Mórë hated cities. Teeming heaps of brick and corruption. Lómëdor may have been the center for trade, but the only currency it dealt in was misery and pain.
“No Item is worth that price.” Mórë thought as he slowly sipped at his wine. He grimaced. If this was the best wine the city had to offer, people should be glad they couldn’t afford it.

The innkeep waddled – there was no other word for it. He was an immense man, his girth almost that of his height. – Over.
“A man to see you, ser.”
"Thank you."
A man in a dark cloak approached and seated himself across from Mórë.
“Innkeeper, you may leave,” said the stranger in a sharp, clipped tone that brooked not argument. The innkeep hesitated a moment too long and the stranger fixed him with a piercing gaze that seemed to look right into the innkeepers mind.
“You may leave.” This time it was a command.
“Yes Milord,” the innkeep mumbled, averting his eyes.

[The stranger then fixed his piercing gaze upon Mórë. “Hadn’t those eyes been blue a moment before” Mórë wondered for now the, instead of the ice blue the stranger had fixed the unfortunate innkeep with, his eyes were now a deep green that made you feel like this man was your brother, your long lost friend.
“Peasants,” scoffed the man. “Always getting above themselves.”
“What do you want.” Mórë wanted to get out of this place. Out of the city. Back to the countryside where he oft roamed. No, if he hadn’t needed the money, Mórë wouldn’t be here.
“Blunt I see. Someday that tongue of your will get you in trouble.” The man said smiling. Mórë said nothing.
“May name is Welton. Ser Welton of the House of Marks."
“I care not for your name or station. Tell me what I need to know and I will be gone.” Mórë was starting to get a headache.
“Who do you think you are? You are addressing Ser Welton of the House of Marks! If I wasn’t in need of your services, I would have you flayed where you stand” Welton took a swig of the watery excuse for wine. Red wine dribbled down his lip and into his short, sharp beard.
“Martin Downeswoth.” He slurred, “Half now and half on completion.” He said while pulling a scroll from beneath his velvet doublet.
“How should I know when the deed is done?” Welton asked.
“You’ll know. I’ll find you.” Is the only answer Mórë gave as get got up, took the scroll from the opened-mouthed Welton, and left the inn.
“I hate cities,” he thought as he stepped into the filthy squalor of Lómëdor’s main street.

Wolfang rode into the city on his splendid warhorse, parting the crowd of peasants, craftsmen, merchants, and other commoners. He had a very strong desire to start hewing their heads off because they were stalling his progress to almost a stand still. "Out of my way fools!" he shouted in his booming voice, the one reserved for the battlefield. The peasants barely reacted, "unbelieveable," Wolfang thought, getting quite fed up with the people. Now rather angry, he spurred his strong steed forward, trampling a young peasant man in the process, but at that the crowds took notice and quickly got out of Wolfang's way as his horse picked up speed and galloped down the main avenue. He was now far enough away from the accident. No one would ever know it was him who did it. Peasants die in accidents all the time, nobody would care.

He dismounted his horse near an inn, and surprisingly he wasn't in a bad mood anymore. A gallop down the main road in Lomedor could do wonders for one's spirits. "You, stable boy, make sure my horse is fed and watered," he called out to a boy of about twelve, standing near the stables waiting to take the customer's horses. Wolfang heartily clapped the horse on its hindquarters to let it know that it should go with the boy, otherwise it wouldn't have even budged under the boy's pulling. He began walking towards the entrance of the inn. Wolfang was dressed rather plainly in travelling clothes that consisted of a leather cloak, boots, a dark green short sleeved shirt and faded, dusty, dark blue pants. It certainly wasn't combat attire, nor was it finery like the nobles wore to flaunt their wealth, but it got the job done and Wolfang was happy with that. He needed practicality, not aesthetics. However, his steel claymore was safely sheathed and strapped onto his back, like it always was. One had to be ready for any occasion.

Wolfang was just about to open the door when another man did it for him, but from the inside. He mummbled something about hating cities, and Wolfang, in a good mood himself was ready to humor him.

"Why's that my good man? Cities are full of work and gold, just ready for the picking," he said rather nonchalantly, knowing absolutely nothing about the contents of the scroll the man was carrying.

Mórë looked up at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Ser, cities are for gluttons, fools, and hypocrites. Tell me ser, are you a holy man?”
Without waiting for an answer, Mórë stalked down the street. He had talked no more that three steps when his world went white with pain. A red hot poker seared every vein in his body. His body was submerged in molten ice. Through the pain Mórë heard mumbled voice, or screams. Mórë could not tell for the pain. Mórë slowly opened his eyes and beheld… what he did not know. With its red eyes ablaze with hellfire as it spoke, it’s voice like nails for a chalkboard. The thing said but one thing.
“He must die.”
Then the world burst into a multicolored burst of pain so intense, that it seem like his body was being dissolved by acid. His mind knew all and none. He saw the world and him, just a lowly worm. Mórë knew and began to scream. A bloodcurdling scream of a man lapsing into insanity. He screamed until finally he fell into unconsciousness, and fell over in the street.

A pesent man want to Mórë fallen body and touched him on the shoulder. Mórë’s entire body stiffened, his clothes caught fire, and in one swift movement, Mórë regained his feet and decapitated the man in front of him.

Mórë turned and looked at the man at the bar door.
“You, come with me. We have business to discuss.”

“Ser, cities are for gluttons, fools, and hypocrites. Tell me ser, are you a holy man?”

Wolfang was just about to answer, but the man seemed to have no interest and walked away. City dwellers...they're all the same... Wolfang dismissed the action as not worthy of his time and he didn't want to ruin his good mood anyway. He just pulled the door to the pub open and was about to go inside when he saw the very same man that he had just spoken to moments earlier fall down in the street and lose himself in what looked like a seizure.

Despite the fact that Wolfang didn't like the man all that much, he took a couple steps closer to him, just to see what happened to him, he had no desire to help him at all. However, a peasant had beaten him getting to the man, and got rewarded by getting his head chopped off. Instinctively, Wolfang drew out his steel claymore from its sheath on his back and was proceeding closer to the man, suddenly, he rose, as if nothing had happened and bid him to go with him.

Wolfang frowned, disliking the man with every passing moment for his incredible amount of arrogance. "We have business, do we? Did you have business with that commoner there too?" he asked in a loud tone, gesturing towards the bleeding, headless corpse on the ground with his sword. "And who are you to order me around? Show some respect, or I'll beat it out of you, worm," he retorted, now absolutely infuriated.

"State your business now, with respect, or you'll get nothing from me but my sword in your stomach," he said, issuing the man an ultimatum.

Why must they always fight? Thought Mórë while trying to think of a way to explain what he had just seen to the man.
“That commoner was of no importance ser. What my, or should I say our master has to say is of the utmost importance. Mórë grinned hopping madly this man was a follower of the Four Riders.

Then Mórë heard the sound of hoof on cobblestone. He turned his head and saw the city watch galloping towards him, swords raised high. Mórë picked up his fallen kantana and prepare to fight.
Then they were among him, a total of five watchmen, all mounted. A young man was in the lead holding a small lance in a mailed fist. Mórë waited until the young guard was nearly upon him, then ducked low and cut the back of the horse’s calves. The horse fell screaming, and the rider landed with a sickening crunch on his head, his lance though his throat.

The next two watchmen came at the same time. With a leap, Mórë Jumped onto one of the mares backs and slit the rider’s throat. Three lest. It mattered not. Within a minute and the guard were all dead or dying and the crowd was running in terror.

Mórë turned back to the man and sighed,
“Hlormar…? Is that your name? Will you come with me now?”

So the man was a soldier in the Alliance, that was good. Apparently he had recognized Hlormar, already he heard the respect make its way back into his voice. He was about to say something back, but they were interrupted by the arrival of the City Watch. This was exactly why Wolfang had to try and control himself when he was in the cities, he couldn't stand how the Watch was always breathing down his neck. But no matter, he'd kill them and escape, with or without the man that wanted Wolfang to come with him.

"Hold them off, soldier. I'll be right back with my horse," he commanded. Wolfang dashed back into the stables, mounting his black warhorse as fast as he could. Already he could hear the sound of metal striking metal, bodies hitting the ground, and the trampling of hoofs outside the stable doors. Sounds like they got that idiot. No matter, more fun for me... Wolfang spurred his horse and it ran out of the stable. The scene that greeted him was one of complete and utter surprise. The man had dispatched of all five of the guards. Well the guards weren't exactly known for their fighting prowess, but it was still an incredible feat regardeless.

Wolfang brought his horse to a stop near the man, sheathed his sword back and said hurriedly, "Hurry, mount up, before more of those pest arrive."

“Finally, we can be on our way.” thought Mórë with an inward sigh of relief. Nimble as a cat, Mórë grabbed onto one of the dead watchmen’s steeds and mounted it. It was a magnificent horse, out of place with a member of the Watch. The horse was not huge, well sized for city riding. He was pitch black, except for his eyes, which were a deep purple.

Mórë rode up next to Hlormar. There was a slight *tsk* and Mórë shoulder went numb. An unseen archer had put an arrow though him!
Mórë turned and looked briefly at Hlormar.
“He’s mine.” Mórë snarled.

Mórë spotted the archer easily enough, he was on top of the roof with a clear shot to anywhere on the street. Running quickly up the steps on the side of the Pub, Mórë made the rooftop when another arrow whizzed past his head and imbedded itself in the wood beside his head.
Then Mórë saw his chance. With strength he did not know he possessed, Mórë raised his kantana over his head and threw. Mórë heard a cry of pain and knew he had gotten the man.

In fact Mórë had not only got the man, but had pinned the man’s arm to the building with his kantana.
“Mercy Ser! I was under orders! Please!”
Mórë spoke calmly, but his eye betrayed the rage within himself.
“Shut up.” He said and stomped his foot on the man’s throat, putting an end to his pleas.
Something then caught Mórë’s attention. The bottom edge of a tattoo. Mórë lifted the man’s sleeve and saw…
“The Insignia to the House of Marks…”
Before Mórë could even begin to comprehend what he had just seen, a great horn was blown.
“The horn of the watch… DAMN it all!” shouted Mórë as he ran back to Hlormar and his stolen horse.
“Let’s go. But first, tell me, do you know this symbol?” Mórë asked holding up the severed arm of the archer.

Wolfang watched in annoyance as the man was struck in the shoulder by an archerer, and then, probably in a fit of anger continued on to kill him. His goal completed he came down from the rooftops carrying the man's arm, as some kind off sick trophy Wolfang assumed. Holding up the arm he asked Wolfang if he had ever seen some crest that was tattooed onto it.

Sounding as indifferent to the arm as possible Wolfang replied, "Never seen that one before." Just before he replied to the question the City Watch horn rang out, and that was very very bad. They only did that in emergencies, and soon the gates would be locked and a whole batallion of soldiers would be deployed to scour the city for the criminals. He couldn't believe how this man had dragged him into such an impossible situation, but he was now determined to escape it as cleanly as possible, maybe if he was very lucky the guard would never know Wolfang was involved.

"Enough of your questions! Mount up and follow me, soldier. We're leaving the city. You are to follow me, and attack nobody else until I say you can, and that's an order," he said commandingly, but also in a somewhat exasperated tone. Wolfang pulled up the hood on his travelling cloak to hide his face, and spurred his horse on through the now empty street, not checking to see if the other man was behind him or not. If he fell behind, all the better, the Alliance didn't need any weaklings. It was practically a straight dash to the main gate and their only hope of escaping. Wolfang's war horse charged at full speed towards its destination, which was now in sight, and thankfully the gates were not yet barred. Just a little closer and they would be out of the city.

Mórë followed Hlormar in his gallop to the gate, but his mind was elsewhere, thinking of the tattoo he had see on the dead man’s arm. Why would Welton hire me then try to kill me? thought Mórë, and thought about what he knew of the House of Marks.

The House of Marks wad a very old a respected house, dealing in mostly gambling houses and inns, with a few … questionable… ventures on the side. Infamous for killing and torturing clients who did not pay up, the House of Marks is led by Patriarch Menoch. Under Menoch, the House has flourished with the Patriarch expanded view of… business. Recently there have been whispers in wink sinks that the Patriarch is also a zealous follower of the Voodoo Cult of Strife.

Mórë had only ever encountered one member of the Cult before. A short balding man who looked more at place at a library that at the gallows. The man may have looked small, but from the tales Mórë had heard, the man was responsible for the death of an entire village, ritually scarified in one night to the man’s “gods”. Mórë could still hear the man’s laughter up until the rope broke his neck. Could Welton possibly be involved with the cult, or was another member of the House playing with him.

Mórë was broken form his reverie when the sight of the gate shows it’s self. Finally! We may be out of the hellhole. Mórë thought. He turned to Hlormar.
”Where to next?

They were clear of the gates now and Wolfang heard the man yell something near him, but despite how close they were it was still hard to tell over the pounding that the horses' hooves were making. All the same, it sounded like he was asking where to go next so Wolfang lifted his arm and beckoned the man forward. There was a small river not far from here that Wolfang was planning to go where the two men could sit down and talk in relative peace. Wolfang rode his horse, not in a gallop anymore, but in a light jog now for about five more minutes when he realized that he had reached his destination, the small river. He dismounted his horse and let it drink from the river, while Wolfang drained the remains of his own flask of water. It was good he was near a river too. He then bent down and refilled the flask with the clean drinking water from the river.

Hanging it back onto his belt when he was done, he walked over to a tree and sat down with his back to it, not to rest as he wasn't tired or out of breath, but to get comfortable. "Well, care to explain yourself and what that little spectacle back in the city was all about?" he asked the man, seeing that he was nearby and had managed to stay with Wolfang during the whole escape. Wolfang wasn't exactly angry, well maybe only a little bit as he would probably have to avoid Lomedor for the next few months or so while things cooled down there. He was curious in what this man had to say and also thought that whatever it was, it would probably make a good story.

Mórë thought a while before he answered. Where to begin? He decided not to reveal too much information, in order to preserve some of the usefulness of his companion.

Mórë talked for a long time. After he was finished, the two men sat in silence for a while. Then Mórë said
”And that is why I need you to return to Lómëdor with me. I need to kill the Patriarch. He is the one controlling Downesworth. Since Downesworth is working against the House of Marks and the Cult of Strife, the Patriarch will never be suspected. He must die. My master has ordered it."

Mórë had already made up his mind to leave on the morrow, with or without Hlormar. Now before nightfall, all he waited for was Hlormar’s response.

(Sorry for the short and shoddy post)

"Well, good luck to you, but this will be where we part. I want no part in this assassination, besides, I have other business to attend to elsewhere. I'm sure I'll see you again soldier, and next time we meet, do tell me how this little matter ended. I'm quite curious as to the ending of this tale," he said, standing up from his spot and offering the man his hand before he would depart upon his horse.

((lol mines worse))