Whatever sort of meade the barkeep had chosen to serve her had a strange flavor to it.  It was quite sweet, but left a strangely bitter aftertaste with hints of cinnamon.  Dalanesca found herself unsure of whether or not she cared for the flavor, but drank the liquid anyway - after a few, she was likely not to care about the taste.  A few minutes passed and she had drained the stone goblet, pushing it toward the barkeep’s side of the surface in indication that she wanted another.  He came by after a moment and grabbed her goblet, giving her a nod and a smile as he refilled it. Returning his smile, she chucked a few silver coins onto the counter, and drew the goblet close once he set it down.  “Thank you,” she said, vocalizing her gratitude.  The barkeep nodded.

“Aye, and thank you the same,” he added.  “You’re makin’ my job a lot easier these days,” he added, giving her another nod and walking away.  She knew what the man was referencing, as she had been inadvertently acting as a security for the man.  It wasn’t that she felt the need to assist him, it was more for the reason that she hated miscreants and unnecessary brawling.  The intimidation factor that she had possessed during her time as an assassin still seemed to exist, and for the most part she was able to get patrons to cease their actions before things got out of hand, and ended things quite quickly if they did happen to get out of hand.

Fortunately, this evening had been quiet - more so than usual.  It had been a long week for her, and she was grateful for the peace and quiet.  Though Myter, the proprietor of the bar and the man serving her this evening, was not paying her for her service, he was providing her with a free room above the tavern.  To her, it was an easy trade.  She still had quite a bit of silver saved up from her past contracts, but the flow in had slowed.  Coin was not as easy to come by, and she rarely found work anymore.  A few mercenary jobs had popped up here and there, but the pay was a few measly silver - nothing even worth blinking an eye at.   Having a place to stay that wasn’t costing her a thing was a blessing.

She took another sip of the strange meade and sloshed it about in her mouth before swallowing once more.  She was on her third glass, and though she couldn’t feel any warmth rising in her cheeks, she most certainly could feel the relaxing effects washing over her.  Within moments, the quiet drone of the many conversations happening around her in the tavern became unnoticeable to her - until a loud voice broke the silence.

In the back, two men were having a very heated discussion which was shortly about to turn ugly.  Dalanesca turned her head to look at the pair, rolling her eyes.  “Can’t even have one quiet night, can we, Myter?  I’ll be back for my meade, don’t dump it!” she called down to the barkeep, who looked at her, disdain on his face.  

“You goin’ to handle this one, Dal?” he asked.  She could hear it in his voice that he was hoping she would, so she nodded and got up, leaving her goblet of meade sitting on the counter.   

“I’ll be back for that!” she yelled to Myter, and headed towards the men in the back.  She reached them shortly, and they seemed to take no notice of her at first.  “Excuse me, gentlemen?” she said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness.  When neither of the men responded, she cleared her throat, dropped a dagger from a sheath at her wrist, and stepped forward, slamming the blade into the table between the two men.  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice less sweet and more commanding.  The two men seemed slightly taken aback and looked up at her.  

She leaned in between the men slowly and withdrew the dagger from the table, sliding it back into its sheath.  “You’ll have to forgive me for being so… barbaric,” she began, eyeing both of the men.  “But you see, I’m sitting over at the counter, attempting to have a quiet, event-less evening… and you two…” she paused, trailing off for a moment.  “You two aren’t doing much to help with that,” she said, offering them a forced smile.  The pair looked at her in confusion, as though they were unsure of what to say.

“He’s a conniving prick,” one of the men began, pointing vehemently at the man across the table.  Dalanesca held a hand up in front of the speaker’s face, which caused him to stop talking.  The hilt of her dagger could be seen in her palm, a wrist-flick away from being drawn from its sheath.  

“You’re both going to stop, and now,” she said, abruptly.  “If you don’t, I will make you stop.”  She looked from one man to another, and they seemed more confused than anything.  When they didn’t say anything, she lowered her hand.  “I am assuming that your silence indicates your understanding.  I am going to take my leave now, and I will be watching,” she threatened.  She took a few steps backwards from the men before turning around and heading back to the bar.  Myter gave her a nod of thanks as she sat down, and she picked up her goblet, taking a long drink from it and sighing.  Though she couldn’t see the men any longer - whom she had left with a look of utmost confusion on their faces - she knew she would be able to hear if something else were to happen.

The Coralax is frightened, the Coralax is scared, the Coralax became the thing that he most in this world feared! The singsong voice of the violent demon, Reaver, rang like an echo in the back of Marth Coralax's mind. He was sitting quietly in a corner, an untouched cup of gin in front of him. The place was quiet, something for which he was tremendously grateful. The noise and squalor of the city reminded him all to well of the havoc he had seen in his life, and the sudden glances of armed men sent a jolt up his spine every time, without fail. Not that Marth was afraid of losing a fight - he was more afraid of what would happen if he got too startled. A jumpy battlemage, he knew, was a dangerous thing, but even so, he had to be here.

Chase me, chase me, hunt me and erase me! Marth found it extremely unnerving that the echo of the demon was taunting him to find and destroy more of itself, but Marth understood that demons, especially the mad ones, were unpredictable in this manner. The part that had posessed him for so long was mad enough to do such a thing. The paladins insisted Reaver was gone. Maybe I'm just going mad myself. The thought was bizarrely comforting. Marth looked at the gin in front of him. It had been his drink of choice, before Reaver. Before the time when all he could taste was blood. Here goes nothing. He downed the drink in one go, as he had done before. The taste of pine needles and the burning sensation of the spirits washing down his throat calmed him. So this is what they meant about an anchor to the past. What was more, the echo of Reaver receded. Probably temporarily, but Marth didn't care, much. He was glad of the reprieve, and with the echo gone, he coul feel himself becoming less jittery.

His nerves steadied, Marth dared to take a look at his surroundings. The patrons were few - two men sat in the back, looking annoyed at one another. A trio of merchants sat near the exit, swapping news. A sailor had passed out in another corner of the tavern. And by the bar sat an armed female, having a chat with the barkeep. All in all, the place was quiet. If Marth was to sleep somewhere, this place might do. Marth scarce wanted to be startled by a brawl in the middle of the night and accidentally cast a spell he'd regret casting. When a man fears his own anxiety, he is broken, Marth mused. It was a mantra of Wyllmochvarian officers that men afraid of their own fears could not be relied on in battle. Marth was inclined to agree. If he was to hunt down the other shards of the terrible creature Reaver, he'd need help.

The two men in the back began getting louder. Marth sensed a conflict. He couldn't rely on himself to resolve it as he could before. But neither did he want this place to be turned upside down. While he was lost in thought, pondering how to deal with the situation, the female who was sitting at the bar went up to the men. She sounded at first like she was going to charm them to stop. "Excuse me, gentlemen?" she said, sweet as summerwine. When the men didn't reply, the woman drew a knife and rammed its tip into the table in a blur. In his seat, Marth startled, a tiny spark flying from his finger. Luckily, it went unnoticed. "You'll have to forgive me for being so… barbaric," the woman continued, her voice now stern as iron. "But you see, I'm sitting over at the counter, attempting to have a quiet, event-less evening, and you two… You two arn't doing much help with that." Marth managed to calm himself. He could see now that the woman was dangerous. By her skill with a small knife and the pitch and stride of her walk, she was accustomed to stealth. She is hot, Marth is not, he'll never know, what she got! Marth shook his head. Silence, demon. Marth didn't care about the woman's appearance, only her skillset. Someone like that could keep a secret, and would be great if the other Shard turned out to already be in someone's possession… And maybe, further down the road, she could assist with the hunt for the traitors in Wyllmochvar.

By the time Marth looked up again, the woman was back at the bar. Marth gave it a moment's consideration, then got up from his chair and headed to the counter. His magic-channeling spear was secure on his back, his fine, but stained robes flapping lazily as he walked over. Don't blow it, don't blow it. Oh, I am so going to blow it. He sat down at a stool next to the woman, ordering another cup of gin. After he'd recieved it, he turned his face to her. "You handle that blade well," he said. His own voice, as opposed to Reaver's, was gruff and grizzled. Upon hearing it, Marth felt the echo recede again. He looked down at his cup. "Too well to spend your nights stopping fights in a tavern." He let the implication hang for a moment in the air, and took a swig of his gin.

She was grateful for the mild silence that had returned to her evening after she had thwarted the brawl that was likely to have taken place in the back of the tavern.  The silence remained for a few moments while she sipped on her meade, half-wondering if she was going to hear the men in the back start fighting again.  She was quite sure that she had made her point, but she knew from experience that men tended to let their emotions get the best of them and cause more trouble even when they know that causing such trouble will not end well for them.  

A few moments later, a man sat down at the stool next to Dalanesca.  She found herself mildly annoyed that the patron had chosen that particular seat as there were no others sitting at any of the stools.  Nevertheless, she turned her gaze towards him and offered him a polite nod to acknowledge his presence.  The man seemed unremarkable to her - dressed in worn, but decent robes, equipped with a weapon of his own.  He did not seem to want to cause any problem, and he was silent - at first- so, she decided she did not mind.

That changed when he spoke up.  He was holding a cup of gin that she had seen Myter pouring, and spoke to her in a rough voice.  She turned her head towards him almost mmediately, the goblet of meade still clutched in her hand.  “I do,” she answered, rather than offering thanks in the normal manner that one would respond to a compliment.  She eyed him with caution.  She had learned from years of experience that men did not approach her in a tavern just to compliment her weaponry skills.  She nearly rolled her eyes at his next phrase, but instead chose to turn her body on the stool so she was facing him.  

She was dressed head to toe in form fitting garb - she had yet to abandon the clothing she wore in her previous profession.  The apparel allowed her to easily stow the weapons she was accustomed to carrying.  Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulder, dark as onyx.  She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer, a bit of a smirk flashing over lips.  “I’ll do what I please,” she said, her voice low and smooth.  It was clear that she was used to dealing with casual talkers, but she could tell he wanted something.  “I’m sure you’ve no ill intentions, but what is it you want?” she asked, putting the edge of the goblet to her lips and taking a long drink.

Setting the goblet down, she continued speaking to him.  “I’ve been around long enough to know that you don’t compliment a woman’s weaponry skills unless you want to meet her blade, or use her blade,” she said, the smile never fading from her lips.  She was acting with a bit more sass than she normally would, choosing to blame the looseness of her words on the multiple goblets of meade she had consumed.  “I mean, I’m all ears,” she continued, leaning towards him expectantly.  “So, do tell… you’ve got me interested.”  

She eyed him up and down for a moment, taking in his demeanor.  She could tell he had seen battle before, but she was never good at placing what type of battle people had been in.  “You look like you’ve been around a time or two as well,” she added, raising her goblet towards him in salute.  She took another long drink and set the stone cup back on the bar counter, her hands reaching down to hold the sides of her stool.  “Come now, don’t keep a girl waiting!  What’ve you got in mind?”  If she was correct and he did indeed have some sort of proposition involving something other than sitting in a dingy tavern, she would more than likely accept.

Oho, oho, you have her ear! Oh, my, oh, my, you're very near! So, near, so near, yet far away, she sees you true, what will she say? HAHAHAHAHAhahahahahaha… Marth shook his head and shut his eyes tightly, shaking the echo away for a moment. He flashed a brief expression of fear when he realised he'd been so obviously disturbed by something that wasn't there. He hastily took another swig of his gin, before talking.

"Suffice to say I've seen firsthand the effects of a rather dangerous artifact, and I need to see its bretheren destroyed." He was beginning to sweat, he realised, the cold sweat that came with terror. He winced at the realisation, understanding that he must seem more insane by the minute. He tapped his forehead, visibly channeling magic from his finger into his head, creating a circut of energy which finally brought his nerves under control. He looked at Dalanesca briefly, before staring back into his cup.

"I-I apologise. I'm still recovering." He took a deep breath, and returned to normal. The terror faded, replaced by saddened apprehension. "What I need is someone with complete discretion, and the ability to do things I can't. And, if nessecary…" He downed the remainder of his gin, his face suddenly stern and determined. "To stop me if I snap. As you might've realised… I'm not entirely stable at the moment." Fear returned, fear of losing a potential ally. "P-please consider it. I-I can pay, and I won't be as jittery once I'm quit of civilization. I-…" He turned his head down, in shame, and blushed. His voice dropped lower. "I-I'm sorry. I am wasting your time. Please forget I said anything, and have a drink on me by way of apology."

He left a far too large amount of silver on the counter and quickly jumped off his barstool, returning to his corner. His walk was brusque, military, but as he sat down, he cradled his face in his hands and begun to rock nervously back and forth. Fucked it up, fucked it up, botched it, failed, and mucked it up! Cor-a-lax, Cor-a-lax, crying as his re-solve cracks! Hahahahaha! Marth began sobbing, quietly, retreating inward, consumed by his mistake. You're right, Reaver, I made a royal mess of it. I hope you're happy. I'll never find the other shards. Never. Never. Never. Never… Without realising, he was biting his lip, a single trickle of blood trailing down his chin to mix with tears, as the images of the monstrosities committed with his arms threatened to consume him entirely.

When the man began shaking his head as though to ignore something, she found herself intrigued.  She watched him take a quick drink of his gin with interest, waiting to see what his next action would be. There was clearly something slightly off about this particular man, but she was a little unsure as to what exactly that was.  She had known so many people in her life that she felt as though she had seen just about every problem with a person there was to be seen, and not much could put her in any state of unease.  

He began to speak, though she could see that he was nervous about something.  Whatever artifact it was that the man spoke of to her had her intrigued - it was obvious that this man was weary of the artifact and perhaps not the only one looking for it - but the mention of destruction piqued her interests even further.  It sounded like a quest, of sorts, and that meant it could be something that would get her out of the tavern and back into the world… without killing someone for a pocket full of coin.  

She watched him with one eyebrow raised as he zapped some sort of spell into his mind, which seemed to calm him down.  Catching his eye as he glanced at her, she silently watched him for a moment, before speaking up herself.  “If these are the effects you speak of,” she began, gesturing to him in indication of his behavior.  “Not so sure why you think that would make me want to get anywhere near it, even if we were going to destroy it,” she added, with a bit of a laugh, though the laughter faded when she saw his demeanor lessen even further.

She listened to him stumble through his words, and almost felt pity for him - she found herself wondering what would have put him into such a state where he could barely explain what it was that he needed help with.  She watched the range of emotion that spanned his face with a bit of concern, and before she could get a word in he had slapped a heavy portion of silver down on the counter and taken off, back towards where he had been sitting in the first place.  Myter hadn’t been far from the two of them, but he was usually good about minding his own business and hadn’t seemed to be paying much attention until he heard the clatter of the coin on the counter.  He gave Dalanesca a look with a pair of raised eyebrows.

She looked at the pile of coins, and at Myter.  With a sigh, she shook her head, to which the barkeep gave her an understanding laugh.  She scooped a good portion of the silver back into her hands, still leaving enough to cover the drink that he had ordered and leave a hefty tip for Myter, and headed back to where she could see the man, now with his head hanging in his hands.  Whatever part of her it was that felt compassion towards others had kicked in - the part that had forced her to stop assassinating people.  When she reached him, she gently and soundlessly laid the coin on the table next to him and dropped to one knee in front of him. 

“Hey now, stop that,” she said, quietly.  Her tone had lost the sharpness and confidence it held earlier, and now had more of a caring sound.  When the man didn’t respond first off, she reached up as though to place her hand over his own and remove it from covering his face, but she pulled her hand back and thought better of it.  Whatever this man had experienced had obviously damaged his psyche in some form, and she didn’t need to be having her wrist broken.  Instead, she stayed in her kneeling position.

With a moment’s hesitation, she let out a sigh and began speaking.  “I’ll help you,” she said, though the resolve in her voice was wavering.  “But on one condition.  You have to at least explain… this, whatever it is,” she said, gesturing her hand towards him as a whole.  “There’s something going on here, and I don’t need all the details, but at least enough to know what’s going on.”

Crybaby, crybaby, curl up now and die, maybe?! Token, token, worthless now, you're broken! Soldier, soldier, give up an y- The voice of Reaver suddenly fell away as the woman approached him, and began talking. Marth hadn't even noticed her presence. Her voice was softer, now, however, and he wasn't startled. It wasn't until then that Marth realised he was bleeding. He shiften in his seat, allowing the woman to sit next to him. He wiped blood and tears off his face, took a deep breath, and flexed his fingers. "I'm alright, I'm alright," he said mostly to himself.

"If you're really willing to help, I suppose it's only fair that I tell you what exactly you'll be wading into. But I cannot have you spreading the tale. When I'm done, I'm certain you'll understand why." He took a moment, closing eyes, taking a few breaths. Clearly, recalling the tale was something that rattled him. To his credit, however, his voice remained steady, and he kept himself coherent. "My name is Marth Coralax. I used to be an officer of the Wyllmochvarian expeditionary forces. Captain, to be more precise. My first mission as captain was to retrieve an artifact, known only as a 'Shard of Reaver'. I was told the artiface was a remnant of some kind of demon." Marth took a moment to collect himself. Clearly, it was needed, for he had begun crying again without realising it. He held firm, however. "That much was true. I led my troops into a dead zone. Attrition claimed over a hundred people. When we first found the shard, it was harmless. In the dead zone, it was paralysed. When we got out - less than seventy out of three hundred and fifty lived. And when I next thouched the shard…"

Marth took a moment again. He was about to collapse, he felt it. All the symptoms were there - shaking, tears, hyperventilation. For a full two minutes, Marth was immobilized, incapable of doing anything but try to recover. When he was finally done, he was waving in Dalanesca's direction. "A moment, I'll finish, just…" A few more seconds passed before Marth took a deep breath and steadied himself. "The demon is parastitic. It feeds on the misery of the host. Using my body, it went on a killing spree. First my comrades, then civilians, for a full year and a half. I saw, heard, smelled, tasted and felt everything, but I had no control. I was forced to watch as that demon…" He cleared his throat, and clenched his eyes shut. To his credit, he continued talking. "Tortured my comrades, slew them, and then razed village after village to the ground. Men, women and children - all raped, dismembered, slain and cannibalized."

Once again, Marth broke down into tears. it was plain he wouldn't be saying anything coherent for a few minutes.

Dalanesca withheld a gasp as the man uncovered his face, as she could see the blood that had mixed with his salty tears.  She drew no attention to the fact that she noticed it, realizing that this man wasn’t entirely mentally stable.  She offered the man a weak smile as he wiped his face, assuring her that he was alright.  At that comment, she had to fight off the urge to raise an eyebrow at the man - he surely did not seem alright.

She narrowed her eyes slightly at the man in regards to the manner that he chose to divulge information to her.  Making someone promise not to regale any of the information being told was essentially a precursor to a strange or intense story - possibly one that was completely unbelieveable. Returning her gaze to its normal state, she nodded.  “Alright, you’ve got my word,” she said, and she got up from her kneeling position to sit down in the chair near his own which he had made available to her moments before.  

The man began with explaining his name, and his history.  She paid close attention, even though the tale seemed to be taking the route that so many before had.  It seemed to be a tale of military tactics once more, and she could already feel herself getting bored, until his voice trailed off.  The man seemed ill at ease and uncertain about continuing.  The man was shaking, crying, his breathing was erratic… all of the signs of a panic attack.  

Dalanesca found herself oddly concerned with Marth’s well being, for having been someone she just met.  She could tell he was attempting to continue the story, but he seemed to be so psychologically affected by the memories that he couldn’t go on.  She waited very patiently, but at that point he began to wave his hand at her to signify that he was ready to go on.  When he continued, she found herself listening in horror at his telling of just what this ‘shard’ did to him.  She had experienced a lot of horrible things in her life, and seen a lot of horrible things that people had done to others… but the thought of not being in control of your own body and watching as some parasitic demon moved your hands to torture and kill innocent people?  The thought made her nauseous, and she found herself feeling even more sympathetic for Marth.

He had collapsed into tears again, so Dalanesca moved her chair closer to his own.  Tentatively, she reached out and gently placed her hand on the man’s knee, in an attempt to comfort him but also being careful not to startle him.  There was nothing suggestive or provocative about her touch, but merely comforting.  Though she did not know exactly how it felt to go through specifically what Marth had, she knew what it was like to feel like you had no control over the situation as a whole.

“It’s not you,” she said quietly, in an attempt to assuage his incoherency.  Though she didn’t know the man other than what had just been told to her, she couldn’t imagine a normal person being that terrible.  “Just relax, take a breath,” she added, her voice quiet and soothing.  “I’ll get you another gin,” she said, pulling her hand from his leg and walking towards the bar.  She asked Myter for a drink, who knew better than to ask questions, and he came back with both a dram of gin and another goblet of meade for her.  She walked back over to Marth and set his gin quietly on the table, returning to her own seat.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk again,” she said softly, and leaned back in her chair.  She took a sip of her meade and sat quietly, contemplating the gory images that Marth’s story had put into her mind.

The echo of Reaver sang in Marth's head, but something was off. It was pulsing… As if the voice had to make an effort to be heard. "Marth, O Marth, where'd … ..ity go? Son of m.. … ..ow?" Marth suddenly stopped crying. Reaver was struggling, and Marth didn't know why. Waves of relief and terror washed over him as he tried to understand this new phenomenon. For a few moments, he was just trembling, until Dalanesca's voice crept into his mind, her light touch finally noticed. The rogue. She's… Marth wiped his tears and looked up at her. His facial expression morphing between nervous wonderment, fondness, and scepticism. He looked back down on the floor and took a breath to steady himself.

"… Thank you for not recoiling. Too many people have been doing that already… So, uh… Yes, thank you." He rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth. His troubles seemed to be receding - he'd have a longer respite from his instability. Running a glowing hand over his face, the tears and blood got washed away. "I'll be frank with you, the job is risky. I don't have a lot of silver on me at the moment, but I have a number of assets I can liquify as needed. If you're interested, I'll hire you for half again the sum of the lifeguard's guild's standard year-long contract. This assumes, of course, you're willing to take on a year-long job. I won't lie, the job I'm trying to do will probably take several years. If you want to come along, you won't go back home for a long time."

As he spoke, Marth returned gradually to his old self. The commander, the soldier, the battlemage. Only the slightest hints - a twitch if his lips, a wrinkle around his eye, a twist of his foot as he spoke to Dalanesca, betrayed the gratitude and fondness he was beginning to harbour towards her. This sense of security and respite was something the veteran had experienced before, but he couldn't help but feel that somehow this woman anchored him. As if she represented reality, somehow. Her down-to-earth demeanour, rogueish appearance and very much human sympathy came together to remind Marth he was still in fact alive. The sensation wasn't romantic - at least not as far as Marth realised - but along the lines of a trusted companion. Something he desperately needed.

Something in Marth’s face seemed to indicate that whatever sort of episode he had been experiencing was beginning to subside.  His eyes seemed to study her face, and a barrage of emotions decorated his expression.  It seemed as though he was unsure what to think about the way that she was treating him, but after a moment he had looked away again.  She chewed on her lower lip, unsure how to react to the situation at current.

Within moments, he was thanking her for her calm reaction to what he had informed her of.  She nodded, watching him with interest as he seemed to rebounding from whatever episode it was that he had been experiencing.  In her lifetime, she had seen and experienced innumerable things which allowed her to be a bit more understanding of what Marth was telling her.  “I’m not going to flee,” she said, matter-of-factly.  

She perked up at the thought of the task being ‘risky,’ as he put it.  She had a lack of excitement in her life since she had given up assassination.  The adrenaline rush that one received from knowing that one’s life may possibly be in danger was like no other, and the thought of being able to experience that feeling again gave her even more interest.  “Say no more regarding the pay,” she said, waving her hand at him in an attempt to tell him that he needn’t worry.  “You’ll pay me what you can when you can without putting yourself in the poor house.”  The words she spoke were not a suggestion, but firm and commanding. 

At his comment of her not being able to return home for a long time, she almost laughed.  Managing to stifle the laughter, she reminded herself that not returning home wouldn’t be a problem.  “I don’t think I would have a problem with being away from here for a while,” she said.  She waved an arm around the tavern.  “This place is pretty much my home right now, anyway.  Myter might miss me,” she said, looking towards the barkeep with a bit of a grin, before turning back to Marth.  “But I need to get out of here, anyway,” she added.  

A moment of silence spread between the two and she studied his face.  She could not quite make out what exactly he was thinking, but it did not seem to be negatively turned towards her.  “So.  I’ll come with you to do whatever it is you need me to do,” she said.  “Shall we have a drink to celebrate this new-found partnership?” she asked, raising her goblet of meade towards him, and gesturing towards the dram of gin she had already brought him earlier on which had sat by the wayside during their discussion.

Marth listened in silence to Dalanesca, his gaze elsewhere. He learned some time ago that voice pitch, word selection, and sentence structure could reveal just as much as body language. It proved true this time. Her voice had an almost indistinguishable edge of excitement, and while she spoke of her "home" with some fondness, the tension in her voice when she said she needed to get away betrayed the fact that she was itching to do so. His train of thought finally following a more or less normal track, and the prospect of a partnership and progress in his quest, marth couldn't help but grin. There was something else, too - momentum. If I can establish 'momentum', I can stabilize a bit, huh? Fine by me. It'll be just like a campaign, all about impetus. His hand reached out and grabbed the gin, perfectly stable. The veins on the side of his neck began to glow a little. The sensation was familiar, his blood responding to his excitement by stimulating his magic. And this time, the magic felt like his own. He looked up at the woman, the soldier's spark in his eyes.

"Sure, let's drink. It's been a while since I felt this optimistic about anything." He held out his drink to clang against Dalanesca's, then downed it. he locked eyes with her, measuring her, breathing deeply. After a brief pause, he leant back in his chair. "You probably have an inkling about the mission by now. Your hunches would, in this case, probably be correct. I've experienced the devastating power of these demon shards up close. To wash my hands of the blood, there's only one path to redemption." He pulled a piece of parchment out of his sleeve. "Eradication of the remaining shards. So I've been gathering information." He slammed the parchment onto the table and unrolled it. It was a letter. Private, byt the looks of the broken seal. On said parchment, in crude handwriting, was written a short message.

The bloke wat nows the place the shards been hidden is a bloke wat goes by the name of Devil Eyes Borza, som dark wissard bloke wat works for cash. Make sure you bring the money, and get watever in-formashan ya can. Don't do anythin stupid, that bloke is not on to be fucked with. He tends to hang out at the Highborn Ogre, on the hiway tween Adeluna and the Vilapmolan Coast. Bloke got a mansion in Egjora, but don't approach him there. Bloke got contacts and might screw ya over.

Marth looked at Dalanesca, allowing her to read the message. After a while, he spoke. "Dark wizards… I've taken down a few in my time. I'm hoping it won't come to blows, but if it does, I'll need you close to strike if it gets ugly. I'll leave the stealth elements to you. Above all, we need the information he posesses. This is stage one of the mission. Do you accept?" He looked at her with an expression that said 'take your time'. Clearly, he already had a rough plan in place, but he was eager to hear Dalanesca's thoughts.