Poet scowled as he walked along the narrow, shadowy back streets of Prontera. Sandle's stupidity had given him a huge headache, and that idiot Acolyte's bawling had only made it worse. It was like traveling with children sometimes, and he was rapidly running out of what little patience he had. What was the point of forming a mercenary squad if you couldn't hire anyone worth his weight in a fight?

The Thief frowned to himself, his bad mood worsening. The only other Deadly Smile capable of wreaking death like a proper Assassin was Mordekai, but he had that moronic knight-in-shining-armour complex going on. Poet couldn't understand why someone with so much strength would intentionally choose to limit himself, especially when he essentially served as a murderer for hire. A bruiser like that could rise to power very quickly in the criminal underworld, if he played his cards right and chose his allies carefully.

He paused as he saw a shady-looking figure eyeing him from a small side alley. After shooting the stranger a venomous, menacing glare, the Thief moved on without concern; he knew from his own experience that cutpurses and muggers preferred to look for easy targets, and a self-reliant adventurer with a big knife and a mean look wasn't worth tangling with – the risk far outweighed the reward.

Before long, Poet had reached his destination: a run-down, seemingly unremarkable curio shop next door to a foul-smelling tannery. He wrinkled his nose at the omnipresent stench as he pushed open the shop's door, triggering a brief cacophony of jingling bells and clattering chimes. He winced as the irritating sound caused his head to throb painfully.

After waiting for his eyes to adjust to the building's dim interior, the Thief looked around to make sure there were no other customers. His eyes slid over the dusty shelves and the exotic items arranged haphazardly upon them, indifferent to the mad plethora of archaeological artifacts and alchemical extracts – he was here to arrange some business, not to shop for useless trinkets. Ducking down to avoid bumping into an Orc skull hanging from the rafters, he made his way to the counter and saw, to his frustration, that the proprietor's son, Richard, was watching the store.

"G'afternoon, Poet," said the youth cheerily, scratching at his unruly brown hair. "I guess yer lookin' fer the old man, yeh?"

"Yeah. Tell him I'm here." Poet found Rich annoying, but did his best to treat him politely – he was the son of a trusted business associate, and it just wouldn't be a good idea to estrange him.

"'Kay. Stay here fer a sec." The boy scampered into the back of the store, calling, "Pa! Pa! Yer buddy Poet's here."

A moment later, a weatherbeaten, dark-haired, heavily bearded man with an eyepatch strode up to the counter. "Poet," he said formally, peering seriously at the Thief through his one blue eye. "Been awhile."

"G'day, Scratch. Sorry about the silence. Had to head to Lighthalzen for some work." Poet reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny package, wrapped with string.

Scratch raised his eyebrows. "That's a hell of a ways away. Merchant families?"

The Thief nodded. He trusted Scratch enough to share the minor details of his missions with him – he was a decent fence and a great source of information, and he had built up a good reputation amongst the crooks and ne'er-do-wells of Prontera by never cheating his customers or selling out his allies. That, and the two of them were old friends.

The shopkeeper held a hand out to receive the parcel Poet was holding, his eye alight with professional interest. Unwrapping it, he lifted out an elegant gold ring inlaid with an imperious crest. "A ring with the seal of the Montegarde family?"

"I figured you could find a use for it." The Squad had been hired on by the Allesti family and instructed to kill a specific Montegarde. The fellow in question had apparently cheated in a duel to the death against an Allesti, but nobody among the family was able to prove it, so they shrugged their shoulders and turned to assassins to find justice. Poet had to admire that kind of thinking. He also hadn't been able to resist picking up a few potentially profitable items along the way.

Scratch was obviously confused. "What am I going to do with this?"

The Thief ran his fingers through his snowy-white hair impatiently, fixing his old partner-in-crime with a calm stare. "While we were in Lighthalzen, I did some asking around. The Valinette family wants to challenge the Allesti monopoly on the textiles market, but they don't have the money to go up against a giant like that. Now, you know a few importers..."

The shopkeeper shook his head in amazement. "So I could sell the ring to a Valinette, who could plant it on an Allesti and then arrange its discovery, setting off a vendetta between the Montegardes and the Allestis that would weaken both families and leave room for the Valinettes to move in. Odin's beard, Poet, you've got the mind of a merchant prince."

Poet shrugged. "It's the backstabbing and lies that I like. The numbers and haggling are just boring to me."

Scratch laughed heartily, slapping the counter with one calloused hand. "Can't argue with that. Well, let's see; the ring itself would fetch a decent price, but given the circumstances it's come to me under, I can see how it would be worth a fair bit more. Now, exports to Lighthalzen are usually searched, but I think I know a guy with enough influence to bring it in... problem is, he's a real greedy bastard, and he'll try to gouge me for everything he can get. So, even if I accept a narrow profit margin, I'll still..."


Five minutes of negotiation and half an hour of chatting later, Poet emerged from the pawn shop with a satisfying weight in his moneypurse. He hummed as he strolled past the sulking mugger on his way back, the street rat's frustration further improving the Thief's mood. By the time he had reached the inn, he almost felt cheerful, although his face remained as dour and inscrutable as ever.

As he strode into the pub that took up the bottom floor of the building, the Thief spotted a familiar tall, lean figure sitting at a table in the corner. He approvingly noted that Mordekai had chosen his seat so that he could watch all of the entrances, then saw, to his frustration, that the Swordman was swaying drunkenly in place. Poet frowned as he sat down with his fellow assassin.

"Oh hey," slurred Mordekai, "Iss Pote. Potent. Poet." He raised his mug cheerily, then, after a moment of intense concentration, carefully guided it to his mouth.

"What did you do, head straight to the bar the instant you got into town?" Poet growled. Then, a thought occurred to him. "Wait, I thought Sandle took all your money."

"Did." The Swordman belched. "Fellas down at the warehouses 'll hire anybody. 'Sides, what'm I s'posed to do when," another belch, "urf, while Sandle's sellin' stuff? He'll be out there for... really late." He slowly began to sag forward, his long black hair coming perilously close to dipping into his mug, before he suddenly straightened up again.

"That's fascinating, I don't care," replied Poet, who wasn't paying attention. " Just don't give yourself a hangover, because I'm not waking you up if we have to leave for a job tomorrow morning."

Mordekai blinked for a few moments, as though trying to clear his vision. "Last job we did was a bad one."

The Thief furrowed his brow, puzzled. "What? How?"

"Too many fam'lies. Too many, uh... grudges. They were all mad at each other and now they're gonna be all mad at us."

"Shut up," hissed Poet. "We don't talk about work in public, remember?"

The Swordman paused, then staggered to his feet. "Err, yeah. My mist... my must... take. I got a room, so we should talk there." He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

"Sure, fine," said the pilferer hurriedly, climbing to his feet as well. He wasn't interested in carrying on a conversation with his intoxicated teammate, but he was even less excited by the idea of having their cover blown.

After a short but perilous journey up the stairs, Mordekai reached the safety of his room, with Poet following behind. As the door closed behind them, the Thief turned to face his taller counterpart, furious. "Idiot! Are you trying to get us tossed into prison?"

The warrior just shook his head, confused. "No, I just think the Monte... Munt... Mountie Guys would be super pissed if they found out we killed them."

"Yes," replied a seething Poet, "which is why we don't let anybody find out that we're assassins. We have enough trouble keeping everything under wraps without some moron blabbing it in front of half of Prontera!"

"Hey, come on." Mordekai held up his hands in an unsteady placating gesture. "'m sorry, okay? Not used to all this secret stuff."

"Yes, I know. You used to live on the plains with your tribe," Poet shot back nastily. "A big happy family on the plains, with no laws or society to worry about."

The Swordman slowly lowered his hands to his sides, staring silently at his furious companion.

Heedless, the footpad continued to rant on. "Everywhere we go, it's 'why do you make things so complicated?' and 'city folk are always in such a hurry' and 'you'd never see that happen in one of the tribes.' Did your big mouth get you kicked out, or did your tribe just leave you behind so that they wouldn't have to deal with your bleeding heart anymore?" He faltered as he realized that the object of his tirade wasn't trying to speak anymore.

Mordekai was ashen, his face poised on the agonizing brink between dispassionate calm and horrified fury. "Get out."

Poet hesitated uncertainly, realizing that he had struck a nerve. Normally he would have continued to needle his unfortunate victim, but the reaction he was getting was frighteningly different from the frank, blithe honesty that Mordekai usually exhibited. "Uh... look, just-"

The Swordman pointed at the door, his eyes unwaveringly locked with Poet's. "I said get out," he whispered.

The Thief weighed his options for the briefest of moments, then decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He backed out of the room wordlessly, closing the door behind him, and returned to the bar, where he spent the next hour nursng a beer and trying to decide whether he had been imagining the tears in his comrade's eyes.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Alright, it's been forever since we last updated. Forever. But it won't be again, this I can promise you. This chapter is a bit slower than the first two, and as you can see, there's a bit of a serious front approaching--we've actually got a pretty neat plot mapped out. For those of you wanting more interaction between Poet and Mordekai, it's coming, but you'll have to wait a bit for that, too.