A seedy Tavern in the Westerlands...

[The Flint]

(Representing a seedy Tavern in the Westerlands, away from the main Tourney areas.)

A rundown and decrepit Tavern, where questionable sorts come to hire on as sell-swords, thieves or thugs.

[loremaster]

Auric was still quite sober, but only because he couldn't afford more beer. Instead, he stared at the last mug, refusing to sip it for fear of being tossed out aftewards. He had just the silver from his last job. It was not a very pleasant job, dismembering a missing second son for a noble father who feared a future threat to his heir's inheritance. The child was only nine.

Ser Auric Ashtongue was a fighter damnit, a knighted warrior! This was simply not becoming of him. But that never seemed to stop him from taking more jobs. So he stared at the mug, hoping to forget about the week's events by imagining what those last sips of beer might taste like.

[The Flint]

"Care for another drink sweetling?" said a voluptuous and raven-haired beauty, her peasant top hung low in a manner which probably helped with the tips." Her long black hair was tossed over her shoulders nonchalantly, in an attractive, yet disheveled manner which suggested she'd recently been bedded.

[loremaster]

He stared up at her, searching for the nearest witty remark he could come up with. Unfortunately, the best one turned out to be, "I hope that's an offer." as even the possibility of warm flesh was not enough to raise his spirits.

[The Flint]

The woman's laugh was light and airy. "Is the good ser so far down on his luck that rather than buy a thirsty wench a drink, he hopes she'll buy him one?" She appraised him with a keen eye, looking at his sword arm, his mannerisms.

"Big tough fella like you shouldn't ever be light in the sack." She smiled, "of coin." She sat down, straddling the chair across from Auric suggestively. "What's your profession that pays so miserly?"

[loremaster]

He leaned back, examining her in kind, though certainly without interest in her arms. "I'd be a poor cretin to allow myself into any profession that pays without profit. But profit, milady, is a very vague concept. Coin is rarely an issue, for I am the rare man who rarely refuses employment. Not so rarely, I find I lack a head for finances. So you find me not quite broke, madame. Simply in a hiatus of fortunes."

He enjoyed examining her features while he spoke, partially because he already doubted his chances of ever examining her further. He was not such a monster that he viewed them as mere entertainment... but he still quite enjoyed their attractions when possible.

[The Flint]

"A hiatus of fortunes?" the woman chuckled again, leaning down, to bless Auric with a glimpse of cleavage. "Oi, Barkeep, two ales if you'd be so kind." The lady, if you could call her that, placed a fat handful of silver stags on the table. As the barkeep responded to the coinage with two large frothy ales.

"So what would you require to end this hiatus?" the lady asked with a voice which dripped with a kind of sincerity.

[loremaster]

He allowed himself finish his first mug before responding. He wasn't sure if this was an offer or a tease, but he made sure he would take advantage of it.

"Well, first, it would raise my spirits if you remained poised at that angle a little longer. And second..." He was almost as distracted by the view as he was by the stags. "I'm curious if you intend to spend all that on alcohol, because there are so many other uses for silver."

[The Flint]

"And what can I purchase with silver from you?" the lady says, a smile on her face as she leans back, cheating Auric of any further leering. "Are you for sale my good ser?" She says. For a moment the happiness disappears from her eyes, and Auric sees a steely gaze. But in a flicker the look is gone, and the lady seems all the world like a playful, bawdy wench.

[loremaster]

Auric knew what she wanted, "Who can remain free for long in this world of drowned gods and mad kings?" He had suspected it was an act when she first arrived at his table, but a pretty liar is still pretty. No point in ignoring beauty.

[The Flint]

"Shall we go upstairs where things are a little more private, my dear little sell-sword?" Assuming his acceptance, the raven haired lady took Auric by the hand, heading up a rickety set of stairs, to a small room, with a cot. It featured little else. The woman's teasing demeanor disappeared.

"What's your name?" She said, pointedly.

[loremaster]

"Auric. Ser Auric Ashtongue of the North." His tone was quite flat and business-like. He recognized an interview when he saw it.

He sat on the cot, making himself comfortable. "I'm going to assume your client wishes to remain anonymous."

[The Flint]

The woman nodded curtly. "A thought I judged you for a northman, that's good. I'm going to make you a proposition, just listen to it, and i'll give you this bag of silver. Even if you say no, the silvers yours, and we go our merry ways, with you not repeating a word of this to anyone. But if you accept, well than there might be more in it for you." Seeing Auric's agreement, she continued.

"My employer wants an Ironborn at Casterly Rock killed. Doesn't have to be highborn, wearing Harlaw or Greyjoy colors is close enough. And the killing needs to appear done by a Bolton, or one of their bannermen, and publicly. If ya shout for the Dreadfort, or something like that, it's enough to do the trick. Get yourself some Bolton livery for when you do the deed too. Can you handle all that good Ser?" the woman says the title with a trace of irony.

[loremaster]

He was laying on the cot, staring at the ceiling while she spoke. When she finished, he lay there for another minute before speaking, "I believe you're paying me to trigger a war between the two most powerful houses in the North. Now as a Northerner, I might be offended, but the deeds and machinations of great men are beyond my station. So I can only hope that as a man putting away his morals and pride for his homeland aside... you'd have something more than silver to replace my conscience."

[The Flint]

The lady nodded curtly. "Fair enough, tis true Flayed men and Krakens have no love lost between them, and if greater things come of it, I doubt my employer will be either surprised or dismayed. But its not my place to ask those questions, which means it really ain't your place sweetling." The woman smiled. "And if you expect me to believe you give a mummer's fart for your homeland, you've got the wrong wench."

"I've got this bag of silver," She produced it from her skirt as if by magic, "For you now, and another one the same size upon completion. That'll keep you in booze and cooze for quite some time." She said crassly. "Are you game or no?"