firey-red hair and piercing green eyes.  He was indeed Valerin, the "Witch Hunter," and a few whispers confirming that fact sounded throughout.  The skinny men stared at him, mortified as their courier slide off of his blade and slumped to the floor.  Valerin kept his gaze on them as he knelt down to search the body.  An eternity seemed to pass for the skinny men as he found what he was looking for, and dropped it on the table in front of them.

"Explain." uttered Valerin.

The skinny men stared down at the table as they knew what their fate would be.  A necronomicon, or book of the dead lay on the table, adorned with a gemmed symbol of Bertoxxulous which was unmistakable.  The men just stared at Valerin in horror as they pondered escape with white faces. 

"EXPLAIN!"

The alehouse of sailors went absolutely silent again as Valerin's voice rang out.  The soft patter of rain droned through the building for what seemed like ages before one of the men finally mustered the courage to speak. 

"C...coincidence...please!  We had no idea!  We...we thought to..."

"Shut up." said Valerin and looked at the other, silent one, "And get up."

The mousy-haired, pale man did as he was told and slowly stood from his seat, not daring to make eye contact with him.  Valerin advanced quickly and searched him.  A dagger, which he tossed to the floor.  A pouch of coins which he sat on the table, the jingling of coins echoing through the silent public house.  All of this appeared to the keen eye as dramatics, as if Valerin were making an example.  And to those in the know, he indeed made examples of his targets, leaving stiff warnings in his work for any partaking in necromancy or other dark arts. 

Suddenly, a voice boomed through the air.

"KNIGHTHILL! BEHIND!"

It was the barkeep and Valerin sprung immediately into action, spinning around and slicing his blade through the air in a masterstroke that split the second man from shoulder to belly.  Sailors around the tavern let out a sportsman-like "Ohhhh!" as Valerin's strike drove home, leaving a meaty splatter of blood on the wall behind.  The dying man's face pitched from anger to horror and surprise as the dagger he had produced dropped from his hand and he slumped to the floor.  Valerin took a long time to wipe his blade on the last man's cloak before look him directly in the eye, and head-butting him.  The sailors let out another roar of unsure approval. 

Valerin quietly collected what he could from the bodies, including several trinkets shaped into various emblems of Bertoxxulous and Rallos Zek.  7 He hunched down and took up the skinny man by the collar before tossing the bag of gold onto the bar, and tucking the necronomicon under his arm. 

"Sorry about the mess.  Thanks." Valerin stopped an added an afterthought, in a somewhat twisted manner, "He's sorry too."

He shook the unconcious man lightly.

And with that, he nodded to the barkeep and drug the man out.

-

Outside the rain had let up, but not much.  The streets were drenched and two annoyed, folded-arm guards met Valerin's gaze.  He nodded to them and dropped the unconscious man at their feet.

"Get yer man witch hunter?" the barbarian guard said, without flattery and without enthusiasm.

"Take this man in for questioning.  Not the prison...you know where.  They'll get what they can out of him, and bring him to justice.  Two bodies inside, sorry about that, but it couldn't be helped.  Take the bodies in as well, and the crown will make sure you'll get a bonus."

"All business as usual," the other barbarian guard said, "You're a cold bastard."

Valerin paused for a moment, then looked at the men seriously, "I just do my job, and I do it right.  And I do good work.  Invite me over for dinner and I'll be warm and laugh at your jokes.  Invite me out for manhunting, and I'll be a cold bastard.  Or should I flash you a smile right now to end our encounter with a warm, cordial feeling?"

Valerin clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled a convincing smile, then shook both of their hands, "Tell the kids I said hello.  I'll make it out for the next fishing trip boys."

"You never do."

Valerin just held up his hand as he walked away, striding off through the rain.

"Safe Journeys, Witch-Hunter!"

"I hate that name!" Valerin called back, cheerfully.