[Carrûn]

“You spoke fondly of the sea before…have you ever sailed upon it?”

The man removed the pipe from his mouth. "Once," he said shortly. Rising slowly, he replaced his pipe in his jacket. The embers of the Sun were dying out. He turned to Rochelle. "Now is the best time, the shadows of dusk." Walking around the hilltop that had provided the small camp with cover he glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Stay low, duck & weave." Slowly, ever so slowly the two approached the city from the rear.

Upon reaching the wall the man turned so that his shoulder pressed against the wall, then began walking. Rochelle could have sword he was mumbling until she realized he was counting softly to himself. Upon reaching whatever number was accurate, he halted. Squatting down he quietly pushed aside a row of bushes. Finding the small, stream-like entrance he drew a knife and cut away the foliage. Ducking inside, he beckoned over his shoulder for Rochelle to follow.

The tunnel was dark, damp, and possessed a thick air that made movement almost dreamlike. Soon the wet ground began to give way to wet boards and then dry boards. Suddenly the man stopped. Groping forward in the darkness his hand touched the outer "wall" of the closet he had almost run into. He pushed the handle to the side softly and the wall opened. Walking into the closet the man turned and whispered - "Wait here for a minute, then follow." He then entered the Inn.

The sight that greeted his eyes was not one that a traveller would usually associate with an Inn. The fire was long dead, the tables not cleared; half-eaten food sat idly on the bar while a cat scurried across the floor into an adjacent room. All sense of life was gone. The man's face brightened somewhat when he saw the small, fat form of the Innkeeper slumped in a chair with his face away from Awrygan. He appeared to be reading or sleeping. Walking up behind him Awrygan tapped him on the shoulder. "Innkeeper..." There was no response. Quickly loosing patience the dark-tempered man grasped the other's shoulder and spun him around to face him. When he did so he stopped short. The man was dead. Moreover, his face was horribly mutilated and his wrists bore the markings of cruel bonds. Awrygan did not bother to investigate the dark stains that covered the man's shirt. Finding a spare cloak hanging in the corner of the room he covered the small figure with as much dignity as possible.

A bitter taste was in his mouth. Walking around to the back of the bar Awrygan found a rather large bottle and a glass. Sitting down at a table he was in the process of pouring himself a drink as Rochelle cautiously rounded the corner. She looked at him quizzically and he shrugged and nodded towards the still form in the corner. “I don’t think we’ll be staying here as long as planned. They appeared to be wonderfully slow with him.” A dull flame was flickering in his eyes and tension resonated from his dark frame.