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There was something comforting and hypnotic in sharpening blades. The constant, rhythmic [i]sssshhk[/i] of the whetstone as it glided across the edge of his dirks sang him a lullaby. He found no sleep that night for the raucous in the main lobby was something of a bother. He wasn't overly worried about it, however, as he appreciated the time to sit and think. It had been a while since he had the respite of a warm bed within four walls. When you expected a cloaked figure to place a blade across your throat in the middle of the night, a deep and peaceful sleep is hard to come by in the wilderness. He had just looked at his maps, deciding where his next destination would be. So deep within his own mind he was that he barely noticed that the noise below had subsided.

Lifting his head, he listened more intently. He could make out the scratching of plate and leather as they rubbed up against each other in a rhythm. The sound men made as they hurried in arms to wherever they were needed. He tried to discern how many of them there were but the noise was so chaotic, it was hard to tell. This intrigued him, as such a show of force was only necessary against a real threat and not some thief in the night. Rubbing the length of the blade on his dirks, he placed them back into the makeshift scabbards embedded in his waist sash. He then reached over and grasped his longsword, drawing the cords around his midsection and tightening it expertly. He thought a moment, deciding whether it was the most prudent move to grab his crossbow. If his past experience has taught him anything, is that there is never a wrong time for a ranged weapon and so he slung the bolts over his shoulder, letting the case rest at his mid-back and at a slight angle. The crossbow itself dangled in what appeared to be a three-point sling, and slid neatly back near his latissimus dorsi.

He had taken off his regular clothing in favor of his armor after seeing several more guards rushing with what appeared to be purpose. Something was definitely wrong, and he would take no chances here. No way in hell he was dying in some backwater township. Strapping on his gambeson, mail and leather, and light-weight plates at his shoulders and forearms, he proceeded out of the tavern. Instead of following the road, however, he found an easy access to the wooden roofs of the town, making note of which were thatched and not to guide his footing. His hand hovered over his crossbow as he peered into the distance where the guards were running, his other hand resting gently on the hilt of his sword, lifting it so as to not scrape any surface with the tip. He kept his profile low and his stride was deadly quiet. As he skulked through the rooftops of the town, making his way towards the commotion, his mind could not help but wander to the possibilities.

Had he finally found the dreaded beasts?