Same as usual, Muirin was travelling on behalf of a bounty.
This time in particular, the call of gold brought him just about as far as he'd ever gone before. He had visited Cerak At'thul thrice during his career as a mercenary, but two of those occasions were more for pleasure. This fourth trip, however, was all business. The scoundrel of a man had it on good faith that a runaway assassin fled across the seas after killing some noble's brat, no doubt trying to lay low until the flames of 'justice' died down. Muirin, however, was never one to be dissuaded by distance, and the price for this woman's head was more than enough to feed his vices for a good few months. Just this once, the law would have his service-- Just so long as the pay stayed good enough.
He'd arrived at the docks early in the morning, glad to have left the nip of early autumn back in the North where he'd left a few weeks before. The mercenary's nose nearly turned up at the sights that greeted him in the shipyards. Smugglers he could handle, and he'd served on more than a few pirate crews in his day, but the man had at least some shred moral fiber left. It must have been this sliver of decency that bothered him, then, because something about slavers churned his insides. It took a concentrated force of will to avoid gutting any of the spineless subjugators on his way into town.
To his knowledge, the assassin had been working as something of a translator for the past few months, and it only took him a few minutes worth of asking around to find out where she was likely hiding. After all, people tend to be forthcoming when you seem desperate, and his lie about translating a love letter from a young elven maiden was rather convincing. The brutish man strolled casually up an ill-maintained road, once more referring to the description he'd written in a small, leather-bound journal. Slender, dark hair, dark eyes... Exactly his type, but, sadly, this trip was all business. He slipped the journal back into his jacket as he approached her supposed place of residence, thumping his large fist twice against the door in a half-polite knock.
Yvette Leroux
This time in particular, the call of gold brought him just about as far as he'd ever gone before. He had visited Cerak At'thul thrice during his career as a mercenary, but two of those occasions were more for pleasure. This fourth trip, however, was all business. The scoundrel of a man had it on good faith that a runaway assassin fled across the seas after killing some noble's brat, no doubt trying to lay low until the flames of 'justice' died down. Muirin, however, was never one to be dissuaded by distance, and the price for this woman's head was more than enough to feed his vices for a good few months. Just this once, the law would have his service-- Just so long as the pay stayed good enough.
He'd arrived at the docks early in the morning, glad to have left the nip of early autumn back in the North where he'd left a few weeks before. The mercenary's nose nearly turned up at the sights that greeted him in the shipyards. Smugglers he could handle, and he'd served on more than a few pirate crews in his day, but the man had at least some shred moral fiber left. It must have been this sliver of decency that bothered him, then, because something about slavers churned his insides. It took a concentrated force of will to avoid gutting any of the spineless subjugators on his way into town.
To his knowledge, the assassin had been working as something of a translator for the past few months, and it only took him a few minutes worth of asking around to find out where she was likely hiding. After all, people tend to be forthcoming when you seem desperate, and his lie about translating a love letter from a young elven maiden was rather convincing. The brutish man strolled casually up an ill-maintained road, once more referring to the description he'd written in a small, leather-bound journal. Slender, dark hair, dark eyes... Exactly his type, but, sadly, this trip was all business. He slipped the journal back into his jacket as he approached her supposed place of residence, thumping his large fist twice against the door in a half-polite knock.
Yvette Leroux
