The morning Krios arrives in Denerim
The rising son painted the skies over Denerim a dull red, the colour of bad blood. Fitting, Faen thought to himself as he padded the cobbled streets through the morning dew. Blood had stained his clothes and left his hands sticky. It was a small consolation that none of it was his. Worse was his cloak, little more than a tattered, charred rag now. It wasn't even fit to wipe a table any more. He arrived at the Midnight Mabari, the inn and tavern he had been calling home since arriving in the city, shortly after dawn.
Already the owner, a portly, middle-aged Antivan immigrant with a thick moustache and a thicker accent named Andros, was awake and at work, kneading dough for the days bread. The assassin spoke a little with Andros, the Antivan trying to look like he hadn't noticed the blood, and in his efforts made more of an issue of it. The inn-keeper knew of Faen's profession, but allowed him to stay and operate regardless. Why, Faen wasn't sure, but he had a feeling it was related to Andros' self imposed exile to Fereldan. Perhaps he had run a foul of the Crows, and thought that having an assassin of his own living under his roof might help keep him alive. If that was the case then Andros' assumption was doubtful, as Faen had been unable to protect Marco from the Crows.
The assassin asked for one of the baths to be filled, they being a major feature that attracted him to the Midnight Mabari in the first place. Soon enough he was sitting in a brass tub in the Mabari's cellar, scrubbing hot, perfumed water into his skin to cleanse himself of the dirt, grime and blood. The dirt and the grime was easy enough to clean, but the blood, though long since washed from his skin, would stain him for a great time longer.
After the bath he gave his soiled clothes to Andros, asking for them to be cleaned and repaired. The cloak he was forced to throw out. A quick change later and he was back in the Mabari's tavern, sitting in his corner table and swigging from a glass of strong, golden spirit, the bottle sitting in easy reach. His body was tired after the night's exertions, but he knew sleep wouldn't come yet. He could lay down in his bed, yes, and close his eyes in a hope for the sweet relief of dreams, but he knew that if he did instead of sleep all he would get would be visions of Tiny Ivan, and Caleb Losthill, and the mage Whisperwood, and a dozen nameless guards he had killed like sheep led to a slaughter. Their ghosts would press him for weeks to come, pushing and prodding at him until they slowly faded to join the rest of the quiet dead he had been cause of in the back of his subconscious.
He flirted idly with Andros' newest barmaid, a pretty young red head, sweet in a demure fashion, but his heart wasn't in it. He wasn't in the mood for another insipid, middle classed city girl, especially not with the darkness on him. Instead he sent for Rat.
Rat was a con artist, cut purse, and street urchin, in that order. Faen couldn't remember when or where he had met the young thief, but that hardly mattered. Rat reminded him of himself when he was younger, someone to smart to be destined to live out his life in the gutters, so he gave him odd jobs to earn a bit of coin, hoping the boy would live long enough to get off the streets without making the same mistakes he had.
Two hours passed before the lad sauntered in, whistling a jaunty tune to himself.
"Awright Faen, whats the emergency." He demanded with the casual arrogance only the young posses.
"Murder, Rat. That's the emergency." Was the nonchalant answer.
"Andraste wept. Who's murder!" Faen had his full attention now.
"Caleb Losthills. He came a foul of the good merchants of Denerim, and so met his end by an assassin's blade. Mine, in case you were curious. That's not why I called you here though. I need a job done." As he spoke the assassins hand delved into the purse at his side, to pull free two gold sovereigns, a princely sum in the eyes of Rat. He placed the two coins flat down in the centre of the table, midway between himself and the thief.
"What kind of job?" Rat's suspicions were aroused, but his hunger for the gold showed in the edge on his voice.
"I need you to get the word out that Jeffers Sanderton, the goldsmith in the North Square, betrayed the other merchants and I. He met with Caleb and told him of the plans they made to have him murdered, and the night I planned to do it. He did this for free protection and a sack of gold. Tell everyone I still killed Caleb regardless, and his guards, and his pet wizard, and now I'm spitting mad and ready for more blood. You do that, and you get the gold." It sounded an easy job, and truth be told it was. But it was also an important one. People needed to think of Faen as a cold hearted killer, otherwise they'd lose their respect, and more importantly their fear of him. He'd rather not have to kill Jeffers, as their was enough blood on his conscience for now, but equally he had to show that people couldn't just get away with betraying him. This way Jeffers would find out that he'd be rumbled and hopefully run for his life, negating Faen's need to kill him while also instilling a healthy respect for his temper in any other future clients.
Rat's hand crept towards the gold. "And that's all I have to do?"
"That's all. Now take the gold and go." The boy had snatched up the coins and was half way out of the Mabari before Faen could blink, leaving him to his drink, and his thoughts, and his ghosts.
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