For his first job in the darkness, Arn had hoped to find work on a grand adventure. A massive scheme with a massive payoff, far away in the realms of Vienna or Hong Kong, or even Hollywood! As time passed, and the big heists remained just barely out of his grasp, Arn had lowered is standards slowly. First it was anywhere out of the country, then it was anywhere in the country. Then anywhere in his own damned city.

Even that had borne no fruit. Fate made to laugh at him in his misfortune: he had but just begun to despair when a friend of a friend of a friend contacted him about a job. He had agreed almost too eagerly, his usual cool analysis being suspended by a fiery desire to finally [i]do[/i] something.

It had been easy to convince his father that nothing was amiss. Einar was used to his son's strange ways. The boy would often spend days at a time out on the streets, usually bringing home some manner of Nuyen, food, or medicine. At first, Einar had demanded to know where his son had obtained such things, but as the struggle to put food on the table continued, Einar gradually came to accept his son's contributions to the family as if they had always been there.

His mother was hardly around anymore, and his grandfather spent most of his time asleep or staring out the window, and so Arn merely told his father that he would be gone for a while, grabbed his coat, packed his bags, and walked out the front door.

He waved to Skuggi as he passed the chair on which the cat slept. Skuggi yawned, revealing pointed, sharp teeth, and then vanished, meeting Arn on the road outside with careless grace. They turned in unison to briefly admire the family home. It was no mansion, but it was spacious, comfortable, and--most importantly, and perhaps miraculously--was owned entirely by Arn's lineage. No corporation or government could lay claim to the little plot of land. 

It had somehow remained untouched for years by anyone except Einar's family. Arn's mother had once told him long ago of a powerful protection which lay upon the land, granted thus by a dragon, or an otherworldly being who had favored Arn's family. Arn was more of the opinion that the land had simply...proven particularly difficult to take over. Whatever the mystical reason for the land's independence, Arn was glad to have it be his home.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold. A blizzard was stirring as the sun fell. Not that Arn minded much. He held a flame in front of him as he walked, Skuggi perched on his shoulder. Between the heat and the cloak, Arn felt more comfortable than he had any right to, and it took him little time to make his way to the meeting place.

Why had the Johnson insisted on The Fljót? It was a dud pub, if he did say so himself. Sure, some of the fish was fresh, but the alcohol was as likely to give you VITAS as it was to get you drunk. He knew that VITAS couldn't actually be spread through drink, which in Arn's opinion made it even [i]more[/i] of a risk to drink at the place. Better to go to the Öldungur down the street. At least there you were guaranteed to have a good time.

Naturally, Arn had visited the Fljót more times than he could remember. He nodded to the man at the counter. Sure, the beer was mind-rotting, but the atmosphere was unbeatable. He stepped toward one of the empty tables. Then he saw two [i]vastly[/i] different people sitting at one table and changed his mind.

"Hello there," he said, sitting down at the table and lowering his hood. Skuggi settled around his shoulders and blinked twice, then began to clean its paws.

Arn said nothing else, simply motioning for the barkeep to bring him a drink. Something nonalcoholic. Soykaf was cheap.