Beren looked at her and smiled. For a second it seemed like he was thinking of kissing her, but he didn't. Instead he said. "Thanks..." and let it hang, before pursing his lips. "Then again, now that I know you have student loans, I don't know if I want you sticking around." 

"Shut up!" She laughed, hitting him with a pillow. 

They talked for the next hour, joking and laughing. Jocasta explained at least some of her situation with her time in the Mythrim Tethir and the Occult Bastion, not to mention the Black Lotus. She had been right, she was probably far more sought after than he was, at least for monetary reasons. Beren's enemies were more martial or diabolic in nature, and none of them would hire an assassin to kill him save one or two. Most wanted to kill him themselves. He explained to her about his order a bit. The Eru'Dai, translated from an ancient text as 'warrior monks' were a sept of fighters and peace-makers that followed the 'One' which Beren thought of as the Evergod. It was a lot more lax than a knightly, dogmatic order. It was wrong to fight unless people were threatened, never kneel before anyone but the one, always speak the truth unless it harmed someone else, and try to do right by others. Pretty sensible things, though a lot of it had been exercises in breathing and martial training and inner peace, which somewhat explained how he could handle crazy situations with focus. 

His father had been a well known priest (and still was last he saw him) and his mother had been on the village council (again, still going strong), and while they had allowed Beren to be taught the ways of the Eru'Dai by Master Guan, a hermit who emigrated from Shi'Ran, they mostly wanted it for self-defense to keep him alive amongst the Southland frontier. When he had come of age, his mother had insisted he learn a trade and not go gallivanting out into the wilderness like he was want to do. His father had saved a Dwarf Captain's life years ago and decided to call up a favor to help Beren out and curb his mother's ire. For five years he was sent to live with the stout folk at Thundrim Kadrin, a great honor, where he learned smithing, and when his apprenticeship was over he came home and lived in a village two weeks from his parent's home, working as a smith until it was burned down by marauders one day. By the time he reached that part of the story, both he and Jocasta couldn't remember if he went further. The next thing they knew, the sun peeked through the windows of the room. Jocasta snuggled against Beren, her cheek against his bare chest and her curvaceous form curled up almost on his lap, with his arm around her. The embers in the fire were now low, and Beren had been the one to wake up first this time. 

Gently, he lifted her up off of him, trying to ignore her impressive chest draped on his face for the moment it took for him to move her up and over, and he set her on the couch, covering her in the blanket. By the time she woke up, he was dressed, strapped with his armaments, with an apple in his mouth and some hot drinks and breakfast sausage and eggs in a plate for both of them to take their fill of. 

Once their bellies were filled, they made their way out of the northern gate of town. They passed by morning workers, farmhands, errand boys, and folks going to get the early sales at the markets. The townhouses were all two storied, with no windows on the first floor. Made sense to Beren, who saw similar accommodations in the Southlands. It was just smart to make sure every home was defensible against attackers, both men and monsters. On the gates, the Dead Lions stood watch in their garbs of black, gazing at them suspiciously as they passed through the open archway.

Once they made it out of town, they trekked north. The woods were thick, but gnarled and mostly dead. Snow littered the ground, but some of it was melting due to the bright sun of the day. Beren walked with his staff out, taking in the scents of the morning. The air was frigid, but the sun felt nice and it would feel better at noon. Thankfully, it seemed like it would be one of the warmer days in recent memory. 

"How far do you think it would be?" Jocasta asked him, pulling her coat closer to herself. 

"Well, you'd think a statue would be well known. But these lands are so overgrown. We'll probably have to wait until we find an animal path. I doubt they would have left the payment anywhere someone could stumble on it." He reasoned. 

Less than an hour later, they turned down a small deer path that Beren had spotted. They stepped lightly and warily, still knowledgeable there were a myriad of dangers in the marches, but the crunching snow and tangled brush were free of beasts and soon they found the statue at the edge of a few boulders and a broken tree. 

Meldarion Dragonsbane. He looked larger than life in the morning sun shining on the carved stone. Beren stopped and gazed at the statue for a moment, examining the likeness. He wore his scalemail hauberk and long hair tied in a ferocious ponytail. They say his eyes were the fiercest one could ever look upon. They looked severe here, but he didn't think they could quite capture the feel of the real one. He still seemed formidable, however, standing there eight feet high with his two curved swords. 

"It'll be just down this way," Jocasta told him, nudging him. Beren grinned, bumping his hip against hers. She did it back playfully and shared the grin. 

"Lets get it, girly."