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The tavern was hot. The midday heat had all but dissipated as the promise of a cool evening was close. Even so, Thanalan’s desert heat seemed reluctant to give up completely as the single room building remained brutally warm and less than aromatic. The wind that blew through the open door was hot and smelled of the local industry making the location one only the desperate found comfortable. Tavern would have been a very generous term in most locales. When the Alliance armies started filtering into the region, one industrious soul named Kern established the watering hole in the hopes of making a fortune. While he had managed to make a living, a fortune was something that he would never make as the transient nature of the armies made building any reliable clientele little more than a hit or miss opportunity. Still, the nameless hovel was still in business despite the difficulties of running any sort of business in what was widely considered a war zone. Today for example, the room was all but empty. Sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the tavern was a lone man. Garbed lightly in sturdy, if somewhat disheveled leathers, the man was clearly a sellsword based on the fact that a long blade that normally hung from a belt over his shoulder lay nearby looked well used and equally cared for. Tall and powerfully built, the man’s features were currently hidden behind his mussed hair casting them into even deeper shadows than the corner had offered. Occasionally, dark eyes would flit towards the door as if the man was waiting for something though Kern had long since determined that the man wouldn’t notice anything given his current state. It wouldn’t have taken a keen eye to notice the man had been drinking… lots. Empty mugs littered the top of his table and the nearly untouched meal spoke volumes as to the man’s real reason for being at the tavern. Kern had stopped counting after the man’s fifteenth drink and now he was counting the moments until the man toppled from his chair. Sandor had come into the tavern hours ago looking to drink away the memory of the events of the past day. A disastrous foray into Mor Dhona had resulted in the death of his employer and the loss of any pay he may have received for a completed job. With almost no coin left to his name, he was now considering a future of watching caravans for scraps and his mood had grown ever sourer as the drinks kept coming. It was now several hours since he’d arrived, and his drunken mind had been wandering for some time. Those more observant than the ones who may have noticed he’d been drinking may have noticed that Sandor had been almost staring at an object in his right hand for the better part of the last hour. The object appeared to me a medal of some sort though it’s exact origin would be difficult to determine without a better look. Given the reputation of the man holding it, many would simply assume that he come into possession of it through means less than honorable. Kern realized he was staring again only when Sandor moved. The barkeep started slightly as the mercenary uttered a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a grunt and drained the last of his drink before waving absently with the empty mug and speaking in a heavily slurred voice. “Gimme ‘nother,” came the barely articulate growl. Kern scrambled to fulfil the order wondering just how the man was still upright. Despite his desire to turn the man out, Sandor still presented as a dangerous one and Kern was too wary to do anything unless there was someone around to back him up. “Ser. Are you sure-…” the sideways glare from Sandor halted any further comment. Kern hurriedly moved away almost grimacing when, Sandor drained his mug on one long pull and demanded yet another. Even as he rushed to fill a new mug, he marveled how fortune had seen to it that the entire barracks had been absent from the settlement all afternoon. Alone for the Twelve knew how long, he’d all but resigned himself to having to serve this dark stranger all night. The sound of approaching voices brought a glimmer of hope to the barkeep face. The smile that had come to his lips paused and then faded as a group of seven men, more sellswords by the looks of them, piled into the tavern speaking and laughing loudly. I was immediately clear that they’d also been drinking. Any hope for a reprieve died before it was fully born as the leader of the group, a hulking and rather homely Roegadyn spied Sandor in the corner and barked out a cruel sounding laugh. “Ha!” the other men turned and looked over at the corner curiously. One of the men, younger by several years than the others, gasped and scrambled to draw his sword but the leader offered a calming hand and laughed again before speaking. “There, there lad! That’s our good mate Sandor,” he said without a hint of warmth in his voice. “Got no quarrel wit ‘im, ain’t that right boys? After all, we already killed his master and we all know Sandor don’t do nothing wi’out getting paid!” With a round of derisive laughter, the men turned from Sandor and took seats near the door. Kern found himself slightly busy for a little while as his new patrons wanted food along with their drink and he had to head out to the kitchen to get the men fed. Muttering a quick thanks for the reprieve along with a prayer that nothing happened while he was gone, he hustled out in the cool evening. Several minutes later found Kern returning to a scene that almost made his heart stop. One of the toughs was standing over Sandor openly deriding him. “I thought you was supposed to be summin special,” the man was saying. Tall and powerfully built, the man was as homely as anyone Kern had even seen with an impressive array of missing teeth and heavily pockmarked skin. Dark, almost black eyes held a furtive aspect adding to his unpleasant appearance. “All I see here is a drunk who let his boss get killed!” It happed too fast for Kern to have actually process it. The man leaned ion towards Sandor apparently intending to strike him but, lightning quick, Sandor grabbed a strap in the man’s armor and yanked down. Unbalanced as he was, the man was unable to slow the descent as his face slammed into the top of the table with enough force that the strap for his breastplate snapped. The sound of the man’s head slamming into the table was loud enough to be heard over the crash of the empty mugs. The man almost did a backflip as his backward momentum brought him crashing to the floor in a boneless heap. Kern’s voice calling for no violence went unheard as the six men scrabbled to their feet drawing weapons and shouting in alarm. For his own part, Sandor staggered to his own feet though it was clear that he was as unsteady as one might imagine. As the men jostled for position Sandor finally addressed them in a voice that held no small edge of menace. “Tuco,” Sandor swayed dangerously as if he were about to topple over. Kern watched holding his breath certain that he would and that the one named Tuco would gut him then turn on any witnesses. The dark thought was interrupted when Sandor continued. “I let you live today… all of you. Gather your man and move on. I won’t ask again.” Even as he spoke, Tuco and the others seemed poised to attack…