Though he didn't know who he was waiting for, when he heard the password murmured from behind the bolted door and the same door he had walked through swing open, he knew it was those same enigmatic conspirators who had walked in. He didn't turn in his seat, he didn't look at them, he didn't need to, he knew there would be a rallying cry of some sort. He would be foolish to think he was the only on in The Stiltwalker's Fall who was here for the same meeting. He finished his tankard and gestured to the barkeep for another. He had a feeling this was to be a long night. What he did see was a hooded figured disappear into the back of tavern. Whilst effective at concealing one's identity, a hood is not a subtle way of hiding the fact that is what you are doing. Trask always found his eyes drawn to those who appeared to be hiding something, and this new arrival was no exception.

When time was called by the tavern's owner and the drunken patrons voiced their disquiet with various degrees of aggression, Trask found himself on edge. He had noted the sigils on the shoulders of guardsmen who had been drinking in there and, when the tankard was thrown, his hand twitched towards his sword. The last thing he needed tonight was to get sucked into a brawl. But the assorted assembly vacated without incident until he found himself with a choice.

He still couldn't quite put his finger on what had led him here. Bad decisions, most likely. But he could either finish his drink, rise from his stool and follow the rest of the shambling, booze-soaked mass out the door and back into the night, or he could still finish his drink, rise from the stool and follow the hooded stranger into a meeting that would likely cost him everything for a chance at atonement. He finished his drink, slamming the tankard back down on the bar. He stood before pausing after shuffling his leg into a comfortable position. [i][color=f26522]Crunch time, Carrigan...[/color][/i] He thought to himself.

The things he had done and the life he had led had forged chains for himself to match those of the countless others he had sold into servitude. As he got older, those chains grew heavier and longer. It was time to break them. With a nod to the bar owner, he walked past him and into the back room.