Mercenary Camps Outside the City

[Horas]

Where Myr's great mass of sellswords camp.

[Horas]

Quentyn, wearing a helm that obscures his face, makes his way through the mercenary camps. He notes which companies are present and which are still taking on recruits.

[The Stranger]

There are a number of companies of Sellswords, organized around a standard. The Stormcrows, The Gallant Company, the Bright Banners, and the Brave Companions are all represented, each with approximately 500 men. Men are drinking, wenching, or cursing each other loudly, around camp fires.

[Horas]

Quentyn mingles among the disorderly companies, asking after a man -- a new recruit, Westerosi, and fitting Tomas' description.

[The Stranger]

After asking around, Quentyn is eventually pointed towards the Gallant Company. Some Stormcrows told him that they recently taken on some recruits from Westeros.

The Gallant Company had a large bonfire going in the center of their camp, with their tents around the outside. Eight men were seated on cut logs, drinking from metal flagons, and joking. Scanning the crowd, no one looks like Tomas, except for a man with his back to Quentyn, and a red hooded cloak covering his back.

[Horas]

Now that night has fallen, Quentyn removes his helm, feeling it attracted more attention than it avoided. He raises his hood and walks around the encampment, staying back from the fire. Once opposite of the red-cloaked man, he casually turns back to catch a glimpse of his face.

[The Stranger]

The man's hood was down, and he was gazing into his flagon. The fire cast long shadows, and from this distance, Quentyn could not be sure. He seemed a bit big, but maybe that was cloak.

[Horas]

Quentyn continues to walk past the fire, his body language not betraying any interest. Once out of the light, however, he doubles back so he is behind the red-cloaked man once again. He waits patiently in the shadows until the man moves.

[The Stranger]

as Quentyn is standing in the rear, two pairs of sellswords come up behind him. One throws his arm over Quentyn's shoulder, "Oii there Garth, hows c'm you didn't come to the tav' which us?"
He leans over into Quentyn's face expectantly.

[Horas]

Quentyn laughs while extricating himself from the arm. "You've got the wrong man, friend. Cheers to a good night though, eh?"

[The Stranger]

"No, I don't, quit playing Garth, don't be a prick, c'mon!" The man pushed back, and half pulled Quentyn down while trying to get back to his feet. His friends laugh.

[Horas]

His eyes wander back to the red-cloaked man to make sure he has not moved, then slips out of the drunken man's grip.

He spreads his arms in genial confusion. "I'm not Garth, fella. I don't even know who Garth is."

[The Stranger]

The man's eyes turned from the cloud of drunken confusion, to the focused red fire of drunken rage, and he lashed out with a meaty fist and slammed Quentyn across the jaw with his left hand.

[Horas]

Quentyn reeled back from the hit, seeing stars.

Quentyn had never been much of a brawler, but he felt like sliding a stiletto between the man's third and fourth ribs was not the correct solution here either. Instead he pulls a wineskin from his canteen and lifts it to his mouth. "Man!" He grins, "You hit like a bull! You like Lyseni wine?"

[The Stranger]

Unfortunately for Quentyn, the man's drunken furor was far from finished, and when he reached for the wineskin, the man hit him on the back of the neck, staggering him.