Private Forced Divide

[Faramund]

Brown eyes held fast to the honchos butting heads. Despite all the posturing, the dawnling sensed that Kilhara was no stranger to reason, assuming the reasoning came from a friendly face. Cyd had removed herself from the situation already, if her conversation with Sverod was anything to pay attention to. As to Hector, well, he was busy saving lives. A job for a dawnling, and all the best ones were preoccupied.

Lucky me, thought the Mund, stepping forward.

'Come now, saers, surely there's no need for further violence!' Gloved fingers swept blood from blade as Faramund returned sword to scabbard. Kilhara studied him as he moved closer. Rimebol remained hyperfixated on his quarry. Well, until the dawnling nudged him aside. The cat-kin growled warningly. Faramund ignored him, resigning himself to a future bollocking.

'Drinks 'ere, too, Sverod. Preferably without anythin' in 'em.'

Kilhara glared at the barkeep as the devahni went about pouring. Ladies first, of course. He was nothing if not a gentleman. 'To your health, saer,' said the knight, raising a glass of amber. The mercenary relaxed some as he watched Faramund drink. 'Tryin' to win me trust, is ye?' Kilhara sank his shot. Glass knocked against redwood. 'Thinkin' of takin' what's ours, hmm?' He dabbed his lips with thick fingers, paused to examine the dirt under his fingernails. Blood, too.

'We found your men,' Faramund spoke into the silence that followed. 'The ones y'all left behind.'

Something like surprise passed over the brute's face. Hurt, too. The prisoners grew quiet. 'You burn 'em?' One of the other mercenaries asked. Lethram let it slide. 'Yes.' Rimebol tried to keep the venom from his voice. 'Venturing into the Vayd... A dangerous undertaking.'

'Was it worth it?'

Kilhara's hands folded into fists atop the counter. 'They knew the risks,' he grumbled, though he didn't sound convinced. 'Dyin's part o' the job. Y' can dance with it all y'like, but y'can't dance 'round it.' True enough, the dawnling nodded. 'Who'd you give the "stone" to?' Faramund inquired. No point beating around the bush when the bush had arms strong enough to crush you.

'Don't see how that's any o' yer business.'

'It became our business when you opened the tomb,' replied Faramund. 'Bet your employer didn't mention there would be somethin' waiting inside. Only the stone.'

Kilhara grumbled, but didn't disagree. 'It was some toffee-nosed servant what brought the job t' our attention,' he said, after a time spent deliberating. 'Dressed poor. Even rags couldn't hide t' silver spoon wedged up 'is arse, though.' The mercenaries shared a chuckle. 'Gave us a marker, told us where t' go. For what he was offerin', I expected we'd 'ave t' march halfway to Arshaka,' he grinned, sinking another shot. Now, it was Faramund's turn to watch him closely.

'Know who this servant fellah worked for?'

 

[Cydonia]

Of course Sverod didn't give up his prized possession, the Aembra's Kiss. Instead he pulled out a nice brandy and poured three glasses. One for herself, and the others for the two hulking men who were now invading her personal space at the bar. Cyd swirled her glass and watched the tears roll down the side. Not poisoned, and not watered down. A bit of graciousness from their host.

'Know who this servant fellah worked for?' ​

"Again," Kilhara said, and the whole word was a sentence with how it rumbled out of him. "Don't see how that's yer business."

Fine. She would help a dawnling out. "Well, Ser," Cyd said sweetly, leaning her elbow on the table and tilting around Faramund to look at the giant. "Can't you see we're mercenaries, too? I imagine you were only hired to find the stone and turn it over, not to protect it. The way I see it, you've done your job, and been paid for it. Now help us do ours, and mayhaps we can negotiate a finder's fee."

---​

What a commotion, happening on the floor of the inn's parlor. The defeated mercs were gathered mostly in one spot, guarded by Rimebol and Lethram. And Hector in the middle of them, stopping the swelling of a cracked skull from overcoming one of the poor fools. It would have been a smooth repair, too, if the fool's friend would just stop wailing in Hector's ear. The misguided man jostled hector, knocking him off balance. Hands that were tempered with shroud threatened to slip and burn.

Innis reached out and caught those fraying threads. Kept the spell from sizzling and snapping, cooled it to equilibrium once more, and then to stillness. And with the other hand, she grabbed that idiot by the scruff and pulled him away.

"You want to help, go fetch some clean linens from the closet," she gave the young man a job, and like that his wits came back to him. He nodded sheepishly, scrambed to his feet, and hurried to the far end of the room. Yellow gleam of cat's eyes watched him go, but if Rimebol disapproved he didn't say anything.

"The wound's closed, Hector," Innis assured him, settling in next to the patient. "We can do the rest without shroud."

She undid the clasp on a pouch at her side, and pulled out a small vial of liquid. A tincture of white willow bark, common medicine that slowed fever and reduced swelling.