The Smokey Eye

[The Drowned God]

A small, discrete tavern, hardly noticeable from the outside.

[Rumor]

Regan Darke shouldered his way into the tavern, throwing his hood back as he approached the counter. His eyes wandered over the small tavern warily, a place he'd never so much as heard of and had almost walked straight past, but the torrential rain outside had prompted him to find shelter quickly.

Ale in hand, he found a place to sit near the fire where he could wait out the downpour.

[The Drowned God]

Eyes followed Regan as he entered the tavern. It was not a place that was very accustomed to non-regulars.

A man approached him, dressed in boiled leathers, with a grey cloak hanging behind him. His hair was black, his face weather-worn and unshaven.

"Arron," the man iintroduced himself, taking a seat beside Regan and stretching out a hand.

[Rumor]

Regan shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the regulars, the idea off being soaked outside suddenly much more appealing. He had just decided to take his chances when the newcomer addressed him.

Doesn't exactly look the friendly type, but I sure as hell don't want to cause a scene here.

Instead, he settled back down into his seat, and took the man's hand.

"Regan. Not a regular patron, as you might have guessed." His gesture took in the entire common room.

[The Drowned God]

The man's face crinkled into a smile, "everyone has a first time everywhere. Where you from, Regan?"

[Rumor]

"Right here, actually. Grew up in Flea Bottom, spent some time the other side of the narrow sea, and the last few years wandering the Seven Kingdoms. A local yourself, are you?"

[The Drowned God]

Arron nodded, his eyes staring a fraction more intently at Regan than was usual, "just like yourself, a child of the Bottom."

"Wandering the Kingdoms, eh? You must have some interesting tales to tell. I always did have a weakness for a good story."

[Rumor]

He wants something from me. I've seen that look in men's eyes too damn often not to know. Whether or not it's something I'm willing to give....

Regan liked this man: street children of Flea Bottom had to look out for one another, after all, but he idly stretched his arms to ensure his hidden knives were in place. If it came to a fight, though he hoped it wouldn't, he was ready.

When Arron spoke, Regan sighed inwardly, and chuckled quietly.

"Sorry to disappoint, my friend. I've done little to warrant any good stories or tales in my life, and a lot to give birth to some bad ones. I hope alcohol will help soften the blow?" he queried with a small smile, ordering another an ale from a passing maid to replace his own empty tankard, and another for Arron.

[The Drowned God]

Arron nodded in thanks as Regan ordered him an ale. The young serving girl smiled prettily at Regan when she returned with a large tankard in each.

"Well I was going to buy you an ale for a story, but it seems instead I'll have to repay your kindness somehow. How about a riddle? Have you heard the one of the king, the septon, the rich man and the man with a sword?"

[Rumor]

Regan smiled. "I think I've heard something of the like, but don't let that stop you."

[The Drowned God]

"Well my thanks for entertaining me then," Arron said.

"It goes that a sellsword stands in the center of a room. He is a man, like any other, common born and common raised. In the room with him are three other men, who are by no means common. A king, a septon, and a rich man, who each desire an end to the other two.

"The king says to the sellsword, 'kills these two men, for I am your king, and I command it.'

"The septon says to the sellsword, 'no, for it is the will of the gods that you kill them.'

"The rich man says, 'great riches will be yours if you kill these men.'

"So the riddle is; who does the sellsword kill?"

[Rumor]

"This does sound familiar, but I can't say I got it right the first time. All depends on the man holding the sword, I suppose," he said with a smile.

"Though I'd have taken the money, personally. The nobility irritate me, for the most part, and as for the faith.....well, to each their own, I suppose."

[The Drowned God]

Arron waved a hand, "the answer is that power lies where we believe it to, as you say, it depends on the man," he said, as if the answer was extremely unimportant.

Arron stared at the fire for a moment, "tell me, Regan, who is responsible for the wars that have ripped our lands apart?"

[Rumor]

The sellsword shrugged, his eyes hooded. "Men kill men all the time, for as many reasons as there are stars in the sky........greed, honour, revenge, ambition." He paused for a moment, his eyes trained on the pitted tabletop before him, his tone growing increasingly bitter as he continued. "Yet in all my years as a soldier, I know only one thing for certain: the noble houses dance their deadly dance, and whatever losses they suffer are recovered and forgotten about before the next war comes around again. They dance, and it is only the truly innocent who are wounded where it hurts, trod underfoot."

The silence following his little speech stretched for what seemed an eternity, and Regan's face broke into a self-deprcating smile. "You'll have to forgive me, Arron. I'm afraid there's nothing like a drink and some time to think to bring put the philosopher in me."

[The Drowned God]

Arron grinned, "a man who doesn't spend time thinking about this world has no control over what happens to him in it."

He resumed a serious manner to continue their discussion. "True, the lords deserve their share of the blame. Put it was not the lords who went out single-handedly and slew all our men, who raped all our women, who destroyed our lands was it? No it was our own selves. We are the sword by which the highborn slash and hack at each other, but we do not have the excuse of being mindless pieces of steel as swords do."