Outside, by the harbour... (thoughts of a Cimmerian)

Night had come and gone in Old Tarantia, the quiet hush of streets with the whore’s siren song and the occasional glint of a bandit’s dagger making place for the loud voices of merchants and the chitter-chatter of aimless nobles and fawning patricians alike. The noise was almost unpleasant, veering up to volumes that made the big northerner frown in displeasure at the nearest yeller (a thing that tended to quiet the smaller and less powerfully built city-folk).

Part of his quick anger where the events from last night, who were replaying in the man’s mind over and over again. Every expression of their faces, every glance they passed to him and each other, every word he could hear -be they shouted or soft-spoken- echoed through his mind. He pieced it all together, trying to see the little things he might have missed in the moment, before they were all clouded by time and the vagueness of memory.

As he passed a few trader’s stalls and perused the wares with an semi-intrested look, he found himself rather unsettled by seeing a fellow Cimmerian pass so lightly over giving allegiance to witches. In truth he’d known Ainsely only briefly really, but he’d assumed her measure was as true as her sword. Odd then, how she’d assume a few moments in a battle and a casual exchange of words over cups would be seen as cause to accord trust to nigh-complete strangers. A witch and a templar, to boot. How such easily-given trust could hold any meaning was a question he couldn’t quite shake. In a sense, both the witch and the templar had effectively given him enough information to see them both hunted down or burned at the stake, merely for being what they are. Crom, they were either the worst sort of fools or genuine in their attempts to recruit him through this rather unusual and direct manner.

It didn’t make much sense, until he tried to put the mere fact of desperation into account. Assuming that this man hadn’t arranged the killings himself, he was finding himself the target of many attentions and interested eyes - more malicious then benevolent, no doubt. With a city rife of back-stabbers and politicians (words that tasted surprisingly similar to Asmundr), it was more or less logical that a man with no ties and no allegiances here would be valuable. On top of that, it was true that a big, angry Cimmerian was always an asset to one who sought to inspire caution in his surroundings.

As he left the latest stall behind, not paying heed to the trader’s claims of selling both the cheapest and the best ointments in all if the city and beyond, the path of thinking grew more set on the core of the matter. The woman remained a necromancer. A stygian death-speaker who – to make the whole matter even more complex - was councilor to this man, a templar in his own right. It did not sit well with him, not even slightly. Was Ainsely blinded by her rather obvious affection for both others? It was possible. Cimmerian passion ran as high as any other, so it could not be discounted that this was just an intricate web she had wrapped herself in, one coil at a time.

He had said he would remain here until he could be certain of these people’s hearts and motivations. It would leave him with but two options in the end, he knew. If their cause was worthy and their hearts true, he would pledge his sword to it. But if this turned out to be otherwise, then he would have to act upon what honour dictated. By Crom, letting witches flourish was unthinkable. Foul, blasphemous wretches that needed to be put down by sword or flame. Unless they proved to be what they had claimed, but such things take keen eyes and a keen mind. He would need to stay for this very reason alone. This was – no matter how it turned out – too important to let it pass by without action.

As he finally reached the terrace that overlooked the harbor, he leaned against it, observing the sailors ready their ships and unload wares from far-off lands. A slow smile crept upon the bearded face, thinking of the things that were likely to cross his path. Time would tell, he knew. It always did. And he would be ready. One way or the other, he would be ready.