[center][h2][color=darkgreen]Skarsat[/color][/h2]
Market District[/center]


The concept of 'fate' was an interesting thing to have around. It was like a bright star in the limitless darkness that laid beyond what a human's mind could understand,. It gave guidance to the intrinsic desire to find a reason for everything and to deny the possibility that anything could exist without causality. Even the greatest misery felt better if one could somehow believe in it being part of a greater plan and not just an act of sheer randomness. And yet there was another way to look onto fate: It was both a quite handy scapegoat one could blame for anything one didn't want to see in the scope of one's own responsibility and it was something one could put pretty much any kind of hope in.

So far the decision not to return to Marth might look like a bad one, but fate would decide what would come next!
There would have been plenty of other, less crowded settlements with less salt water around, but outer circumstances had kept nudging him into the direction of Guillan! Maybe he was just destined to go at sea ?
All the dirt, filth, crime and other hardships one had to endure in this place on a daily basis would not make him suffer, they would only make him harder!

Agreed, Skarsat's views on things were not quite as extreme as this, but he too would feel glad if somebody just came and told him that it wasn't all the result of his own decision and that things would indeed improve. Today though would certainly not be the day. The man who had taken Skarsat under his wing gave the impression of having a better and warmer heart than most people around here, but just like with most people around here his primary interest still was the state of his coin purse. And the spectators around him ? Their giveaways went straight into the pockets of said man's collectors and not Skarsat's own.

Money! One of the things that so far had failed to conquer the tribes of Marth. Sometimes it felt more like an infection that could make people rot while being alive than a useful and harmless invention. He too had started using it, but simply because the methods of trading he was used to didn't work here. One was nothing if one had no coin. One could and would die if one had no coin, so he had to make some, too.

And so Skarsat was standing at one end the Market District's main plaza, near a place that called itself 'The Faded Lantern', and focused in on the target that had been put up near the plaza's other end. Between it and him was a narrow-cordoned off corridor besieged by spectators. They wanted to see the next shot or they wanted to be given an explanation of how it worked and maybe have a try at hitting the bull's-eye themselves -- for a small price, of course. It was tedious work, but orders were orders. The more entertained his spectators felt there longer they'd stay and the more willing they'd be to make his employer's balance sheet look good.

The intensifying rain had actually given people another thing to look at as Skarsat had decided that a drenched shirt was even worse than no shirt at all. Now they had two things to marvel at: The precision of his arrows and the obscene amount of muscles on his body.

Unexpected commition started to set in though as the king's soldiers started to pull off a show on their own. He could see the collector's grimace as it was clear that this would only help to disperse the crowd. Even if the soldiers would disappear soon it would take much longer for people to come back, and given the worsening wheather they'd probably not at all. So... that would be it for the day ? The Tork man put down his bow on a nearby table and looked around, trying to find the person he was looking for. Yet his employer, a rich man who called himself not just 'Ivor', but '[b]Lord[/b] Ivor', now had his hands full shutting down his other small businesses around the place first.

While Skarsat waited, he dressed himself back up. His clothes were clinging to him like an ugly second layer of skin, but hopefully a stay inside would make them dry quickly. His sharp eyes darted towards a big tavern sign slightly wobbling in the wind.

[hr]
Sheriff Gerranti had barely finished getting away with yet another example of successful bribery when Skarsat ducked slightly in order to get through the door. What hit him first was not air, but something that would have deserved to be burnt and buried forever had it not been gaseous. Wasn't it that alcohol, if concentrated highly enough, could burn ? If so: At which point could the stench of cheap beverages actually pose a fire hazard ? Maybe the people in here had to keep drinking in order to distract them from the fact that all the drinking had made the immediate environment next to unbearable ? A vicious circle, albeit probably a very lucrative one.

Skarsat decided not to join it, not this day. There was an interesting-looking poster on the wall and he stopped in front of it. Deciphering it would be a good exercise as the weird symbols and shit used by those Easteners still posed a vertiable barrier for him. After an amount of time that would have sufficed for others to read the whole thing several times he could make out a name: Neh’miah He’ron. Or was that strange thing even a name and not just an artifact produced by his own lack of skill at reading this ? Further down on the parchment the talk was about some kind of betrayal it seemed.

Skarsat smirked... This would have been a good job for him if it hadn't been for that damn festival. Everything had to be 'official' for these three days, then the more hidden massacre started afterwards when so many rich people suddenly noticed just how much they didn't like some other rich people or the guests who had not understood how to behave at their party. By that time the king's guards would already have found that guy, wouldn't they ?

The Tork sat down near the fireplace, trying to pick up some warmth in order to get himself dry again.