[hr][hr][h1][center]H A R W A   A H M E S T E P   |   Q A D I R[/center][/h1][hr][hr]
It seemed that Harwa had misjudged the mood of this particular watering hole, and badly at that. As the cries of the patrons bought a pair of guards in through the beaded curtains he groaned inwardly and slumped his shoulders. His luck was proving to be exceptionally poor this day, first the attack on the street, now this. Or perhaps it had nothing to with luck at all, perhaps the Arhanphast was testing him once more. 

But exactly was being tested, his forgiveness or his righteousness?

Harwa had felt like this since he had arrived in Qadir a few weeks ago. The compulsion that had brought him back after so many years was not clear. He knew that he wanted to help these people, all of them, from those that suffered beneath the lash of the Maathro's whip, to the hand that held it, all the way up to the false God-King himself. But he did not know how. He did not know if was even right, or if was just another selfish desire - that forgiveness was absolute, that everything could be atoned.

Maybe this was not a test, maybe it was his punishment instead. 

"Sirs, please, sirs. I am an old man, a veteran of Tawr. These are but my only possessions and a walking stick. You... you would not part an old man from his crutch?"

He allowed himself to collapse to the floor at their feet. Weak and trembling. If this was to be his punishment then he would gladly accept it... but he could do little good behind the bars of the Imit's prison, so he would not throw away his freedom lightly. He hoped the All Father would forgive his lie. Besides, it was only half of a lie. His axe had been a crutch for him for many years, and sometimes he was forced to rely on it still.

The two guards tutted above him, a mixture of disgust and pity behind their hardened eyes. Oh and fear too. The strong always feared weakness in places where weakness was punished, because they knew deep down it was something that could happen to them. They barked commands for him to make himself scarce, and reinforced their point with a few well placed kicks and the butts of their spears. 

Harwa make the appropriate noises of suffering, but inside he was calm, serene. He prayed that these men would be forgiven too. 

When it was over he crawled out of the taverna, dripping blood across the tiled floor, and out of the beaded curtains. He would find somewhere to rest up for now. It was not the first beating that he had received here, and it almost certainly would not be the last. Such was the life of the one of the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, beggars in service to teachings of Sharaq. 

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[hider=Harwa's Rolls]Deception Check verses the guards: [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/23235]17[/url] - Success.[/hider]