When the music comes to an end you find the minstrel seated beside you. \n\nInexplicable.\n\nYou talk for some time. \n\nInsignificance, mostly. \n\nA short time later you are opening the door to your [[room|eight]], the minstrel behind you.

During the night the minstrel beside you stirs, expecting that you are lost to slumber.\n\nYou are.\n\nThe name on the parchment you failed to read was [[theirs.|death]]

You lay back on your bed with a satisfied sigh as the bowl in your hands, now devoid of its delicious stewed [[meal|meal]], falls idly to the floor.\n\nYou know it's a pretty slack thing for someone in your line of [[work|work]] to do, but its been a long day, and you're just glad to still be in one piece at the end of it.\n\nAfter a moments rest you get up, keenly aware of the few specks of blood that need to be [[washed|two]] from your hair.\n\nYour daggers will be needing some attention too.\n

You've noticed a lot of people put great effort into befriending minstrels, bards and the like. People who seem to think generations to come should while away their time glorifying the dubiously important deeds of their ancestors.\n\nYou live with no such delusions.\n\nYou're about to leave when the minstrel begins singing, their voice accompanied by the echoes of a lute.\n\nThe minstrel plucks the strings with such exactitude, each note [[striking|five]] at you like a needle.\n

You dunk your head in a tub of cold water. The temperature doesn't bother you. You've learnt to endure worse. \n\nYour hair is short, easy to wash. \n\nAnd difficult to get caught or snagged.\n\nThere's a mirror near you. The edges of it are hazy and smeared, the cloth beside it good for little else other than pushing the dirt around.\n\nYou don't bother. It's not as if the reflection will be different from the last time you looked. \n\n[[Return to your room.|three]]

The following morning you lay back in your bed, throat cut by your own blades.\n\nIt would seem you were not the only assassin in the tavern last night.

A blade should always be given the respect it deserves.\n\nBy the time you've finished the fire has turned to glowing embers. You feel [[sleep|death]] approaching, but you notice the [[bowl|common room]] from your dinner still lying on the floor.\n\n

You're almost on your feet when the minstrel begins again. \n\nYou should know better, but you stay.\n\n[[Listen.|seven]]

The hall around you is empty, save for the fleeting impressions your footfalls leave on the carpet.\n\nFrom the sound of it all the tavern's patrons are in the common room. \n\nYou might take a look after you've [[cleaned yourself up.|wash]]

Minstrel

When you left your room there was nothing on the fireplace mantle except for dust. Now there is a piece of parchment there.\n\nYou know what will be written on it.\n\nYou have a brief moment to [[read|read]], or you can direct your attention [[elsewhere.|not read]]

Usually, when you are this close to another body, your daggers have already severed arteries or punctured organs.\n\nBut tonight is for [[pleasure|not read2]], regardless of what name the ink has formed on the parchment. \n

Usually, when you are this close to another body, your daggers have already severed arteries or punctured organs.\n\nBut tonight is for [[pleasure|read2]], regardless of what name the ink has formed on the parchment. \n\n

The following morning the door to a room has to be opened by a tavern owner. \n\nThe minstrel lays back on the bed, throat cut by unknown blades.

During the night the minstrel beside you stirs, expecting that you are lost to slumber.\n\nYou are not.\n\nThe name you read on the parchment was [[theirs.|read3]]

You listen to the minstrel long into the night. Each song suffuses a strange melancholy through the crowd. Despite this, no one departs.\n\nIncluding you.\n\nA few moments silence reminds you why you must be alone.\n\n[[Distractions.|six]]

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<p1>[[Minstrel|one]]</p1>\n

Sellsword.\n\nMercenary.\n\nCutthroat for hire.\n\nYou've been called a lot of things over the years, but you've never felt any of those words have truly articulated the finesse, or the truth, of what you do.\n\nExcept one.\n\n[[Assassin.|one]]\n\n

The room is charged with excitement, people bustling to and fro, eating and drinking, talking and laughing.\n\nYou place your empty bowl down on the bar, then settle on a stool, noticing a few cautious glances directed your way. \n\nYour attention, however, is fixed on an empty space. It has yet to be occupied, but people have crowded around it nonetheless.\n\nMoments later the crowd erupts in a cheer. The source of their interest becomes apparent.\n\nA [[minstrel|four]] will be entertaining them tonight.

The hilt of each, leather wrapped ebony, fit neatly in the palm of your hand. \n\nThe blades, inky black darksteel, reflect only a muted hint of light.\n\nYou really should [[clean and sharpen|daggers2]] them, but you are intrigued by whatever is going on in the [[common room.|common room]]

Your bowl is on the floor where you left it, your [[daggers|daggers]] sit uncovered on your bedside table.\n\n

Vivien Lengkeek\nthe dark wanderer\n@tdw_au

You always eat [[alone.|one]] It's too easy to get distracted when you're eating with other people.\n\n