[center][b]Derrix “Nightbane” Herchiv[/b][/center]
 
	With a quick reflex, Derrix snatched the inkwell out of the air. He turned the vial over in his palm for a moment, and his golden eyes seemed to sparkle as he shoved the new inkwell into his pant pocket. The corner of his lips curled into a thankful smile and he gave a friendly bow of his head towards the well postured woman, “thank you.”

	The man seemed to ignore the call for drinks as he never responded to the squire or the paladin’s offer, and instead opted to lean against the wall by the booth. His eyes seemed to dim as he watched a drunkard slowly stumble over to the table, retching and belching polluted breath all along the way. 

	A quiet seemed to conquer Derrix as the drunk slammed down into the booth and started flapping his lips about this and that, mostly about the quest that the orderly paladin had offered him instead of filling his inkwell. 

	Derrix rubbed his cheeks in thought, his rough fingertips gliding over the bumps of his continuous scar. His other hand was dug deep into his pocket, idly rolling the cold well of ink over in his fingers as he listened. Some small voice, some tiny thought in his mind whispered and poked him, prodded even, to pay attention to this quest that was not his, and to accept it; for what bizarre reason: only the poet and his tiny idea knew.