The city seemed the same, Galin thought, as he tread over familiar cobblestones, looking for the Mermaid and a pint. He had spent the better part of the week looking for any trace of his company and had not been able to find anything but a deserted settlement at the fort his men had captured the year before and a half legible note scrawled in Luthene’s hand saying that death was coming for them but she would lead them to safety as best she could, and that when they were safe, she would find him. He felt the folded parchment in the pocket of his tunic for the thousandth time since he had taken it from the door of his bedchamber.

It seemed as though Luthene had stuck it there so that, when he was released, he would have some idea of where they went but all it had done was slowly drive him to despair. He saw all the men he could remember that knew his men but neither the armorer, the moneylender, nor any of the patrons of the local taverns could shed more light on the disappearance of his men. Some said that it had been the plague that ravaged the city during the harvest season and others claimed that the fortress had been taken by an Adelunan lord without a shred of mercy and no quarter was given to those that survived the fall. Either way, the stories were similar in one respect: the company was gone and most likely in a shallow grave, Luthene along with them. Galin could not tell for sure and it was the uncertainty that fueled his madness, sending him searching every corner of the city for a trace of them, even of their graves, so that he would be able to have a sense of finality to this. And what he would never say, even in his cups, was that he blamed himself.

When he reached the Mermaid and pushed open the well-worn doors, he found his table was empty. It was a small, scratched up table that looked out over the street and Galin would stay there until the wine made him insensible, staring out the window, hoping to see a familiar face. He never did. They were gone and there was not a damned thing he could do about it, no matter how hard he tried. He coughed a little as the taverner threw a green log on the fire and it began to belch black, acrid smoke. He looked down at his cup of wine and grimaced when he saw that it was nearly empty. “Lass, next time, just leave the skin,” he said with a ghost of his old smile, as he took a wineskin full of strong, red wine from one of the serving girls. Then it struck him why he smiled at her. She looked just like Maria, Cooper’s wife, and the memory of his friend suddenly had him blinking back tears. He cuffed at his eyes and squeezed more wine into the cup so violently that some splashed to add another stain to the tabletop.

He could not have known a year ago where his life would take him and if he had, he would have fought against his fate tooth and nail. When he returned North to recruit men for the company after the fracturing and fighting of the campaigning season, he was taken captive by one of the Highland lords, the uncle of a man he had killed in a fight years before after the fighting in the Sarchu Valley. While the lord had promised to ransom Galin, he had done little to actually start negotiations, preferring the thought of Galin rotting in a guarded hut in his fortress to any sort of ransom the company would have paid for his release. So there he remained for over a year, enduring the elements and the tormenting of his captors until he was able to make his escape. One bright spring morning, as his thin gruel was being slopped from a pail into the wooden bowl the lord allowed him for his meals, the guard serving the food began to sneeze. Soon, in the throes of hay fever, he was half bent over, sneezing over and over as his eyes watered, unable to catch his breath. While he struggled, Galin moved quickly, seizing the dagger from the guard’s belt and ramming it up under his chin. The man let out a surprised gasp and jerked spasmodically for a second before he was still.

Before the blood had finished pumping from the wound, Galin had the man’s sword belt off and pulled his leather cuirass over his head before putting it on himself. Buckling the dead man’s sword around his waist, Galin smiled for the first time he could remember. He felt like a warrior again and it felt good. When the second guard stuck his head into the hut to see why his companion was taking so long, Galin whipped the sword out and across his throat. The blade was dull, not like his own sword had been, but it ripped easily into the flesh and sinew and left Galin sheeted in blood. As the body fell, he pushed out of the hut and began his escape.

He had carved a path of bloody ruin through the camp and leapt over one of the walls, shattering his leg. One of the healing women in a neighboring village found him near a stream, trying to scoop water into his mouth, and took him in. She set his leg and, when he tried to leave before the bone had healed, she doctored his food and drink with herbs to make him sleep until he was able to walk properly again. It took over a month but soon he was on his way, limping when he walked without a crutch, but he had to move south. He was a wanted man and he needed to return to the safety of his company. Only, by the time he returned to the south, the company was gone and his wife along with it.

By the time he finished the third skin of wine, he found himself well and truly drunk. When he staggered to his feet, he pressed a coin into the hand of one of the serving girls, a girl with long, blonde hair that reminded him of Luthene’s, whispering that he would meet her in her chamber over the taproom in a few minutes. It was not the first time that he had taken comfort in her chamber and it was not likely to be the last. He was not proud of it but it and the wine helped to dull the pain. While she left the taproom to prepare for the evening, Galin staggered out the rear of the tavern and relieved himself against the fence that enclosed the tavern’s small yard.

Galin left his breeches unlaced as he stumbled up the small back stairs to the rooms above the tavern. Pushing on one where he could see light inside, he felt the door give way and he stepped into the room, his breeches sagging lower, and turned to the woman, and grinned. “Well, darling,” he slurred, half-falling into the bed, “are you ready for an evening you’ll never forget and I sure as hell won’t remember?”

Feeling particularly antisocial after a long and fruitless day looking for work, Mazerine had retired to her semi-permanently rented room above the Winking Mermaid.  She had at least managed to secure enough coin to keep the room rented, and to keep herself with food and drink.  She found herself seated at the small table closer to the door in her room, with a bottle of a dark amber liquid.  The barkeep had given her some a few months back, and she found that it got the job done much more quickly than a glass of mead did.  She was still a bit unsure as to what it was, but it made no difference - she had grown to love the burn that accompanied the cool liquid as she swallowed it, and the fiery sensation it brought to her gut.  

Mazerine sat for quite some time, emptying and refilling the small stone cup that accompanied the liquid.  Her cheeks had gone rather rosy, and the edges of everything she saw seemed a bit more rounded than usual - it was a sign that the drink was doing its job.   After a few moments of contemplation, she realized that putting something else in her stomach would most likely avoid the morning-after repercussions of a hangover.  Slowly, she got up from the table, and walked gingerly to the bureau in the corner, on which a stone pitcher of water and a small cup were sitting.  She poured a bit of the water into the cup, and took a sip, swaying in a wobbly fashion from side-to-side as she did.  

It was clear that Mazerine was dressed for sleep.  Her feet were bare on the wooden floor, as were her legs .  She had removed the leather leggings and boots that she now favored nearly as soon as she had been alone in her room.  The vest that she wore over her loose-fitting tunic had also been discarded, the hem of the tunic falling somewhere around mid-thigh.  It made for very comfortable sleeping attire, and also saved her the trouble of changing into nightclothes.  

She set the cup back on the bureau, keen on returning to her drink at the table, but stopped in the middle of the room as the door swung open.  She watched a man, his trousers undone and sagging lower with each step he took, stumble into the room.  She stood frozen in place, her reaction time rather slowed as a result of the alcohol in her system.  She tilted her head to the side as the man spoke to her in a heavily-slurred tone, somehow ending up on her bed not far from where she stood.  She took this to be a random patron of the tavern looking for a good time, and he had most certainly chosen the wrong room.

The look of surprise faded from her visage and was swiftly replaced with one of indignation, and she stomped bare-footed over towards the bed.  “Excuse me,” she said, her hands on her hips.  If she had been in a completely sober state, she would have moved to cover herself up before confronting the intruder, but that thought was far from her mind. “I’ll venture to say you’re looking for ‘love’ in the wrong place, you swine,” she said.  Even with the slight dullness to her speech brought on by her night of imbibing, and the fact that she had adopted many of the colloquialisms of Adeluna, the accent clearly gave her homeland of Endopano away - if the points of her elven ears poking through her wavy brown hair did not give it away first.

She took a step towards the bed, intent on pulling the man out and dragging him into the hallway.  In his state, she did not think he would do much damage, and if he attempted anything, she always had her magic to fall back on.  When she got closer, however, she realized that this man was rather familiar to her.  She froze again, slightly bending over to get a better look at his face.  Searching through the fog of her mind, she finally came to a conclusion as to who the intruder was.  “Galin?” she asked.  The second his name left her lips, she felt a small coursing of rage through her veins - his company had left the area unannounced (though she still knew not why), and she had been left penniless and stranded far from her homeland, the embassy making no effort to retrieve her.  

She took a step back from the bed, her hands returning to her hips.  The shoulder of her tunic slipped down on one side, leaving her looking rather disheveled.  “I don’t know what you’re looking for - well, I take that back, I do know what you’re looking for,” she said, with a chuckle.  She ran a hand through her hair, contemplating whether or not she should question him on the spot about where he and his men had gotten off to, but she assumed he was in no state to explain at present time.  “Here,” she said, walking briskly over to the bureau and filling the cup with water once more.  She padded back over to him and knelt on the floor next to the bed, shoving the cup rudely towards his face.  “Drink this, then get out of here,” she said, and the annoyance was clear in her voice.  As much as she wanted to catch up with the Highlander, now was not the time - he was drunk, his pants falling down, and looking for a woman that he was clearly going to bed; and Mazerine just wanted to drink a few more cups of the amber liquid and fall into her own bed - preferably when a drunken Highlander was not already in it.