[center][h2]Ratcher[/h2][/center]

	Echoes rampaged Jarren’s mind: several attempts at convincing the crowd he wasn’t Raatcher gone awry, with them suspecting him either modest or changed by the stress of the battle. Some even claimed his nerves were simply shot from the fight, and that he should rest -- a prospect Jarren warmed up to once his adrenaline left. There was no way Jarren could go back to his little hole, so after some leg work, he found Ratcher’s own bed. 

	It wasn’t bad -- in fact it was much better than his own by a mile. Not only did Ratcher have his own room in a stone house, but he had two beds and a litter of things. If there was anyone to be pretending to be, Jarren hit the jackpot. 

	Jarren made a satisfied face as he stepped up to the hay and cloth mattress, running his hand along it. He had changed into the dead man’s clothes -- a simple brown tunic and stitched together pants of various cloth. The other denizens of the hovel were quiet, leaving Jarren to his thoughts. The man plopped down onto the bed with a poof and gave the room another once over.

	His newly acquired sword and shield leaned against the second bed, and inbetween the two was a rotten crate covered in nicknacks. A heavy blanket covered the doorway and clothes were folded by each bed. Interestingly enough, by the second bed Jarren spotted a single dress made of rough fabric dyed a faded blue -- and he’d be a liar if he didn’t suddenly get up to try and hold it up against himself. He twitched his nose as the scent of a woman entered an inhale and he closed his eyes.

	“Tied, this is creepy.” Crumpling the dress into a ball he tossed it at the crate with a snapping throw. It thumped against the wood, jostling something stuck between the crate and one of the mattresses. Jarren narrowed his eyes and snuck on over, rawhide shoes creaking against the floorboards. With a flick of his wrist he snatched the object from its hiding spot. It was a stack of binded vellum -- a book. Jarren’s brows arched and he turned to sit on the bed, setting the book into his lap. 

	Immediately the thin book opened to a spot where a cloth was stuck between the pages. Furrowing his brow, Jarren plucked the cloth from the book and upon realizing it was folded around something, he unwrapped it. A crisp piece of parchment laid in the cloth, it’s edges nearly brown from age and alien etchings written in the secret brown ink of Illistair littered the page. Jarren nodded slowly, a fundamental truth flickering into his mind: he can’t read. 

	He folded the ancient paper back into its cloth and poured his eyes over the book. It was written with different letters, the kind he saw now and again in the city. He rubbed his hand over the charcoal letters, suddenly retracting his hand as one of them began to smudge. Curious, he flipped through some more pages, but it was all letters -- until. 

	Jarren’s eyes widened and a face stared back at him, a soft smile on drawn lips. The visage of a regal looking woman was sketched on the page. Jarren’s stomach pumped, it was very rare to see something like this, let alone done so well. He ran his hand on blank of the paper, eager not to ruin the drawing. His eyes followed the lines, from her jaw, straight nose, stern eyes, all the way up to her scalp, where a crown lay. Jarren snapped the book shut, his stomach abuzz with strange feelings.

	He sat in silence for what felt like forever, contemplating the strange turn his life had taken. In truth, he had no idea... but he wanted to. 

	“I need to see Greum.”