[color=#6ecff6][center][sub][h1][b]Siegfried Aschwin[/b][/h1][/sub][img]https://i.imgur.com/bYbIH9t.png[/img]
Location: The Stone's Throw Kitchen
Mentions: [@Haha][@13org][@Theyra][/center][/color][hr]Siegfried accepted the iron coin with the same impassive weight he gave to everything. He turned it over in his calloused fingers, feeling the wolf's head etched into the cold metal. It was a tangible promise, heavier than platinum in its way, because it meant something older than commerce. He tucked it into a pouch at his belt, not with his other coin, but separate.

He watched the interplay between Brigitte and Nika, noting the exhaustion clinging to them like wet snow. The casual intimacy, the way she leaned on him and he braced her without thought, it spoke of a bond forged in necessity, not just duty. He had seen it before in mercenary bands, that unspoken language of survival.

[color=#6ecff6]"Tomorrow,"[/color] he echoed, his voice low. He didn't offer a nod or a bow. He just acknowledged the contract.

When the door closed behind the pair, the room seemed to exhale again. Siegfried remained still for a moment, his gaze shifting to Maeki, then to the other two mercenaries. The mention of Luxun nobles and a pyromancer in the forests... that was interesting. Pyromancers were loud, messy, and arrogant. Easy to track, hard to kill if you let them get the first shot off. But fire needed air, and Siegfried knew how to suffocate a flame.

[color=#6ecff6]"Eastruin,"[/color] he muttered, more to himself than the others. Without waiting for a response, he turned to Maeki. "I'll take that room. And a whetstone, if you have a decent one. Mine's worn to a nub."

An hour later, Siegfried was moving through the darkening streets of Blackpebble. The town was settling into its evening rhythm, miners washing off the day's grime, merchants packing up their stalls, the smell of coal smoke and roasting meat thick in the air. He wasn't looking for comfort. He was looking for preparations.

He stopped at an apothecary first. The shop was a cramped, herbal-scented hole in the wall run by an old woman with hands like dried roots. He didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Hunting something nasty?" the woman croaked, eyeing him.

[color=#6ecff6]"Cleaning up a mess,"[/color] he replied shortly.

Next was the general goods store. He needed simple things: dried beef, hardtack, a new coil of rope. He checked the rope carefully, testing its tensile strength with a sharp tug. Satisfied, he added a few torches to his pile. Fighting in the dark was one thing; fighting in the dark against things that could see you when you couldn't see them was another.

He walked with a purpose that parted the crowds. People instinctively gave him a wide berth. It wasn't just the sword and axe; it was the way he moved, like a predatory animal patrolling its territory. The slight limp from earlier was gone, masked by focus. As he made his way back towards the Stone's Throw, the iron coin in his pouch seemed to burn against his hip.

On his way back to the tavern a duo of mercenaries bearing a flaming skull patch on their tunics were bantering amongst each other outside the entrance. The taller willowy shaped man with slicked greasy black hair leaned over the tying post for horses and proceeded to puke his brains out. It smelled mostly of dark malt liquor and blood, the stench of a wounded man drinking his pain away. The opposite of the barfing man was plainly of southern descent with tanned skin and dark brown eyes smirk and patted his compatriot on the back before speaking cryptically, though not all that quiet.

[b]”We’ll have to take you further north before we head back home. The waters from the glaciers are rumored to have healing properties for old dogs like you.”[/b] The southern man chided out affectionately, possibly only half-believing a wife’s tale about old superstition.

[i]”Tha’ shit’s made up t’ stop younguns from drinkin’ nothing berry juice ‘nd milk.”[/i] The ailing mercenary with slicked back hair groaned back, barely able to keep himself conscious.

[b]”Nah-nah, a whimsy told me once that the further north you go, the more potent it is. They even used to call it.. dragon’s blood, right?”[/b]

The mention of dragon’s blood seemed to spark something of hopeful memories and curiosity in the ailing Northmen, finally mirroring that smirk back to his compatriot and shaking his head with half-rotten teeth. [i]”Tha’ is wayyyy north, m’friend. Neigh to th’ ice caps, where th’ wyrms don’t even like t’ travel.”[/i]

Siegfried slowed his pace as the voices drifted toward him. His hand tightened reflexively on the strap of his supply sack, but he didn't stop walking. Not yet. The flaming skull patch registered first, a band he'd heard of, mercenaries who took contracts from anyone willing to pay, loyalties as fluid as melted snow.

Dragon's blood. Healing waters.

The words hooked into him like a barbed fishhook. He had heard the term before, whispered in the bowels of Luxun laboratories when they thought he was too delirious to listen. Something about potency, about raw magical essence crystallized in the ice caps where even wyrms feared to nest.

He shifted his weight, stepping back into the deeper shadows cast by the Stone's Throw's overhanging eaves. The light from inside spilled out in warm, flickering patches, but he remained outside its reach, a silhouette among silhouettes. His breathing slowed, controlled, as he let the sounds of the town wash over him, the creak of wagon wheels, distant laughter, the clink of a blacksmith's hammer ringing out its final blows for the day.


His fingers brushed against the iron coin in his pouch, the wolf's head cold under his touch. Tomorrow they rode east. The north called to him with a different promise, one that had nothing to do with coin or contract, but information never hurt. [color=#6ecff6]”Scuse me.”[/color] he called out, stepping from the shadows, throwing on a face of curiosity. [color=#6ecff6]”Dragon’s blood? Up north? You folk wouldn’t be talking about the Heavenspeak, yeah?”[/color]

The two stopped their conversation dead in its tracks as the stranger appeared from the shadows, and a stranger who they were familiar with to some degree. Infamy, notoriety, whatever you wanted to call it followed you around whether you wished it or not. And especially within the social circles of mercenaries who like to run their mouths with gossip and hearsay about their fellow sellswords, it was parasocial in a way.

The tan-skinned mercenary placed a hand upon his companion’s shoulder before leaning toward Siegfried and responding with a slow and dramatic nod of his head. [b]”The faefolk believe that the fresh water of Fenris all stems from the Heavenspeak, mhm. But who knows whether that’s true or not, wouldn’t explain why it’s called dragon’s blood. Unless it’s from all of the wyrms that die up north.”[/b]

The heavier Northmen mercenary with slicked back hair grumbled before finally slumping down onto the floor covered in slush and mud. Apprehension twisted his face into a sullen frown as moisture soaked the leather of his leggings and a slow sigh escaped his lungs. [i]”One o’ those fuckin’ southern assassins shot m’ with a poison arrow, ‘ve talked t’ a handful of menders ‘nd none of ‘em know of a cure— probably ‘nna die soon.”[/i]

[b]”Don’t say that Slate.”[/b] The southern mercenary looked down at his compatriot and gave him a light footed kick to the side.

[i]”S’plenty ‘o meatwalls t’ hold a shield for ya’ Haia.”[/i] The heavy Northman weakly punched at fellow named Haia’s leg before seemingly, passing out right there on the floor.

Siegfried watched the big Northman crumple into the mud with a dispassionate stare, cataloging the symptoms as they presented themselves. The pallor of the skin, the sweat beading on the brow despite the chill, the sudden loss of consciousness. It was sloppy work, whatever poison it was. A clean kill should be instant or agonizingly slow, not this midway purgatory that left a man useless but alive.

[color=#6ecff6]"Sloppy,"[/color] Siegfried muttered, more to the air than to Haia. He stepped closer, the slush squelching under his boots, his eyes scanning the unconscious man not with pity, but with professional curiosity.[color=#6ecff6] "If it was a southern assassin worth their salt, he wouldn't be talking about dying soon. He'd be dead before he hit the ground. Or screaming. You’re lucky you got a chance."[/color]

Without waiting for an answer, he crouched slightly, not to help, but to get a better look at the mud-caked gear of the fallen man. [color=#6ecff6]"Which way did you two crawl out from? The main road or the trade routes? Because if you came from the east,"[/color] he continued, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre, [color=#6ecff6]"you're lucky an arrow is all you caught." [/color]He straightened up, towering over the pair slightly.[color=#6ecff6] "There's word of pyromancers in the forests near the border. Luxun nobles playing hunter. Fire spells don't leave wounds you can mend, they leave ash."[/color]

He watched Haia's reaction closely, looking for fear, recognition, or ignorance. It mattered. Intelligence was currency, and right now, Siegfried was broke on specifics.

[color=#6ecff6]"If you saw smoke, or charred trees that shouldn't be burnt in this damp... that's not a campfire. That's a warning."[/color] He gestured vaguely towards the east with a tilt of his head. [color=#6ecff6]"I'm heading that way. Tell me what the road looks like. Patrols? Checkpoints? Or just dead men walking? I can spare coin if you’re in need of the money, information for gold."[/color]

He let his hand rest casually near the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder that information was usually cheaper than the alternative. [color=#6ecff6]"And maybe,"[/color] he added, his eyes flicking back to the unconscious Slate, [color=#6ecff6]"if your friend wakes up, tell him to stop shielding arrows with his body. It's bad for business."[/color]

There were a lot of things for the damaged duo to wrap their heads around, or rather, a lot for Haia to wrap his head around. The open disclosure of Siegfried’s own information, the openness of offering a mercenary’s advice, and even the offer of exchanging coin, none other than gold — sparked Haia’s mood into a much more social one.

The southern man patted his wounded friend one final time before standing to approach Siegfried properly, extending out a black leather-encrusted hand out towards him to be shaken or not, it wouldn’t make a difference either way. [b]”We’re not from anywhere in particular, the two of are members of Dante’s Vigil, a big company of hired-hands but we’re spread out.”[/b]

Haia’s opposite hand then floated upward with an extended arm to point southeast, over the walls of Blackpebble before he spoke. [b]”Our last job brought us back from the south, we were sent to rescue the child of a mageblood noble. Not from the royal lineage, Serpentis, the family that’s been on edge with the King’s niece.”[/b] 

The southern mercenary then drops that same arm that pointed down to his leg and pulls a bloodied knife from the boot sheathe it was concealed within. It was bloodied but the stench was different, the blood had still not hardened to tarnish the dagger’s steel. Haia’s hand that extended out to shake Sieg’s would then retract to tap his gloved fingertip to the blood, and once the crimson liquid touched the surface of his leather it would begin to sizzle and steam like a chemical reaction.

[b]”The twelve year old didn’t make it, whoever wanted the kid dead paid an ox’s weight in platinum to send more than a handful of assassins for him. We lost two fellow company men just making it back safely, but once I deliver this same information I’m giving you to Dante.. he’ll probably dispatch some more of us down there, maybe even go himself.”[/b] There was a look of confusion on Haia’s face, and being from the south, he should’ve had just as much if not more knowledge on poisons than Siegfried did. The strange effect that the blood had on his glove, but not the steel?.. was strange to say the least.

[b]”I think whatever poison they used is some corrosive that only affects biological materials, but it’s what Slate got shot with. We don’t have any remedies for acid in your blood— anyway, we did not come across any western shitheads on our way up. You usually see them along the western border, but mage knights travel around so it’s always a gamble. But if you’re not wearing a target on your back, you should be fine, right?”[/b] The crooked smile of Haia was warm, a few of his gold teeth were showing in the back of his grin where coin had been paid to replace ivory that had been knocked out over the years.

Siegfried regarded the extended hand for a moment, his ice-blue eyes flicking from it to Haia's face. He didn't shake it. Instead, he gave a curt nod, the mercenary's equivalent of a handshake. [color=#6ecff6]"Dante's Vigil. Heard of them. Good company. Never worked with them though."[/color]

He listened as Haia spoke, his expression unchanging even as the southern man pointed southeast and dropped the bomb about the Serpentis family. Mageblood nobles squabbling with the King's niece? That was a powder keg waiting for a spark. Siegfried filed it away, his mind already connecting dots to rumors he'd heard in the tavern.

When Haia pulled the bloodied dagger and demonstrated its effect on his glove, Siegfried's attention sharpened. The sizzle, the steam, it was unnatural. Not fire, not acid in the conventional sense. He leaned closer, careful not to touch it himself. [color=#6ecff6]"Corrosive to the living,"[/color] he murmured, more observation than question.

He straightened up, fishing a small pouch from his belt. He tossed it onto Slate's unconscious chest with a soft thunk. [color=#6ecff6]"That's for his care,"[/color] Siegfried said flatly. [color=#6ecff6]"Tell Slate he owes me a drink when he wakes. If he wakes up."[/color] He didn’t give his own name. 

Turning back to Haia, he fixed those unnerving eyes on him. [color=#6ecff6]"When you say 'the King', southern royal lineage, or northern? Royal lineage can mean many things depending on where in the world you are, but if a niece was involved, I need to know whose niece we're talking about."[/color]

He paused, then nodded at the dagger. [color=#6ecff6]"Can I have that? The bloodied one. Never seen anything like it, biological selective corrosion. And..."[/color] He jerked his head toward the door where Brigitte and her group had gone. [color=#6ecff6]"Just took a job hunting mages who might have tricks like this up their sleeves. Could be useful. Sample for the apothecary, or whatever passes for one out here."[/color]

He held out his hand, palm up, waiting. His tone was casual, but there was steel beneath it, the kind that said he wouldn't press if refused, but he'd remember.

As he waited, Siegfried's mind raced. A poison that ate flesh but not steel? That changed how you fought. Arrows dipped in it would punch through armor and melt the man inside. Nasty. Luxun work? Or something new from the Serpentis labs? Either way, it was another reason to sharpen his blades tonight.

[b]“Vigil’s a good bunch despite their, uh— unsavory exterior, Dante’s from that oldblood village where they used to practice necromancy. But he’s a good leader, hates the king.”[/b] Haia shook his head with a smile before looking at the blood as Siegfried spoke of it.

“It’s chemical, which is weird, no aura involved in the slightest. But southern folk and alchemy go hand in hand, I would know.” •[/b] He snickered and shifted his weight, leaning forward to take the mystery pouch from Slate’s chest with a thankful short bow for Sieg and offering a few quiet.  [b] “Winds at your back friend.”[/b] A southern phrase of gratitude.

The mention of ‘what King’ was the last thing Haia would address before extending the blade out to the mage hunter, winking at the man. [b] “We all know there’s only ‘one’ king.. the Mage King of Luxu. And it was a quarrel with his niece, the one with a penchant for— working with alchemists and apothecaries. Take the blade though, I know you’re a reputable hunter of magi but I’d like to give our boss your name.”[/b]

Siegfried watched Haia take the pouch, his expression neutral, though those unsettling eyes cataloged every nuance of the man’s reaction. Chemical. No aura. 

When Haia winked and extended the blade, mentioning the "Mage King" and his niece, a muscle in Siegfried’s jaw tightened. The niece. A lover of alchemy and apothecaries. He stored that information away, locking it down tight. That was a thread worth pulling later. A name attached to a method.

He looked at the offered blade, then back up at Haia’s face. The man wanted a name for his boss. Fair enough. Reputation was currency in this trade, and Siegfried’s account was long overdue for a deposit with the right people.

He reached out, his hand engulfing the hilt of the weapon as he took it from Haia. The weight felt familiar, balanced. It would do.

[color=#6ecff6]"Siegfried,"[/color] he said, the name rumbling low in his chest like distant thunder. He didn't offer a surname. Aschwin was for official contracts and ghosts of the past; Siegfried was enough for a message passed between mercenaries in the dark.

He gave a single, curt nod, acknowledging the gratitude and the unspoken understanding between professionals. [color=#6ecff6]"Tell your boss Siegfried sends his regards. And tell him..."[/color] A cold, mirthless smile touched his lips, barely there. [color=#6ecff6]"...tell him if he finds any information about why she was wanted dead, I'm buying."[/color]

With that, he turned, sliding the new blade into his belt with practiced ease, already scanning the horizon, his mind moving on to the hunt. The winds might be at his back, but the storm was always ahead.

[b]”Siegfried,”[/b] The southern man melted back down to meet his unconscious friend on the floor, his right arm flopping over to rest on the upper of Slate’s back.

[b]”I’ll be certain to tell him. Wind at your back, Sieg.”[/b] Haia raised two fingers with his left hand and put them to his own forehead before yanking them away for a half-assed salute.

Siegfried returned the salute with a nod of his own. He held Haia's gaze for a second longer, a silent acknowledgment that the transaction was complete, before turning his back on the alley's shadows. The cold night air bit at his face, smelling of snow and old stone, but he barely registered it. His mind was already turning over the new information: Vigil, Dante, necromancy, chemical signatures, the King's niece, all pieces of a puzzle he hadn't known he was building.

He pushed the heavy door of the Stone's Throw open, the warmth and noise of the tavern washing over him instantly. It was a jarring transition, from the quiet menace of the alley to the boisterous, drunken life inside. He stepped through, letting the door swing shut behind him, cutting off the night.

As he moved through the crowd, he reached behind him, fingers finding the empty loop at the back of his belt. With a fluid, practiced motion, he slid the new dagger into place. It settled snugly against the small of his back, a cold, hard reassurance against his spine. Another tool for the work. Another edge for the fight. The blood though… that got him thinking.

The hunt was never truly over. He needed another drink. And then, he needed to think about how much damage a chemical-loving princess could really do.