A/N: This story revolves around Ace from Suikoden III and takes place just before the Highland invasion of Muse in Suikoden II. In the third game, Ace mentions briefly that he served with Gilbert's mercenaries, so this is my take on his time in the Dundan Unification War. Hitman Bravo refers to the pen name used by Ace in his little adventure novellas published in the Budehuc newspaper. Please enjoy and comment if you have the time, thanks!

There were three things, Ace knew, that confirmed with absolute certainty the existence of evil in the world. The first was red headed ex-girlfriends — obvious enough to any young man who fell victim to their siren song and stuck around long enough to spot the warning signs that would ultimately lead them to the empirical proof that they were all crazy; the second, vegetarians— anyone who denied themselves the sublime pleasure of a slow-roasted shank of beast, basted in its own rendered fat and spices and washed down by a frothy mug of dark ale was no one Ace wanted to know; the third, as Ace had now confirmed, was Luca Blight.

The hulking and terrifying form of L'Renouille's despotic heir apparent emerged from the centre pavilion of the Highland Army's forward base camp, a cruel scowl across his visage as he scrutinized the various infantry and cavalry that had been assembled for his review. To his left, rigidly arranged into stiff marching lines were the various companies that made up the Third and Fourth Royal Highland armies. And to his right, arranged haphazardly, were the mercenaries, highwaymen, and cutthroats that made up Gilbert's Zexen Militia.

Ace felt a cold chill reach up his spine as Luca made his way closer, his aides struggling to keep stride with his impressive gait. Luca's assiduously muscled and towering physique was terrifying enough, but the closer he got, the more Ace could sense the awesome power that seemed to flow from the prince in wisps of malicious entropy.

Luca stopped short and regarded one of the mercenaries at the front of the formation, a dark-skinned gladiator from Caleria, Ace recalled, but his name escaped him.

"You!" the Prince shouted in the man's direction. "What makes you think you are worthy enough to fight alongside the Highland Army?"

The Calerian fighter glanced nervously to the other mercenaries at his side, clearly taken aback by the question and pausing thoughtfully before answering. "I am Jarod, my Lord Luca, I—"

Jarod's answer was cut short as Luca seized the Calerian by his throat with a heavily gauntleted hand.

"I did not ask for your name, swine," Luca said. "I asked what made you worthy."

"I…gladiator," Jarod choked in reply as he reached up with both hands in a desperate attempt to break the Prince's grasp.

Luca threw the mercenary to the ground with little effort, leaving him gasping mess on the forest floor. "Mercenary pig," he spat before returning his gaze to the rest of Gilbert's company.

"No matter. You've all been compensated well, and for that I expect you to be willing to die," he said, eyeing each of the unit commanders individually before resting his gaze on Ace. "I don't care about your thoughts on Highland or those Muse pigs; all I require is your obedience." Luca's eyes rested on Ace for a moment longer, and then with a furrow of his cape, spun around and strode back inside the officer's pavilion.

A Highland General who Ace recognized as Solon Jhee, commander of Highland's Third Army, resumed Luca's place at the front. "We march on Muse tomorrow morning," he announced. "You Zexen mercenaries will lead the advance. I expect the scum who escaped the burning of the Ryube fortress to meet you and try to slow our advance," Solon paused as the corners of his mouth curled in anger. "I do not intend to be made a fool of a second time."

"Heard Viktor and his boys gave Jhee a pretty good spanking in their last engagement."

Ace shifted his gaze from Solon to find Gilbert had nudged his way over. "That couldn't have been easy," he said. "From what I've seen of these Highlanders, they mean business."

Gilbert exchanged an amused grin before resting his sights on Solon who was now launching into a loquacious tirade about Muse's warmongering or the Unicorn Brigade massacre or some such. "I'll say this about Lord Jhee: he really loves to talk."

"Seems to be a trait he shares with our benefactor."

Gilbert elbowed Ace in the rib. "Watch what you say about the Prince; he's relieved people of their heads for less" he replied, eyeing Jarod who had just now regained his footing. "Poor kid."

Ace sighed heavily. What had he gotten himself into with this lot? At just twenty years old, Ace had already seen his share of war, but not like this.

Growing up in Vinay del Zexay, Ace's upbringing should have yielded a promising future as the son of a connected antler trader. The usefulness of nepotism aside, things don't always go as planned.

The truth of the matter was that Ace's father's skill in business wasn't in line with his ambition; he didn't have the stomach for business, and between a decade of poor decisions and the conflict between Zexen and the Grasslands heating up, there wasn't much room for prosperity. Add to that a propensity to live beyond his means, and you can begin to formulate an image of the kind of man Ace's father was. To him, image was everything.

If there was a lesson to learn, then it was what not to do.

His father's insistence to the contrary, Ace never saw himself as a trader anyway; there was something about the whole practice that Ace saw as inherently dishonest. This is not to say that Ace had any delusions of mercenary work as being wholly altruistic, but it was mostly honest.

Mercenary work did have its downside though. For instance, one often found themself at the beck and call of anyone with a potch to throw their way. Megalomaniacs like Luca Blight, for instance.

Ace reminded himself that his job mostly involved managing the unit's finances. Leave the butchering of women and children to the White Wolf Unit. His stomach turned at the thought.

Gilbert nudged him again, stirring Ace from being nearly put to sleep by Solon's drone. "Well, that was insightful," he drawled sarcastically. "C'mon kid, let's see if we can find ourselves some wine to wash that speech down."

Ace had always thought Gilbert was a good sort. The mercenary game had its fair share of unsavoury types, but Gilbert treated his men well, even if that meant stepping on the toes of his clients. A couple years back, before Ace's time, Gilbert even worked for Muse. Brand loyalty and repeat business weren't exactly a top priority for this lot.

Gilbert and Ace made their way to a pavilion that had been set up as a makeshift pub and barracks a couple miles southeast of the main Highland camp. Apparently the Highland officers thought it distasteful to be sharing their camp with a few hundred hired hands. Inside, the pre-battle ritual of revelry and debauchery had already begun with the majority of the unit either drinking, smoking, or gambling the evening away.

The men cheered Gilbert as he and Ace entered the tent. One particularly sauced merc offered up his seat to their captain and sauntered off to try his luck at the Chinchirorin table. Gilbert reached over to a nearby table and grabbed an ornately adorned wine bottle. "Whaddya say, quartermaster?" he asked, shaking the bottle gingerly "There room in the books for a bottle of Kanakan's finest?"

Ace rolled his eyes and sat down opposite of the Captain. "No, but I don't think that should stop us."

Gilbert bit into the cork and spat it off the side and poured Ace and himself a goblet of the meaty red liquid and grimaced as Ace immediately took a hefty gulp.

"Your whole generation," he mused, "you don't know how to take the time to savour the finer things in life."

Ace snorted in response. "This bottle is probably wasted on me," he said. 'I don't really know about wine, apart from the fact they all seem to have the desired effect."

"They do indeed," Gilbert said, producing a small pipe from his breast pocket and packing it with tobacco. "This your first time in Jowston?"

Ace nodded, taking another sip of wine. "First time," he repeated. "Aside from the occasional trip through the Grasslands, this is my first time away from Zexen."

"You miss it?" Gilbert asked, taking a deep pull off the pipe.

"Not really," Ace replied. "Fringe benefit of being a merc, I suppose; the promise of adventure, exotic locales, and even more exotic ladies doesn't always cut it."

Gilbert smirked as he took another sip from his goblet. "There he is. That's quite the line, kid; you been writing those stories of yours again?"

"Heh, not really."

"Well, if I never see Zexen again, it would be too soon," Gilbert continued, exhaling a plume of smoke and tapping the contents of his pipe in a nearby ashtray. "Not a lot of opportunity unless you're in the antler trade or one of those damn knights."

"Heh, true enough," Ace replied, downing the last of his wine.

Gilbert reached over for the bottle and topped up both their cups. "I'll have to head back eventually. Did I tell you that Mary and I just had a son?"

"Oh," Ace said, lifting his goblet in toast and taking another sip. "Congratulations."

Gilbert nodded his thanks and reached for his pouch of tobacco. "I just wish she'd entertain the idea of leaving, y'know? Can you believe she's never left Zexay?"

Ace furrowed his brow, his eyes trailing off. "Wow."

"I tried to move them down here when I was working for Muse," Gilbert continued, taking another pull from his pipe. "This country really grows on you."

"I suppose it's a shame then that King Agares seems to shit gold ingots."

"I wouldn't count Muse out yet," Gilbert shrugged. "That Mayor Anabelle is a tough cookie. I suspect Viktor and his boys will try and delay our advance until Matilda's reinforcements arrive."

Ace smirked from behind his goblet. "I wouldn't let His Majesty hear that if I were you— It sounds like you admire them."

Gilbert tapped out the burnt remnants of tobacco from his pipe. "Please, none of his ilk would be caught dead hanging around here. I understand them, is all. Besides, it doesn't matter how crafty the Jowstons prove to be—Highland can't lose."

Ace smiled weakly, staring into the last sip of wine in his cup. "I hope you're right. Backing the wrong side…it's not a good look."

Gilbert laughed as he reclined back in his seat. "Don't worry, quartermaster. I have a talent for knowing which way the wind is blowing."

Reaching over the table, Ace grabbed the bottle from Gilbert and poured the remainder into the boss' cup and pushed back from the table. "Well, on that note, I think I'm going to turn in; we have an early morning."

Gilbert's expression soured as he picked up the goblet. "Hey, you're not planning on leaving me to my own devices, are you? They say drinking alone is the first sign you're becoming an alcoholic."

Ace laughed as he made his way around the table, heading towards the officer's bunks. "I think that particular vice has been gaining on you for awhile now. Speaking of which, try to take it easy on the cellar; those provisions are budgeted to last the whole campaign."

Gilbert scoffed as he took a deep swig from his goblet. "Cheap bastard."

Hangovers, as it turns out, do not for a pleasant battle make.

Incidentally, there wasn't a great deal about battle that Ace found pleasant at all, owing chiefly to the fact that he was not a psychopath, which is more than he could say about some of his more colourful colleagues.

Although Ace wasn't entirely sure he was hungover, the signs seemed to support the hypothesis: Glazed eyes, check. Unbearable headache, check. Sensitivity to sunlight, check, check, check.

History, however, would indicate that it takes a great deal more drinking to arrive at such a state. It would seem that Kanakan wine simply didn't agree with him.

Ace and his mercenary company had been marching for about an hour now and led the Highlanders by at least a few kilometres, the Third Royal Army forming squarely at their rear. He recalled as General Jhee took great pleasure in reminding them of this fact as they departed, the implied threat of what fate might find any deserters hanging in the air. Pompous ass.

Peering through squinted eyes, Ace could make out the vague imprint of the ridge that led into Muse proper, and the three hundred or so infantry and at least half that number of cavalry that was forming on the horizon. "Looks like we found Viktor's militia," he muttered under his breath while his right hand slipped instinctively to the pair of sai at his waist.

"Looks like they brought some friends," Ace heard at his side and turned to see Gilbert stride up alongside. "Those must be Flik's cavalry."

"W-wait a second," Ace stuttered. "Flik? As in Blue Lightning Flik, the hero of the Toran Liberation War?"

Gilbert turned and regarded Ace with a disapproving glare. "You look like shit," he said, ignoring the other's query.

"That's because someone kept me up all night, bemoaning stories of home," he harked. "Besides, it seems Kanakan wine doesn't like me."

Gilbert scoffed as he pushed Ace aside and peered over the horizon.

"That's another problem with your generation, kid," Gilbert continued. "You can't hold your hooch, and you blame your mistakes on your elders with an almost pathological deference."

"And it's just like your generation to pass off life lessons while we're staring down a company of genuine war heroes."

"Whatever," Gilbert said dismissively as he produced a small flask from beneath his cloak and handed it to Ace. "How about a little hair of the dog?"

Ace grumbled, not keen on the idea of showing up to a battle half cut with the entirety of the Highland war machine at their backs. But, he supposed a tipple couldn't hurt and begrudgingly took a swig of the smoky-smelling liquor.

Gilbert allowed himself a small chuckle as he watched Ace's expression sour at choking down the cheap whisky. Turning to his right, he signalled a nearby sentry.

"Hey Arjan," he said. "Grab a horse and report to Solon that we've encountered his friends from Ryube."

The bright open fields of Muse Principality spread out in all directions, the grassy knolls smelling of fresh dew and sunflowers. On the far northern side, sitting just at the edge of vision, were the mercenaries in service of the Highland Kingdom, and on the far south side, arrayed in tight marching formation, the mercenaries of Muse. Both sides stared down one another, a couple upstarts on either side banging their swords and axes on their shields in an attempt to goad one another into making the first move.

But in the middle of this veritable powder keg, stood the mercenary Viktor, the man who had come to be known as 'The Northwind Bear' or some such nonsense by both his allies and enemies alike.

Viktor curled his lip in distaste as he remembered the moniker, not entirely taken with the name. It struck him as a cruel twist of fate that a haircut like Flik would be revered the world over for something as simple as the colour he wore, while poor Vik here had to suffer indignity just for having juicy muscles.

The mercenary leader was interrupted from his deprecating introspection as the sound of a mounted rider approached at his back.

Speak of the devil, he mused silently.

"Riou's boys are in position," the rider announced as he dismounted and stood next to Viktor. "I hope he and Apple know what they're getting themselves into."

"Relax, Flik. Apple's tactics are sound; Master Mathiu taught her well."

Flik rested his hand on the hilt of Odessa, as he joined Viktor in watching the Highland mercenaries. "It's not Apple I'm concerned about," he said. "That kid Riou is spirited, strong; but he ain't no McDohl."

Viktor allowed himself a small chuckle as he patted Flik on the back, much to the other's apparent chagrin. "Well, if you don't have faith in the boy, have faith in his training. Anabelle says that kid's the grandson of Genkaku, if you can believe it."

Flik cocked an eyebrow. "You're joking."

"Meh," Viktor shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. Remember when the son of a certain great general marched a bunch of farmers and peddlers on Gregminster?"

Flik felt a familiar feeling of nostalgia wash over him as he was reminded of those days, but pushed them aside; there was no room for wistful frivolities on a battlefield.

Viktor raised a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the morning sun and focused on the leader of the Highland company. "Hey Flik, see anyone you recognize?"

Flik followed suit and focused on the two officers at the front of the main column. "I've never seen the kid on the right before, but the paunchy guy on the left…Gilbert?"

Viktor nodded. "Looks like it, huh? Must be tough out there for a Zexen merc if he's taking money from that jackass Luca," he said, drawing Shiko from his back holster and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Wanna grab a coupe of your fire spears and go say hello?" he asked.

Flik paused, looking westward past the mercenary company. "Looks like General Paintbrush's army aren't far behind," he said. "They probably intend to use Gilbert's men to test our lines, then move in with their full army before our reinforcements can arrive from Matilda."

"Looks like someone has been reading Apple's diary," Viktor chided, absently tapping Shiko on his shoulder.

Flik closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. "It's not a diary, man. They're her notes for that memoir she's writing about Master Mathiu."

"Whatever you say, Blueto," Viktor laughed as he swung Shiko around and slid it back into its sheath before addressed the mercenaries at his back.

"Yo! Give the signal," he shouted. "Pull up your socks and grab your cocks, it's high time we give these Highlanders a slap they won't soon forget!"

Flik shook his head as he mounted his horse. "Just don't overdo it, Viktor. Solon, Culgan, and Seed will be here soon, followed most likely by The Mad Prince himself, and I would really like to keep my head for another day."

"Looks like they're committed to duking it out right here," Gilbert observed as he cast a sidelong glance at Ace. "Let's get to it, kid."

Ace sighed and gestured for the company messenger. "Signal the men to form a double line formation," he ordered. "We'll approach their men-at-arms head on, but I want the men to be prepared to form a tight infantry square in the event their cavalry try to flank us."

The messenger nodded his acknowledgement and relayed the order to each column.

Gilbert snapped his flask from Ace's clutch with a deep chuckle and took a final swig before tucking it back under his cloak. "Looks like our quartermaster fancies himself a young Silverberg!"

"Nothing like that," Ace assured him. "I may not look it, but I read a lot."

"Yeah, yeah," the other chided. "I know all about those cheap adventure novellas you're so fond of."

Ace often thought it odd how Gilbert always managed to dredge up such mirth before a battle but pushed the thought aside considering how quickly Gilbert emptied that flask.

Approaching the front infantry line, Ace outstretched his arm towards Muse. "Signal all swords drawn," he bellowed, drawing up a deep breath. "Forward, march!"

The Jowston mercenaries descended on them sooner than Ace anticipated, breaking into an aggressive charge as soon as both companies made it to flat land.

For the time being, it appeared that his gambit of forming the men into a double line was working; the Jowstoners tried to break their lines with a wedge formation, but the veteran Zexen militia stood fast and began encircling them on their periphery.

Ace drew his sai with a decorative flourish as the first Jowstoner charged him. The burly swordsman slashed at him with an overhead arc, but Ace managed to catch the blade in the tine of his left sai, deflecting it aside and impaling his attacker's neck with the right.

The Jowstoner fell to the grassy floor as one of his enraged comrades vaulted overhead, spear trained on the whites of Ace's eyes.

Ace dropped down defensively, crossing his sai and entangling the lance in between, but the spearman was strong and Ace felt his knees buckle beneath the other's attack.

But Ace was no knight, and didn't hold himself to restrictive notions of chivalry. Shifting the weight to his left leg, he brought up his right boot and kicked the lancer square in the groin.

The mercenary soldier cursed loudly as he lost his balance and was impaled from behind by Gilbert's sword.

"Should have worn a cup," Ace spat as he regained his footing.

"Get it together, kid," Gilbert commanded as he turned his attention to the next wave of Muse mercenaries who remained committed to splitting their line.

"Yeah, I got it," Ace countered as he regarded Flik's cavalry approaching their right flank.

Gilbert noticed it too and shouted for the men to form a square.

The company responded appropriately. The front line held fast while the rear dropped back into a tight square. Flik would have to be crazy to try and charge through them now.

What was more interesting, though, was that Viktor's infantry were halting their advance and allowed the Zexen square to fall back. What the hell were they thinking?

"It seems the Blue Lightning has underestimated us," Gilbert preened as he signalled the company to hold their position.

The Zexen militia formed a tight shield wall interspersed with spears on each side, but Flik showed no sign of slowing his charge, the horses in his unit breaking into fierce gallop.

"What the hell is he doing?" Ace exclaimed from beneath a bewildered expression. "He can't expect to break our formation…"

Gilbert narrowed his gaze at the approaching riders and felt his stomach drop through the floor. On the tips of each of Flik's lances was the faint glimmer of a lit fuse.

Gilbert shouted as loud as he could for the unit to break formation and scatter, but it was too late. As soon as Flik's cavalry was in range, their levelled spears erupted as brilliant flame shot forth from each tip and rendered the company's shields to ashes within moments.

Their infantry were caught completely unprepared. The soldiers at their flank dropped almost immediately while their periphery fell into chaos and around them.

Gilbert shouted various expletives in Flik's direction as the blue-clad mercenary circled his horse around and approached them slowly, sword sheathed.

"Have you become the kind of man who can sit idly while villages burn and children die screaming?" he asked, levelling a gloved hand at Gilbert. "Well, have you?"

Gilbert slouched forward, his sword dangling to one side. "You're all talk, Flik," he countered, but the words carried little weight. Ace found himself taken aback by the boss' sudden humility as all resolve died in his throat.

"You've lost your touch, Gilbert," came a jovial voice from behind.

Ace spun around to see the mercenary Viktor approach on foot.

"A proud warrior like you shouldn't take money from scum like Luca Blight," Flik continued. "How about you join our side?"

Gilbert sheathed his blade as he signalled the remains of his unit to do the same. "I guess this is fate…" he trailed off.

Ace sheathed his sai as he stepped alongside Gilbert. "But we've already taken payment from Highland…"

"It's for the best, Ace. We miscalculated, and we have to pay for that lapse in judgement. We've lost enough men for that ass clown Luca."

Ace scratched his head as he regarded the remains of their unit murmuring amongst themselves. "But mercenaries work for potch. If we can't pay them…"

"Muse will foot the bill, kid," Viktor countered as he stood alongside them and gave Ace a friendly slap between his shoulder blades eliciting a sharp wince from the much smaller man. "Besides, fighting for justice is it's own reward."

"But Muse attacked Highland first!" Ace shot back.

Viktor flashed a toothy grin at Ace and turned back to Gilbert. "Nah, that was all smoke and mirrors. We have it on good authority that it was Prince Luca that slaughtered those kids in Kyaro."

Ace groaned as he turned back towards Gilbert. "Well, that doesn't surprise me. How about it, boss man?"

Gilbert crossed his arms in resignation. "Okay, I'll do it."

General Solon Jhee paced back and forth in the map room of the Second Royal Highland's forward base camp. It had been half an hour since he received word that the mercenary company had engaged that bastard Viktor's army, and now he awaited confirmation of their demise.

In spite of his position as general, Solon secretly wished that the Zexens would fail; he wanted to personally avenge the sleight he had suffered at Viktor's hands at Ryube.

Solon sighed heavily as he plunked down unceremoniously at the map table and smoothed an index finger over his heavy brow.

Oh, how he detested waiting.

Solon was interrupted from his thoughts by one of the aides that he'd been assigned from L'Renouille, the name of whom currently slipped his mind.

"Would you care for more tea, Lord Jhee?"

The Highland general slammed a gauntleted fist down on the map board. "No, I don't want more tea," he exclaimed. "I want you to send another rider. I demand to know if those sell swords have made any progress."

The attendant, whose name Solon had just remembered as Stiles, placed the tea pot down on the table and gave the general a trembling salute before exiting the tent.

Solon leaned back in his seat and sighed again. Culgan had often advised him to be mindful of his temper, a task that Solon found difficult to abide.

Pushing back from the map board, Solon walked over to a nearby table where some food had been prepared and gulped down a piece of buttered toast.

Solon pivoted on his right heel as Stiles returned to the tent and offered a decidedly crisper salute. "Report," he commanded.

"Yes, General. One of our sentries has reported in. The Matilda Knights have appeared on our southern flank. General Culgan has taken half of the Fourth Army to intercept them. General Seed has taken the other half to guard our north-eastern flank in case the Muse army attempts to encircle our advance."

Solon nodded, reaching for a fistful of olives and plopping one in his mouth. "Very good, but what of the mercenary company?"

Stiles felt a lump forming in his throat as he fought to hold his gaze. "Well, it's not confirmed, yet, sir, but it appears they were routed by the guys from Ryube—"

Before Stiles could finish, one of the Third Army's messengers entered the tent and offered the general a stiff salute. "Lord Jhee, the mercenaries…they're falling in with the Muse army. We've been betrayed!"

"What!" Solon barked, the words were barely out of his mouth before he threw the fistful of olives at the pair. "That bastard Gilbert!"

The messenger, shaken by his commander's outburst struggled to find his breath for the next piece of information he wasn't keen on sharing.

"We…have also received a message from Lord Gilbert, sir. He has…issued us a refund for his services, minus expenses for the men he lost."

"Damn him to Hell!" Solon cursed, kicking over his seat and storming out of the tent.

"Inform the Fourth Army," he ordered. "We'll run those bastards down ourselves!"

The messenger barely managed to step out of Solon's path. "Sir," he replied. "Lord Seed appears to share your sentiment; he is engaging the mercenary Viktor as we speak. He seemed…quite enthusiastic."

Solon mounted his horse and drew his sabre. "Signal the Third Army to fall in; it will be I, Solon Jhee that kills these mercenary scum, not General Seed."

Stiles saluted before departing to make his preparations.

In just a little over an hour, the battle was over.

In typical City-State left-hand-not-knowing-what-the-right-hand-is-doing fashion, Matilda withdrew their knights the moment they met resistance.

Viktor and Flik's boys didn't fair much better once that crazy red-haired general threw himself in the mix, leading the charge ahead of his cavalry and Rage runeing his way through the centre of their lines.

Meanwhile Ace and Gilbert spent the entirety of the battle playing cat and mouse with Solon Jhee's Third Army, although with the disparity in numbers it was more like mountain lion and amputee mouse.

But when it seemed certain that Highland would overrun them, Solon ordered his troops to fall back to the border, leaving behind an ominous message that they would return in due time to crush Muse.

Viktor and the others had taken over the largest inn in Muse as their temporary base, which Ace had heard boasted a respectable tavern.

Ace sat down at an empty table and waved for the barmaid, a leggy brunette named Leona. Ace's womanizing gaze caught her steely grey eyes and slowly shifted to the sculpt of her shoulders and down to her slender figure and the tall hem of her dress, providing a momentary respite from the crappy day.

"Are you just here to sightsee, or are you actually going to order something?" She asked, making no attempt to hide her strong disapproval.

"Naw, girl," Ace soothed, his expression taking on his best toothy grin. "Forgive me, I'm just happy that the stories of your beauty aren't exaggerated."

Leona's expression softened and her lips curled into a tight smile. "Ho, ho," she giggled, filling a glass sleeve with ale. "That's a good line, kid, but you'd have to do better than that, even if you were my type," she said, handing him the sleeve.

Ace took a quick sip and looked Leona over head to toe once more for good measure. "And what is your type?" he asked.

"Not mercenaries," she replied flatly.

Ace leaned back in his chair, gesticulating with his free hand. "And what, pray tell, makes you think I'm a mercenary?" he asked.

Leona leaned in closely, her warm breath and subtle hints of perfume sending Ace into a momentary daze. She leaned in impossibly closer and whispered into his ear, "your tunic, it's still stained in blood and grime."

Ace felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment at having completely forgotten to change or bathe after the battle. "Well, that's just my day job," he replied, lacking a wittier retort."

Leona smiled in mock interest before turning to return to the bar.

"Wait," he called, searching desperately for something to say to peak her interest. "I happen to be a famous author," he blurted out, failing anything more compelling.

Leona laughed before turning away and Ace took comfort in at least eliciting a sincere emotion from her. "Sure you are," she called back before disappearing back behind her bar.

Ace breathed a heavy sigh as he settled back into seat and took a heavy gulp of ale. Perhaps he was losing his touch, he mused before settling in for the night.