The Stranger

Generations of fetid odors dwelt within the centuries-old low-ceilinged tavern. Stale ale, sour wine, rotten fish, ship’s tar, unwashed humanity, blood, and many other unidentifiable stenches fused into a malefic, almost palpable presence within the small, dimly lit Gallows Tavern.

A notorious hang-out for thieves, cut-throats, smugglers, pirates, and all manner of ne ‘er-do-wells; the Gallows was infamous for thousands of miles around. The Fishers Wharf region of Arelport, in which the Gallows was situated, was only slightly less notorious. The city guard would rather cut their own throats than enter the Fishers Wharf; for with the former death would at least be quick and relatively painless; whereas, the latter means of suicide would prove to be a long, agonizing and shameful sort of death. As long as the denizens of the Fisher Wharf remained within their own areas, and out of the better parts of the city, all was well in the minds of the City Guard, who couldn’t care less if such scum killed themselves off.

Within the Gallows, Kyll felt right at home. He’d frequented such dives for so long that he couldn’t remember anything different. Shifting his corpulent bulk, and seeking a persistently irritating louse within his stringy black beard, he pondered the lean stranger seated across from him.

Lean, brown-haired and bearded, the stranger was dressed, as were most of the Gallows’ patrons, in well-worn and crudely made clothing. But he wasn’t what he appeared to be. Glancing at the well-calloused right hand, and the contrastingly less calloused left one, it was clear that here was a well-practiced swordsman, and one who fought right-handed at that. I wonder if the ass thinks he’s fooling anyone, Kyll thinks to himself.

To make matters worse, he’d been poking his nose into other people’s business; Kyll’s business, to be precise. But, Kyll thinks to himself, nosy fool or not, he’s free with his ale, and he’s been hinting at some money to be made. As thin as my pursue has gotten, he thinks ruefully, that makes him worth listening to!

"So as I was saying," the other man asserted, breaking into Kyll’s revery, "I’ve long sought out a certain type of man." Take a long pull of his ale and stretching out his long legs, the stranger continues, "I think you may be just the type of man I’ve been seeking."

"An’ what type o’ man are ya lookin’ after, m’ Lordship?" Kyll asks, trying, not very successfully, to keep the sneer out of his voice, at the glaring contrast between the man’s poor clothing and his well-educated manner of speech.

Gazing at Kyll with a disturbingly cold, grey-eyed glance, the stranger responds, "Your sort I believe." Glancing around the smoke-filled tavern to ensure that no one was listening in, he continues, "I’ve heard a lot about your exploits in Huhlport a few years back. I’m sure you know what exploits I refer to."

"Aye." Kyll replies with a snort, "Though jus’ war your Lordship heard o’ this I be curious to know. Not allowin’ the truth of it, ya understand." So saying, he rubs his corpulent belly in seeming appreciation of the ale he’s drank, though in actuality, he wants his belt dagger to be near-at-hand. This thrice-damned stranger knew too much!

Setting his tankard down, the lean man glances at the other’s hand in obvious recognition of Kyll’s intent. Smiling in wry appreciation of the other’s wariness, the stranger speaks on, "No matter, and no concern of yours."