Those inside hadn't seemed to notice, either too intoxicated to notice or not caring. Just another traveler on his way in and out of that hellhole they called home. Kicking mud from his boots, he walked to the bar, behind which a large man wiped cracked and chipped mugs with a beige rag. His attention was garnered with a flash of silver, followed by the clank of thick metal coins slapping against the bartop.
"Garvey," came an even voice.
The barkeep's mouth hid behind thick moustaches. After a short stare, his thick hands scooped up the plunder. "Gone. Been dead two, three moons now."
There was a chuckle. "And the new... constable?"
The barkeep shrugged until he heard the clank again. "No such animal. Dyson and his crew left here long ago."
At the mention of Dyson, several heads turned or lifted from the bar. Eyes narrowed and faces set themselves in stony silence. One unsavory face looked over. "You shut yer mouth, Pers."
"Silver," spoke the voice again, "has a funny way of starting a conversation." Silver flashed yet another time as the man set a coin to dance along his knuckles -- and that coin did seem to spawn another, and then two more. Some of the faces looked in wonder; some stayed cold and quiet. When he had stopped, three small stacks of metal sat on the bartop. "Where to?"
The barkeep, Pers, seemed to chew an imaginary cud as his eyes floated back form the money to his patrons. Finally, his hands quickly scooped the silver into his apron. "Redcastlund. To the west."
"Much obliged," the man said, nodding his hooded head at them all, and then he was gone as quickly as he came.
*****
Inside, there was the makings of a full-fledged brawl. "Persival Krumm, you mud-grubbing whore! If Dyson learns..."
"QUIET, you arse!" the barkeep roared. "This silver will keep this place afloat for a long time -- and if I don't stay afloat, you have no place to drown your sorrows." Pers set down a mug with a bang. "We owe Dyson nothing, I tell you, nothing! Better he killed us quick, like Garvey, then leave us to rot slow.." He stopped, eyes widening, as from the shadows another figure emerged, dressed in black much like the stranger.
"Yes," came a distinctly feminine voice, "Better to die betrayed by the cowardice of a town than to be left alive."
"I'm sorry... I didn't see you there." Pers began wringing his rag as most of the others turned away, not being able to match her stare. "If I had known..."
"...You would have done something? Just like when you left him to Dyson's men alone? Spare me your bullshit, you pathetic coward. Enjoy your silver while you can." She kicked at the door viciously, stalking out. Crisis past, the patrons of the Friendly Arms went back to their business, pretending the last ten minutes had not happened -- until the barkeep yelped in surprise as coins clattered on the floorboards. Pers held up his apron, looking in shock at his customers through a large hole with frayed and blackened edges.
*****
One giant oak stood off the wagon trail, and if a passerby was to pull even with that tree, stop, and turn to look at it sideways, he might see two darkly-dressed figures standing on either side, backs to the trunk. As it was, the road was quiet that day, and there they stood, like strange forest gargoyles. Clouds rolled past, rain fell; the sun arced through the faded blue skies until they turned to orange, then pink, then deep darkness.
Finally, his soft chuckle. "You've learned well."
A softer, feminine laugh came back around that massive oak as a response.
"Well...?" he queried.
"Griffin Byrne, sellsword of no small water. You're known from here to Silverton... for various things," the female voice taunted.
"True enough," he said, frowning. It had been a while since anyone had taken the wind out of his sails. Though the prospect of finding an equal excitied him. Griffin peek around the edge of the tree, extending his arm and open hand. "Well met..." he trailed, waiting for a name. It was not to come.
"Well?"
"Well what?" That same teasing laughter.
"You are...?"
"A traveller."
"Your name," he harumphed.
"Well, that's a very personal question, Griffin Byrne of New Haven. You just don't go asking anyone you run into for something as private as their name, Griffin Byrne."
He fumed for a moment. Again, it has been a while before anyone had openly mocked him. He did eventually regain his composure. Griffin was more than confident that he could play this game. "Okay... friend. Your ease of step tells me that you have been trained in the shadow arts, and your clothes, dark as midnight, tells me you've been trained by Lord Carneigh."
"Well, not by the Lord himself, for I fear his wife would have object..."
"Nevertheless, you've been in Carneighton. The sound the material of your clothing has been making as you've been shadowing me tells me you've been out only perhaps three weeks, a month at most. Also, the scent of whatever fragrance you're wearing tells me you spent some coin in White Cliffs," continued Griffin. After that, there was a pause. He'd gotten her with the White Cliffs remark.
"How someone who was supposedly trained by the same people I may or may not have been could be so wrong, I have no idea. I'll be seeing you, Griffin Byrne of New Haven. Perhaps I'll have Dyson's head in a parcel when I see you next." There was a rustling, and Griffin was too late to round the tree trunk, finding nothing but the scent she wore, and hearing a faint chuckle of laughter on the wind. He shook his head, scowling, but evetually smiled, leaning back against the tree. He couldn't wait for their next encounter.
*****