In his right hand lay a single gold piece, and in his left sat an ornate silver ring on a chain. Malark os Mys Shari stared at them with a mixture of frustration and longing. He leaned back and sighed, his decision still escaping him and glanced around. The dim tavern was busy without being full, but his drinking companions were mostly mild-mannered sailors and tradesman taking in the long day. The only notable individuals were the innkeep, alert and continually glancing his way (no doubt frustrated at his lack of patronage than truly suspicious) and the halfhearted minstrel in the corner, waiting for someone to dance. His ale sat warm on the table, mostly untouched; he had more on his mind than merriment.

Both of his palms felt heavy, and as he opened them again his mind was drawn back to the subject he had pondered on his journey. The coin in his right hand meant freedom, he would go to the shipyard tomorrow and purchase a small vessel. He would hire a crew and strike out for the Sword Isles, He knew his trade and longed for the smell of the salt air and a true storm to test his magic against. With just a thought of reaching the goal he worked so hard for, excitement pumped in his veins and he could feel the return to his beloved sea pulling him strongly; surely the fates wanted him back where he belonged.

But he had no plan! No purpose other than fulfilling that part of his soul that ached. He could fulfill all his desires, but it would take almost his entire fortune from the past campaign. The life of a sailor was never easy and without a job, a trade or a contract. He was not likely to stumble into wealth right away, and the love of a crew only lasts so long when bellies are empty, and shore is weeks away.

Oppositely in his left hand, the triple lightning bolts of Talos etched into silver still sparked rage inside him. His acolyte ring, stolen from the Lords of the Tempest upon his escape, was now worn as a lucky charm. Following the path of vengeance, he had true purpose; he had traveled with adventurers, fought with dragons, and vanquished a blight upon the world. He left dripping in glory and set out with his pouch full of gold... only to find himself dwelling once more on the ghosts of his past. What good was his new battle magic if he wasn't casting it against evildoers? What would happen to the next victims of the Lords if he did not track down and obliterate that dreaded caste before it struck again? Could he really turn his heart back to the sea and ignore the next coven of hags or band of pirates or singing troll he ran into? It seemed folly to even think about and his fingers twitched with sparks and ice crystals as he longed to unleash his fury on those that kept him from his peace.

This constant back and forth was getting him nowhere. He took a gulp of warm ale but that was no better, and he seemed to fall back into the same spiral of thought when the door banged open, interrupting his musings. Two men, mercenaries by the state of their armaments and the scowls on their faces, sauntered into the bar past Malark and called for service from the inkeeper. They had barely grabbed their ales before they set off with purpose towards a lone hooded stranger in the corner near the fireplace.

Intrigued, Malark half-listened, placing the coin back with its brethren and hiding the ring under his tunic while he pretended to nurse his ale. Snippets of conversation followed, but he only caught the word "job" and a few details here and there. If Malark was a betting half-elf he would say that this stranger was being hired for wet-work. While he had collected a bounty or two in his day, professional assassins were something he didn't have much tolerance for, but this stranger seemed to be cut from a different cloth. No words reached his ears, but the voice was higher, almost musical, and by the way the gruff twins were reacting, the stranger seemed to be rejecting them cold.

The regulars had cleared out as voices had started to rise in anger, and even the minstrel had fled upstairs to safety. As for innkeeper he backed to the corner, reaching under the bar for a weapon to hold onto as the burly men grew louder and more impatient. The only ones who didn't seem to be blustering or panicked were Malark and the stranger; the former was too intrigued that he forgot to consider fleeing and the later was seemingly completely at ease, as if the thought of those two as a threat was... cute.

Eventually a rusted dagger made its way onto the table and to compound the complete lack of subtlety, the first Mercenary (Mentally dubbed Beard by Malark) bellowed at the stranger. "You gonna take the Job 'r me n' da boys will do ya in."

The barely intelligible threat would have been doubtlessly followed by another if a high-quality blade hadn't been slammed into the table in front of the dagger, silencing any more grunt-speech from either ruffian. Malark noted the fine craftsmanship in an elegantly crafted kukri blade and registered a flash of purple before the stranger's voice spoke up much clearer than it had before.

"Now I'm repeating myself, you clearly are idiots, so I'll speak slowly. I'm... not... like...my...kin. Now the only reason I accepted this little meeting was because it was supposed to be with Hookhand himself. You're clearly no more than hired muscle and the cheap sort in fact. So please leave me before I cut out your tongue, saving anyone else cursed to talk to you from a spray of spittle." What followed was a mixture of insults in elvish barely loud enough to make Malark choke back a laugh.

Malark watched in a mix of awe and amusement as this petite, well-spoken figure finished scaring the crap out of two mercenaries and withdrew her blade from the table. All things considered the matter seemed closed and she sheathed her blade and backed away from the scene.

Suddenly the frightened innkeeper knocked over a row of tankards lifting a clearly too heavy ax. He seemed to be trying to put a blade between him and the quarreling threesome in case they caused more than just holes in his table. The brutes were galvanized by the presence of an audience that could report on their cowardice and failure, and they lunged towards the stranger with a vengeance. Beard reached her first but was quickly sidestepped. In a blur of motion Malark could not follow he was tripped/thrown past the stranger and into a set of chairs behind. She moved fast and smooth as the wind towards her second opponent and blocked his dagger hand, striking him as he backed towards the bar, but keeping her blade sheathed to prevent bloodshed.

While she handled her opponent with ease, her focus was occupied, and Beard was starting to stir. Without thinking, Malark uttered a quick spell and a magical hand appeared over the stirring mercenary and planted his head back into the wooden floorboards, cracking them (clearly it had been filled with rocks).

As the stranger dispatcher her opponent she turned at the sound and her hood fell off her head. Malark recognized a kindred half-elf immediately, and the purple he saw earlier shown brighty in her eyes as a violet hue. As his eyes roved her features he noticed her hair had the same matching color on the tips. She seemed to not register his presence at first, looking first at her fallen foe before turning back and meeting his eyes.

Malark attempted to act casual (damn unconvincingly he thought while looking at those eyes). He drained the last of his ale in a gulp before putting the tankard down and keeping his hands on the table in non-threatening positions. Yet she still seemed to sense his capabilities as her hand lay lightly on her blade's hilt for the first time since the altercation had begun.

The stranger raised her nose and seemed to sniff the air with slight disdain. "Magic.. what a nuisance. I had that well in hand."

Stifling a chuckle at her tone, he replied with a smile "Well at least one of us here had to be a gentleman. Two on one is a rather unjust affair."

After a few beats of silence and intense eye contact she seemed to accept this and assumed a more casual stance. "Well Mr. Gentleman, since you deprived me of trying to decipher his piss-poor attempt at Common to find out where his boss's lair is... I suppose I'll go now." She lifted her hood and made for the door but spared more than one glance back at her seated companion who made no secret of staring at her as she left.

Malark sat there for a while, attempting once more to sip at an empty tankard before he realized how rattled he was by that brief encounter. He pushed back his chair and paid the barkeep with a handsome tip "for the damages" and left the inn himself. He was making his way back to his trusty horse Emerald when the thoughts of violet and the smell of flowers was shocked out of his system by a realization.

He needed to find her again.