When Quarivier signaled to the group to meet with him, he heeded the call. He tucked away his piece of wood he’d been shaving thin pieces off of and got to his feet. Walking a few steps to join the group as they passed around the letter, he could already guess what they needed to do. Infiltrate, get information and then be on their way. When it finally came for him to read the letter, his brow furrowed at the bit about the siege and them helping in it. He wasn’t fond of fighting battles he stood a chance of losing and was not looking forward to the prospect of being in a pitched battle. Support role or not, he was an assassin, not a soldier. The field was not a place for him. He frowned, passing it the member next to him. Not wasting any time, he nodded to his fellows, “Best not let our impetuous leader and the old coot get lonely.”

Pulling his hood over his head, he began the walk to Falkreath on the road, sticking to the crowd. The mild beard he’d managed to grow after days of not shaving was still there, and not to mention his plain, versatile features helped him to blend in and disappear. The weight of the dagger at his side and on his back, as well as the smaller implement in his boot helped to reassure him should any trouble be bent on finding him, no matter how much he hid from it. Of course, he couldn’t just stroll up to the guards and ask politely to tell them of any troop movements and even then, he doubted the faceless grunts would know about anything beyond their little place in the war. An officer would be better, but he knew nabbing one would prove more difficult than just bopping him on the head and dragging him around the corner.

He entered the city unhindered like the rest of the group he’d latched on to and followed the larger group that split off from the main one he’d entered the city with. The gates parted for them easily enough and after a simple mumbled, “Passing through.” By Finnen, he was inside. For a great evil army of genocidal men and beasts, they opened their gates easily enough. He knew it had to have been quite the different approach for Quarivien. He felt relieved he still looked like Man, no matter how watered down his blood was through centuries of interbreeding with Breton, elf, Aldmer and Orc. His people were mongrels to the Bretons, mongrels to the Nords, outcasts everywhere but their own villages. This mongrel had been let in with nefarious intentions that would be carried out against them thanks to them. Finnen gave a soft smile.

It disappeared as he eyed the captain of the guard. He had more scar tissue than face, it seemed. An ugly bugger, but all men bleed the same. He couldn’t help but think that whoever gave him those scars thought it easy and found out the hard way it wasn’t. Finnen wouldn’t make that mistake. All men sleep. Their mission didn’t call for the death of the guard captain though, so he was safe for now. The jail could hold documents or notes passed around about murders, complaints and the orders that spawned then and even some prisoners who could shed light on their trespasses. The Jarl’s longhouse was likely to hold a trove of documents and he did have his picks. He figured the best way to wait out the time he could go to either the jail or the longhouse would be night.

To the tavern then, to buy a room, get some food in his stomach that wasn’t oats boiled in boiled riverwater or dried meat and wait out the day, listening for gossip. As he neared the tavern, a rather attractive and straightforward woman singled him out among the men, “Shor’s bones, a handsome man in Falkreath.”

“And there are others, dear.”

“But only one of me.” She said, playfully.

“I’ll call for you if I want you.” He said, slightly annoyed. The comforts of a woman could wait until the mission was over. He preferred to get the work done before he started playing.