((Hop in if you want, Jaz.))

IC:

Rhyl'drin was not exceptionally agile, and had already nearly fallen off the rooftops of Lómëdor twice. Falling to an honorless death into the square seemed like the worst way to go- Rhyl'drin could already imagine it. People flocking from the entire plaza to gawk at his bloodied corpse lying like a pancake- he gritted his teeth and dug his boots in, determined to not make it a reality.

He had been trailing Renald, the son of a Duke, for a day and a half; ever since he'd been hired for the job by a half Elf at the Wilwarin inn. Rhyl'drin had spied his every action from a distance- the man was always on the move, it seemed. Still, despite a day of observing his target, Rhyl'drin felt uneasy. The man, despite his high profile, seemed to have no bodyguards. The Drow spy was usually able to spot even a discrete body guard trailing his charge, but so far, this Duke's son appeared to have none.

Rather foolish of them, he thought. If he's as loose with his tongue as the half Elf says and I were him, I would have hired a body guard long ago.

Catching the man would be easy enough- he was in a constant state of drunkeness, and he consorted with enough women every night that it was doubtful he'd remember all of them. It'd just be too easy to hire one of them to cut his throat in bed... but Rhyl'drin didn't like leaving a sloppy mess behind. He hadn't had a chance to ask his client how he wanted it done, so Rhyl'drin assumed that discretion would do best.

Rhyl'drin squinted at his mark as the man entered a tavern on the edge of the square. From within, Rhyl'drin could discern the sounds of loud music and either a very happy crowd, or a riot. The man had frequented the same pub the day before... perhaps it was a habit of his, Rhyl'drin thought.

The Dark Elf grinned. A plan was forming in his mind already. With any luck, the mark would be dead before sunrise, and Rhyl'drin would be able to collect his payment the following night.

"Now, where did I put that poison?"

A pair of free lancers, a half-elf and a middle-aged human, didn't follow a loud band of drunken young nobles into a hipatrendy tavern. It was in the nicer side of the city of Lomedor, away from the more desperate and shady parts of the city. The streets and store fronts were either new or in very good repair, and few of the residents sullied their doorways with refuse as was the custom in the older quarters. Carriages, the lavish transport of the upper class, filled the roads with traffic, not throngs of commoners, and the people who did walk the streets wore exquisite outfits, not just torn wool rags.

The two took up position near the door, standing under the establishment's awning. Not only were the mercenaries not of the proper social class to hobnob along side the elites, they weren't getting paid to do it either. Passing off the nobles to somebody else's responsibility was their primary concern.

"So where's our guy?" Weneclaus demanded as he huddled over to light his pipe. Smoke rose like a cloud around the older man's head, "I thought you said he was going to show up by now."

"The Drow?" The green haired half-elf shrugged, leaning against the frame on the opposite side of the door. "He hasn't been by to pick up any money yet, so I'd imagine he's still thinking it over."

The older man huffed out a large plume of greyish pipe smoke. "Well, as long as the money hasn't started to disappear. But try to find him and tell him to hurry up. This punk seems to get worse all the time. Someone's going to stick him with a knife, and I don't feel like being around when it happens."

The half-elf shrugged again, this time in agreement with his compatriots sentiments. "Roger that, boss."

Where is that guy?

Rhyl'drin was glad to be back on the ground again. It'd taken a bit, but after an hour or so, he'd finally found everything he needed for the task at hand. Rhyl'drin's bag sagged with the weight of his "equipment"- it was an unfortunate give-away, but Rhyl'drin was no master of disguise. He was under no illusions- he'd have to rely on a sharp tongue and his diplomacy skills to get to his target.

The tavern Renald had entered was conveniently equipped with a back door, but it lead right through the kitchen. Rhyl'drin was not foolish enough to think he could sneak past a kitchen full of guards- here, covert action would only draw suspicion. So, the Drow did the exact opposite- he walked right into the back door, making his approach obvious with extra heavy foot steps. It wasn't hard to fake- the bag he bore carried him down heavily.

Once inside, he looked for the nearest server, bartender, or similar attendant. He found a fellow rushing into the kitchen with a tray full of empty mugs to be washed. Rhyl'drin looked at the water they were washing them in and grimaced- the well water was so filthy after repeated use, they would have been better off just refilling them immediately and skipping the washing step.

"You there, hey, yes you." The Drow let real disdain for the surface dweller become apparent in his voice. "I have a special delivery, just came in. For that chap Renald, straight from his father's court." Opening the bag, he revealed several bottles full of fine wine and brandy. Inside, Rhyl'drin ached for the loss of such beautiful vintages, but he was certain he could get more once he'd succeeded here. Indeed... he would live richly after this. And then he could laugh at the pang of regret he felt for losing these few bottles.

The serving man nodded and gingerly took the bottles out. "Oh, and one thing." He pointed out the best bottle of the bunch, a sweet mellow red wine grown far out along the west coast. "This one is especially for Renald only. Tell him it's the best- I'm sure he'll enjoy it." He smiled cordially 9all a facade). "You might try a drink for oyurself, before you get it to him. It's well worth it, friend- tastes like the sunrise."

The server mumbled a thank you and then with the hint of a devilish grin went off to taste the wine.

Went off to taste his death.

In a few hours, he'll be gone, and by then it will be too late for the Duke's son. The Drow spared a look into the main tavern room, where the young noble and his companions were having quite a time. "A shame too- I think I might have liked that fellow."

"What's that?" asked the waiter.

"Oh, don't mind me," Rhyl'drin replied, smiling. He noted the red tint on the waiter's lips. "How was it?"

"Oh, it was to die for."

Jaz and Weneclaus were playing dice when the excitement began. A young maitre'de burst through the door waving his arms frantically. The two mercenaries, not knowing what the situation was, stopped the youth, and inquired as to what, exactly, was going on.

The boy related a strange tale about how, moments ago, a cook was found dead in the supply closet. Appearently, he had been in their for at least and hour, several other cooks had mistakenly believed that he had taken a break, and thus didn't even check on him.

Immediately, Jaz and Weneclaus made eye contact.

"Renalt..." The said in unison.

The pair blasted the door off its hinges as they crashed into the upscale tavern. They found themselves staring into the eyes of a very startled group of luxuriously attired atristocratic teenagers. They were all wearing fancy masques, the sorts of things one would expect the idle rich to find entertaining. The females of their group seemed to instictually slink behind the males, though the males were of dubious defensive value as they seemed disinclined to engage the pair of armed intruders as well. The hole lot of them looked to have imbibed their fare share of alcohol that evening.

"Extreme!" A drunken male with a crewcut shouted for some reason.

"Where's Renault?" Wene roared back with enough force to make the youth flinch.

"He went to the closet to use the chamber-pot," A young lady with silky black hair offered, "He said he was feeling sick."

Jaz bounded off to the kitchen, intending to secure the rear exit, while Wene headed to find the duke's son.

The half-elf found the body of the cook, exactly as the head waiter had promised, curled up in a fetal position on top of several bags of flower in the supply closet. The alley way, however, was utterly empty. Jaz hissed at his luck.

"Hey Jaz," Wene shouted into the kitchen from the main room.

"Yeah?" Jaz shouted back, keeping his eyes searching for movement.

"I think you can relax your guard now."

"Did you find him?"

"In a technical sense."

It didn't take an archmage to figure out what had he meant. "Great," Jaz moaned sarcastically, "Should I go and find the warden?"

"That would probably be a good idea."

Back at his room in the Wilwarin Inn, Rhyl'drin could barely contain his excitement. The plan had gone off without a single hitch; as far as Rhyl'drin knew, the only witness, the only one who could have identified him as the assassin who delivered the wine, was dead, and the young noble would probably be curled up in a fetal position right now, living out the last moments of life in complete agony (if he wasn't dead already).

Rhyl'drin held up the vial of poison he had used to fill the wine- "Excellent. Still plenty left." He carefully put the beaker of vile liquid into his dresser, concealing it beneath the faux-bottom of the drawer, and adding a few spare cloaks and tunics over that. Just in case he had been trailed, he wanted to know he had it well hidden. The hiding spot would certainly not go unnoticed in an extended search, but the time an investigator might spend finding it would give him a head start in getting away, or maybe even retrieving the bottle first to secret it on his person.

The dark Elf poured himself a glass of brandy and took a sip, letting the liquid embrace his throat with it's warmth as it descended. "Ah, just right. Love this Salquedor brew- only thing better would be straight out of the Underdark."

Outside, the sun was just under the horizon, with the dark shadows of the night turning to gray hues. Soon the town would be alive with the news of a noblemen found dead; hopefully Rhyl'drin would be able to wait out the storm here in the Inn. Later that night, he could go down to the tavern below, meet the half-Elf, collect his fee, and then be on his way to the next job.

Jaz and Weneclaus were left standing at parade rest in the office of the Chief Warden for over an hour as he verbally railed at them. Both Jaz and Wene were mercenaries, brought up in their profession through a variety of different military and paramilitary training courses, so the drill sergeant style berating wasn't that big of a concern for them.

With eyes fixed straight ahead they refused to flinch as the Chief of Lomedor's security forces exhausted himself in a seemingly endless tirade of verbal abuse. The Chief Warden, a heavy set individual with a curling mustache and a receding hairline, was outfitted in his City Guard uniform, complete with a polished steel breastplate engraved with the Lomedor coat of arms. Tassles linked armor with a pair of gaudy epaulettes

"Why is it every time I leave you two spit turds in charge..."

"Now I've got the MAYOR breathing down my neck..."

"How could you dunderheads possibly screw this one up..."

"You think this is a JOKE? Do you think this is a GAME...."

"Your lucky I don't take your freakin' HEADS as collateral..."

"I outta have both of your badges..."

Jaz almost smirked at that one. Almost. He was a mercenary, it wasn't as if he had much of a retirement incentive to worry about were they to pull his warrant bond.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE!"

The pair stiffened to a position of attention, rendered their salutes, about faced and silently marched out the door.

Once safely out of earshot of the Chief Warden, the pair lightened up, reducing their martial posture to an easy trot. As they walked out of the Lomedor City Guard headquarters, Weneclaus pulled out his pipe, inserted some tobacco and lit up.

"Well, that could have gone worse," Jaz observed. Weneclaus snorted in reply.

After a moment of reflection, the human spoke. "I think you should hop down to the bank. I'm guessing that he will eventually remember to get his money back."

"Might even be a good idea. What should I do with it once I get it?"

"Bring it to my room at the Wilwarin. I'll be there by the time you get there. Right now I'm going to go find Sadruin and let him know what the story is. We might need to lay low for a while until this blows over."

Jaz nodded in assent and the two parted ways, headed in opposite directions down the boulevard, each thinking about what, exactly, they could have done to make this whole thing turn out differently.

((OOC: Sorry for the delay, had trouble getting a lot of computer time.))

The Wilwarin Inn

Rhyl'drin was glad that the Wilwarin Inn was not so crowded today. Some nights, it was an absolute riot in there; almost every time that happened, Rhyl'drin regretted having chosen it for his base of operations. It was easy to avoid eavesdroppers and to blend in here, but sometimes all the shouting, flying barstools, and the wall of noise just gave him a headache.

The Drow had chosen a table along the center of one of the walls- he sat with his back to the wall. Two glasses sat empty on the table- one close to him, and the other across from at the empty chair. Any moment now, his contact would come into the Inn, congratulate him, and pay him for a job well done.

But, just in case that didn't happen, there was always a back up plan...

The glass across from him was not, in fact, empty at all. At the very bottom sat a few drops of a clear, tasteless poison. Rhyl'drin had gone to great lengths to learn the recipe and collect the necessary ingredients for the deadly substance. In it's normal form, it was deadly within a few minutes of being ingested or otherwise introduced to the blood stream. The Drow had carefully diluted and remixed a bit for this particular purpose- it was not enough to kill the person who drank it, but after about fifteen minutes, they'd be getting the chance to taste their dinner a second time. It was unpleasant, but not deadly.

If things went well, Rhyl'drin could spill the glass, tip it, or otherwise find an excuse for getting a new glass. If the contact gave any problems... all Rhyl'drin had to do was suggest they take a drink to calm themselves, fill it up from his personal brandy stock he carried on his person, and in a few minutes, he could take his payment without any problem.

Hopefully, though, it would not come to that. Rhyl'drin watched the door intently, hoping that each person who entered would turn out to be his employer.

Jaz kicked accumulated sludge from his boots as he entered the tavern. Leveraging the heavy backpack onto his right shoulder, he pushed through the heavy wooden door. His senses were immediately assaulted into overload as a thick wave of noise and a thicker wall of smells as he entered. Smoke, from dozens of lit pipes blended with the pungent odor of stale beer and cooking meats to create a noxious smell that one's nose had to adjust to. The eyes and ears faced similar challenges, as the dim atmosphere of the pub was left one blinded after a walk to through the bright city streets, while the deafening roars of laughter and converations played havoc with the eardrums.

Even in the middle of the afternoon, the Wilwarin was busy. Like any good tavern worth its name, it served as a cheap restaurant food in addition to simply assortment of alcoholic beverages. A good pick-me-up for the hard working craftsmen or weiry travelers. Jaz pushed his way through the clutter of patrons as they idly conversated amongst themselves, headed for the stairs that lead to the rented apartment housing that was the upper floors of the building. A decent and well maintained establishment with reasonable prices, it was popular across the vast economic spectrum of Lomedor's population.

Now, what was Wene's room number?

The half-elf faced a struggle to keep his bag from clinking as he tried to remember the address of his comrade's apartment. In addition to the other trinkety baubles that he usually kept crammed in his backpack, it carried a heavy load of gold coins that had been intended to keep the now late young noble safe.

According to the plan, Jaz's employer, Weneclaus would be waiting for him. But if not, he could always kill time at the bar. The safe annonymity of the thronging crowd would enable him to blend in until the higher ranking mercenary arrived.

Jaz's eyes swept over the swirling scene around him. Waitresses scurried to fill orders, while the bartender wiped down the long oak bar. Numerous other patrons engaged themselves in banter, card games or arm wrestling contests.

One figure, however, stood out from the rest of the mundane barroom antics. Seated calm and collected at a table for two, a shady looking fellow seemed to be following the half-elf with his eyes. It was no trouble identifying him as a Drow, white hair and charcoal black skin was an obvious giveaway. For Jaz, however, to whom all Drow looked the pretty much the same, the man's identity the tough part to figure out.

Jaz had only met him a few weeks before and so it didn't take too long to dawn on the mercenary that this was the fellow that he had contracted to defend Renald.

Pushing through the crowd, Jaz fought his way to the dark-elf's table. He took up position to the side of the table, bracing himself with his left arm as he leaned over to speak with the would have been bodyguad

"Where the hell have you been?" Jaz practically shouted at the demure drow, "The damn kid is dead now! What took so long? When you said three days I thought you'd be on it, not sitting here drinking the afternoon away like a sailor!"

Rhyl'drin was just about to order a plate when the half-elf finally made his entrance. He bore a cumbersome pack and was still armed. The man seemed to recoil slightly upon immersion into the din of the tavern; Rhyl'drin did not get up to meet him, but waited for the half-elf to come to him. Their eyes met- the man hesitated,t hen strode purposefully towards Rhyl'drin. Surprisingly, his face seemed to project anything but satisfaction.

Perhaps he wanted a more public, gruesome hit he though. In a few seconds, he'd realize how truly wrong he had been.

"Where the hell have you been?" the man shouted at Rhyl'drin, once he had reached the table. Must have reallywanted it public. "The damn kid is dead now! What took so long? When you said three days I thought you'd be on it, not sitting here drinking the afternoon away like a sailor!"

Rhyl'drin hesitated a second. He fought to keep the confusion from showing in his face, and he kept his voice steady so that it wouldn't betray his inner doubt. Either something's wrong, or I've got a basket case client was his first though. His eyes flicked for a fraction of a second to the man's sword. He weighed his options- rush for his dagger, try and kill the man now and ask questions later. Invite him up to his room to explain things, grab his spear and stab the fellow. Neither seemed to have any chance of success.

He'd waited too long. He didn't have even a few seconds to think about a response- even with the lightning fast thought process in his mind, creating, evaluating, refining or discarding plans, he couldn't plan for everything now. It was too late for that. He'd already waited several seconds to reply- a few more and his contact would be suspicious of him, though clearly he already was. Rhyl'drin hit on the next plan he thought of- it was a gamble, but it was the best thing for now.

"Friend, friend, slow down... I think there's been some misunderstanding." He let enough emotion creep into his voice for it to seem believable. "I'm... I must be missing something here." He motioned at the seat in front of him. "Please, sit, and talk." he said, motioning for the bartender. He didn't dare let his eyes go to the bottom of the glass with the diluted poison- everything relied on him being able to delay this man, to buy the Drow spy more time to figure out what had happened.

"Have a drink with me."

Jaz was taken aback by the drow's reaction to his accusation of incompetence. Though the dark elf's cool intellect clearly tried to mask any visible reaction, the slight edginess of the eyebrows and darting eyes betrayed a mind spinning into high gear. Not out of dismay so much as surprise, a concern about Jaz's aggressive hostility more than fear of punishment for wrongdoing. When the man failed to immediately respond with any sort of prepared witicism, it was Jaz's mind that found itself on the defensive.

Is it possible that he does not know what happened to Renald?

It was difficult to believe, of course. Renald was the nephew of a prominent Duke, and many corners of the town were abuzz with idle spectulation about the nature of his passing inspite of the attempts by the Wardens and city authorities to keep the matter under wraps.

Once again, Jaz found himself contemplating the dark elf. Lean, like most drow, his body bespoke a physical inclination towards speed rather than sheer power. He seemed to posess a mind as cagey as his reflexes, which would no doubt make for a difficult fight for any attacker, landing telling, critical strikes rather than crushing hammer blows. As with the first time Jaz had met the dark-elf, Jaz found himself wondering why it was that this fellow was the one that had been selected as the prospective bodyguard for the late young noble.

The dark elf jestured to the opposite seat and asked Jaz to share a drink. A difficult offer to turn down, and an awkward one for the drow to offer had he intented harm. The half elf shrugged, sliding the backpack off his shoulder and wedging it beneath his chair. Promply sitting down, Jaz noticed the glass sitting in front of him.

"Expecting company?" The half elf asked, nodding to the empty glass. After six years of hanging around with the routinely bad-mannered pirates of the EETC, Jaz knew better than to drink from another man's mug. With alcohol being a commodity on a long trip, possessive individuals often spat into or otherwise befouled their bottles to deny others the opportuntity to drink from them. Paranoia about unclaimed utensils had pratically become an involuntary reflex for the mercenary.

When the bartender comes, I'll ask him for a new glass

Jaz cut straight to business, reviewing facts for the Drow. "Renald is dead. They know it was poison, but only because the only eyewitness died of the same cause about half an hour prior. My employer and I spent about four hours with the Chief Warden this afternoon. You must have heard something, the whole town is buzzing about it. The Warden is trying to keep a lid on it all, but you know how the rumor mill works. Soon they'll be saying it was a necromantic demon cult."

The realization hit home like a dwarven war-hammer to the chest. It had been on the back of his mind since the man's violent initial outburst, but it just seemed too terrible to contemplate, like the worst case scenario. Yet now, there was no denying it. Something terrible had happened, a miscommunication of disastrous proportion.

He didn't want Renald dead at all.

The Drow's mind spun in a whirlpool of confusion, thoughts racing from one to the other with out completing the first. If this wasn't the contact he'd been intended to meet, who was? Was the real contact still looking for him? And if this man didn't want the Duke's son dead, what had he wanted?

He could run- throw the table up in the man's face, dart for his room. He could climb out of his window, get his horse, be gone in a few minutes with the man still banging on his door or trying to break it down. But what then? At least for a few months, he'd be unable to work in Lomedor after such a ruckus. His reputation would be toast- he'd have to start at the bottom again. No. I'm not going back to that- no more spying on promiscuous wives. No more getting blackmail for rival shop owners.

Underneath the table, Rhyl'drin's left hand rested on the hilt of his concealed dagger under the fold of his cloak. He unsheathed it slowly, using only his wrist so that the motion was nearly undetectable, timing the action with an especially boisterous laugh from the opposite end of the room. Hopefully the metallic ring of the blade against the sheath went unheard against the din of the tavern. Rhyl'drin immediately felt at ease even as he began to draw the weapon- though it was certainly nothing against the man's sword, Rhyl'drin had the first strike opportunity, if it came to that. If the man was mad enough. After all, the Drow, seated against the back wall, could easily sit there with his weapon at the ready. The half-elf would draw decidedly more attention dining with a sword in his hand.

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to violence. The half-elf's response to the next few words Rhyl'drin spoke could change everything.

"What, exactly," Rhyl'drin asked slowly, "did you hire me to do?"

What? Is this guy stupid?

The two questions floated in Jaz's head as possible reasons why the dark elf had asked his question. Either that, or he thought Jaz was mentally handicapped. Why, exactly, he would plead ignorance at this point was beyond Jaz's ability to understand. Perhaps a long history of narcotics or alcohol abuse. Or too many blows to the head. The distracted look of confusion in the Drow's eyes led the half-elf to assume that he was honestly in need of direction. Which, of course, could be all be a calculated ruse.

Is he trying to insult me?

Suddenly, Jaz became very aware of his surroundings, concious of the small bundle of gold coins in the bag beneath his chair. If the dark elf had compatriots to assist him, it would take little effort to steal the gold. Fortunately, the Drow was seated with his back against the wall. Slightly above the drow's head, mounted on the wall behind him, was a polished bronze shield, undoubtedly a donation by a warrior patron at some point in the Wilwarin's ancient past. In it, Jaz could see the rest of the room without even taking his eyes off the drow. Fortunately, there did not appear that anyone was taking an unhealthy interest in the two mercenaries' private chat.

"I'd imagine," Jaz remarked suspiciously in response to the Drow's question, "That you would clearly remember Weneclaus when he arranged the meeting with you. He was the one who hammered out the details of your tasks as a bodyguard for the Chief Warden of Lomedor. I was merely to give you the name of the person you were to protect. If you had some sort of problem understanding the mission, you should probably talk to Wene about it again. You might want to patch things up with him if you intend to work in this town again."

Jaz leaned back in his chair as a waitress approached and took drink orders. Not wanting to drink someone else's backwash, he handed the serving girl the unused mug that he had found waiting for him, and asked her to bring a new one filled with ale. He then turned back to the drow, who otherwise didn't seem to be suffering from short term memory loss.

The issue became clearer with each word. Rhyl'drin couldn't believe it as each revelation hit home with increasing force. He'd been fearing it, but now it was clear- this half-elf and his "job" had not even been meant for the Drow. Bodyguard? Protect? It was too bad to be true. This was a nightmare- he'd had some bad soup, or the well water was dirty, and it was disturbing his dreams.

Rhyl'drin tried to will himself awake, but failed.

His instinct was to run, like always. With any luck he could come back, off the half-el who'd gotten him into the whole mess, and hope that his reputation as an information had not been tarnished. Not that it meant anything- no one knew his real name or what he really looked like- but he'd worked hard to create a persona, a reputation of the whisper of a ghost. A colossal screw-up like this- it would cost him everything, and it would be back to square one.

[i]This has to work for me. There has to be some way this can work out for the best.[/] The wheels of his mind turned at their familiar faster-than-light-speed, working furiously to focus all of Rhyl'drin's diplomatic expertise on the singular goal of breaking the bad news to his "employer", and putting such a positive spin on the situation that everything would work out.

The spy didn't wait for the bartender he'd summoned. Tonight called for something a little stronger than the homebrew, and his personal stock of Underdark brandy was perfect for the job at hand. He drained his glass with dual intent: to buy himself that extra second of time without giving the half elf reason to worry, and for that familiar pain-numbing buzz. For the first few months on the surface, Rhyl'drin had been no stranger to strong drink; even to this day, when so much counted on him being precise and calculating with every waking action, he often found comfort in the warm embrace of a strong ale.

The Drow took a long sigh, then began his explanation. "I'm afraid that my contact and you are two very different people- and your contact and myself equally dissimilar."

He let the statement hang in the air a bit for continuing, giving both of them the opportunity to thoroughly digest the implications of the foul up.

" 'The weather's been meaner than a half demon lately' was our signal to meet. Unhappy chance that you should have uttered the very same words. We were never meant to meet, but our luck- or lack thereof- had our ways cross in such a manner where... well, to say I misinterpreted your 'job' would be an enormous understatement then."

He took another drink.

"I imagine you and I alike are in some serious trouble, here in Lomedor at least. Both our professions rely on a clean job, you understand. But...." he trailed off, took another shot and shrugged. "Well, it might be wishful thinking, but I think I know a way where both of us can come out with at least our heads on our necks, if not our professional pride in tact. Hopefully that's incentive enough to prevent you from just using that dingy sword on your hip and lopping my head off for poisoning your boy."

The drow's last four words hit Jaz like a sack of bricks. The half-elf slumped back in his chair, letting the swirling imagery dance through his head. Time seemed to slow down, then stop all together. The chaotic din of the pub that moments ago he had struggled to hear over drowned away into dull background clutter. The whole world seemed to compress, until it included only himself, alone with his thoughts.

Suddenly, he felt vey exposed and vulnerable.

As the dark elf spoke, he had painted a picture of a potentially understandable screw up. He wasn't the one that Weneclaus had been waiting for. That alone would have been no significant hurdle to overcome. Jaz had little personally involved in this fiasco, a single mission failure was as inevitably unavoidable as success. Win some, lose some. Yes, the poor imprudent noble was dead, and that was regrettable, but aside from a few weeks of playing ring-around-the-Chief Warden, it would all blow over eventually, and there would be other missions to perform.

"...for poisoning your boy."

The words echoed over and over again in Jaz's mind, each time seeming to grow louder and more defined. There was no mistake. Jaz's mouth moved, but the words and questions did not escape.

Not only was he sitting across the table from a muderer, an assassin even, but Jaz himself was the one that recruited the man. He was not simply invovled, nor even just an accessory. He was now a conspirator. If the Chief Warden discovered this tid bit, he'd be arrested and might even be charged with being the mastermind of the entire situation.

Concerns about contract money evaporated, replaced with concerns over dungeons and gallows.

Jaz's eyes flashed into motion, scanning the pub to see if anyone else could have possibly heard the Dark Elf's words. A sense of sickness gripped his chest like a sharp hug, draining the air from his lungs. He felt dizzy, the world spinning in orbit around him. He leaned forward, dropping an elbow onto the table top. He lowered his head so that he could support it in his right hand. He ran the fingers of his left hand through his green hair, hoping that somehow inspiration would flood into his mind.

It didn't.

There would be no easy way out of this one, no half-arsed excuses. If anyone found out about this colossal mix up, they would both be dead men walking. The obvious threat of the Chief Warden and his executioners aside, there was also the threat of House D'Avien, Renald's family, whose elaborate tendrils of influence stretched all throughout the city of Lomedor. Arrousing the anger of a Great House was as much a guarantee of certain death as a leap off of the highest spire of Parmamar Library. No where in the city would be safe.

There was, oddly enough, a single fact that brought a glint of hope to the situation. Jaz's eyes widened as it dawned on him. If Weneclaus didn't know who the Drow was, and, as the Chief Warden himself said, there were no witnesses, then no one, aside from Jaz and the Drow knew of what exactly had happened, or even that they had met each other. As long as neither of them said anything, no one would ever discover the truth.

Morality and legality suddenly took a back seat to pragmatism and survival.

"Um, yeesh," Jaz stammered, a more intellectual plan escaping him at the moment, "Do you think it would be possible to, say, pretend we never met and that this whole thing never happened? Might even be a good idea to go our seperate ways and never speek of this again."