Cowritten with [@BlondyMcHuggles]
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The back door of the [i]Treis Ippótes[/i] swung open with an audible creak, its rusted hinges straining against the weight of the oak planks they supported and the sound of laughter and song floating out from within. Gottmar von Eibenschütz peered into the darkness beyond; the sun had not long ago sunk beneath the horizon and cast the shadow of night across the city. With a cautious hand on his sword-hilt in case of an encounter with the sort of common thugs and cutpurses who frequented such gloomy back alleys as this, the witch hunter stepped outside into the cool night air and looked around. Sleep, for him, was not a necessity by any means, and as a devoted Brother-Soldier his duty was first and foremost to carry out his investigations without delay. If the foul stain of dark sorcery had infiltrated Viarosa, he had not a second to waste.

And yet, he had not a single lead. Certainly, he had hunted witches not far beyond the city walls, yet frustratingly enough not one, even when subjected to the very harshest of interrogations, had provided a single ounce of information that might serve to incriminate their fellow black magi. Still, that did not mean there was nowhere to start. On the contrary, in fact, a city such as this, containing as many drinking establishments as it did, was ripe for harvesting the kind of information Gottmar sought - after all, with their inhibitions lowered, who knows what kind of strange and mysterious tales the locals may tell, and for every ten that were pure invention, one might hold a grain of truth. He glanced back at the inn he had just left. [i]No[/i], he thought, [i]not that one[/i]. Full of sailors and dockworkers; not the sort who would know of the intricacies of affairs on land. He would have to go elsewhere.

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It was a long and winding walk that had brought him to this door in particular, through labyrinthine slums and past many a shifty character who gave him a glare of disgust, yet thought better of provoking a fight. The witch hunter raised his gaze to the worn, faded sign that hung above the entrance to the simple timber building that rose up before him. 'The Laughing Fiddler', it read; a tavern whose outside appearance was certainly less than impressive - although, to the owner's credit, it seemed to have been kept clean enough. Satisfied that this place would do, Gottmar pushed open the door and strode inside with the air of a conquering general, surveying the wretched array of patrons with thinly veiled suspicion. He came to the bar, slamming a fist down on its splintered surface. "Flagon of weissbier, goodman," he grunted dismissively to the barkeep, pushing a silver coin across the bar before turning his back on the man and scanning once more over the occupants of this tavern. Half a minute later, a battered tin mug of hazy golden ale appeared at his side, and he took a long swig, wiping the drops from around his mouth with his gloved hand. The conversation had dwindled noticeably when the witch hunter had entered, but now it slowly began to resume its usual volume.

As Gottmar listened, one table's conversation in particular caught his attention. Amidst the din, it was hard to piece together the exact nature of their discussion, but a few choice words had been unmistakeable to his trained ears. The swarthy one spoke most definitely of a demon, and the scholarly-looking fellow across the table from him made some less-than-favourable comment about 'men of the cloth' in response. The witch hunter stifled a vindictive smile. Truly, it was as if the hand of blessed Calidorus himself had guided him to this place tonight, that he might encounter this wicked gang of demon-worshipping blasphemers and serve holy justice unto them. He paused. They did not look like the sort to fraternise with devils. But then, the corrupting forces of the arcane could ensnare anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Slowly, he edged his way along the bar towards them, interrupting his movement to take another gulp of his ale; it would not do to alarm the blasphemers before it was too late for them to escape. Then, when only a few paces separated him from the heretics, he drew his sword from its scabbard and closed the last distance between them in a split second. "Heathens!" he bellowed, slamming the tip of his sword down upon the table, sending a crack snaking through the aged wood and turning the heads of every patron of the tavern. "I have heard your foul talk of demons and death. Did you think that your evil ways would not be discovered? That your evil deeds would go unpunished? With Calidorus as my witness, I hereby charge you with conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, a grave offence for which the only sentence is death. Have you any words to say in your defence?"

Athaliah was just about to reply to Ceara when the sword plunged into their table; the man responsible for it definitely looked rough, but not the type to be such a devoted man of the gods. Well, maybe the God of War liked his followers to look like they'd lost a few fights. 

Once the initial shock of the encounter passed, she shared a quick look with everyone else at the table - they looked just as confused and shocked as Athaliah did, but even after a few seconds nobody spoke up. Just as the newcomer opened his mouth to speak again, Athaliiah left her seat and stood up; she was shorter than the scarred man and she'd fought men like him off before - not that she had any desire to. Especially now. 

"Look, Ser," she began, doing her best to maintain eye contact with the rough man. "I know it sounds bad, but I promise, we're not planning anything evil." she nervously glanced around the tavern, taking note of all the people still staring at her and their assailant.  It wasn't likely that anyone would come to their aid if something went wrong - the common folk wouldn't so much as blink if someone accused of demon-summoning was killed, guilty or not. 

Athaliah sighed quietly and continuted. "We need what's on these papers we have so we can have a chance of saving the world." She saw the skeptical look on the man's face before it even appeared. "I know, I know how it sounds. Just... at least give them a read before you do anything?" she gestured for Mortirmir to hand the man the notes, hoping that the sudden movement woudn't get her impaled.

With one hand still on his sword, Gottmar snatched the stack of papers from the scholar, spreading them out across the table and beginnning to read. After a minute of silence, the witch hunter let out a menacing growl. "I ask for your defence, and you present me with a childrens' tale? Truly, you are beyond all hope of redemption." He raised his sword, the dim lantern-light of the tavern shimmering as it met the weapon's steel blade. "The charges stand: conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, and mockery of a representative of blessed Calidorus. The sentence is death by fire." He turned to address the assembled crowd. "Citizens, restrain these heretics and take them outside." Several of the burlier patrons moved forward, giving a dutiful nod to the witch hunter and a withering glare to the accused. "Barkeep, a bottle of your strongest spirit. Fear not, you will be compensated when my work is done."