[color=#6ecff6][center][sub][h1][b]Siegfried Aschwin[/b][/h1][/sub][img]https://i.imgur.com/bYbIH9t.png[/img]
Location: The Stone's Throw
Mentions: [@Haha][@13org][/center][/color][hr]Siegfried rolled his neck as he stepped out into the cold Blackpebble air, feeling the familiar twinge of discomfort that had been plaguing him since morning. Sleeping on a straw mattress that had seen better days would do that to a man, even one who had endured far worse. The pain was minor, annoying more than debilitating, a dull ache that reminded him he was getting older and his body kept a ledger of every slight. Still, it was just a kink from poor posture during sleep, nothing more sinister. He had learned long ago to catalog pain, to understand its source and meaning. This was mundane. Forgettable.

Two weeks in this gods forsaken mining town had yielded little of substance. A few contracts here and there: tracking down a merchant's wayward son who turned out to be nothing more than a lovesick fool chasing a barmaid to the next village, breaking up a dispute between rival smiths that nearly turned bloody, standing guard over a caravan heading south for three days of mind numbing tedium. Enough coin to keep his belly full and a roof overhead, but nothing that truly satisfied the itch. Nothing that let him do what he did best.

The rumors, though. Those kept circulating through the tavern like smoke through a chimney. Siegfried had learned to sift through the dross, separating the drunken fantasies from the kernels of truth. A rogue mage supposedly haunting the northern passes, burning travelers who refused to pay toll. That one had potential, though the details shifted with each telling. Then there was talk of a crazed sorcerer conducting experiments in some abandoned mine to the east, creating abominations from wildlife and lost prospectors. Siegfried had filed that one away as worth investigating, though he suspected it was more likely a pack of territorial dire wolves than anything arcane.

The rest was rubbish. Tales of dragons awakening, of demon cults in the sewers, of a cursed sword that drove its wielder mad. Blackpebble attracted storytellers and liars in equal measure, and most could not tell the difference between the two. Siegfried had patience for neither, but he listened anyway. Sometimes the most absurd tale contained a thread of something real, something he could pull until it unraveled into actual work.

He was adjusting the sword belt at his hip, preparing to make his way toward the stables where his own horse waited, when the runner nearly collided with him. [color=6ecff6]"Ser Aschwin!" [/color]The boy was young, maybe twelve, with the breathless urgency of youth. [color=6ecff6]"Maeki says you are needed back inside. Says there is someone asking after your... particular skills."[/color]

Siegfried regarded the boy for a moment, those pale eyes of his taking measure. They were an unnerving shade of blue, like ice over deep water, and there was something about them that made people look away. Too bright, too focused, with a quality that was difficult to name. If someone stared long enough, they might notice the way the pupil seemed slightly elongated, the faintest suggestion of something inhuman lurking beneath the surface. Most did not stare that long.

[color=6ecff6]"First, I'm no 'Ser'. I was never knighted. Second, someone asking,"[/color] Siegfried repeated, his voice a low rumble. He fished a copper from his pouch and flipped it to the boy, who caught it with practiced ease. [color=6ecff6]"Tell Maeki I will be there shortly."[/color]

The runner nodded and bolted back toward the Stone's Throw, disappearing through the heavy wooden door. Siegfried allowed himself a moment of consideration. Someone asking for his particular skills meant one of two things: a mage problem, or someone who had heard he specialized in such matters and wanted to test him. The latter had happened before, usually ending poorly for the ambitious fool.

He turned on his heel and made his way back to the inn, the black boulder etched with dwarvish runes standing sentinel at the entrance. The clamor hit him as soon as he opened the door, the familiar wall of sound that came with a crowded tavern in the evening. String instruments struggled to be heard over raucous laughter, the clatter of dice and cards, the bellowing of men deep in their cups boasting about kills both real and imagined.

Siegfried wove through the crowd with practiced ease, his presence causing a subtle ripple as people shifted to give him space without quite realizing why. He was not a small man, and the sword and axe at his sides marked him clearly as someone best left unbothered. His gaze swept the room with the efficiency of a predator assessing terrain, cataloging exits, threats, faces.

That was when he saw them again.

Two figures at the bar, speaking quietly with Maeki. He had noted them as he was leaving, their entrance timed almost perfectly with his departure. They had the look of travelers who had been through something unpleasant recently, that particular weariness that came from hard riding and harder circumstances. 

The girl was young, wrapped in fox fur pulled high around her face as if she wanted to disappear into it. There was a bearing to her though, something in the way she held herself that spoke of training, of discipline. Nobility, perhaps, or at least someone accustomed to authority. Her eyes were dark and sharp, flicking around the room with a wariness that Siegfried recognized intimately.

The other was a young man, and Siegfried felt the familiar cold prickle of recognition when his gaze settled on those features. Luxun. The particular cast to the face, the way aura seemed to swirl around him. Siegfried had spent enough time studying his captors to recognize their countrymen at a glance, even years later. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, a reflexive tension that he forced himself to relax. Not every Luxun was a torturer. Not every one of them had held the knife, spoken the incantations, carved the sigils into his flesh. But the disdain lingered anyway, cold and familiar as an old scar.

He approached the bar, settling onto a stool with deliberate casualness, close enough to be noticed but not so close as to intrude. Maeki caught his eye and nodded, a silent acknowledgment that these were the ones. Siegfried nodded and turned to the other person at the bar. He subtely took in their appearance before flagging down a tavern wench. 

[color=6ecff6]"Mead,"[/color] he said simply.

She poured without comment, sliding the flagon across the polished wood. Siegfried took it, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply while keeping his attention peripheral. Let them make the first move. Let them state their business. He had all the time in the world, and patience was as much a weapon as the steel at his side. His eyes, pale and unsettling in the warm firelight of the tavern, flicked once toward the pair and the other merc before returning to his drink.