Quentin sat in a particularly dark corner of The Serpent's Casque, drinking warm, stale beer out of yet another filthy jar. Watching a brawl between two filthy young vagabonds, he hoped that they would make their way towards him - it would please him immensely to be able to smash a couple of skulls.
He'd been lying low for the past week or so, squandering a good portion of the money earned from his last job on beer. While he could easily have afforded to waste a week in a much more reputable establishment, he had decided that, despite assurances of no reprimand, laying low was the best option after killing Count Burock's wife and eldest son. He'd no desire to have a run-in with the City Guard; that certainly would ruin him. The Casque also was a great place for finding other jobs, the pay given for the Burock job was impressive, but would last forever.
Oh great! An inaudible groan was given as, towards Quentin's darkened table, waddled an, unfortunately, familiar figure. Short, fat, filthy and with a stink that reached Quentin's nose even before the wretched idiot was half way to the table.
"Another job, I take it?" Quentin wasted no time as the fat man sat, once again, opposite the mercenary. Taking a deep gulp of the warm beer to stop himself from vomiting at the awful smell of this awfully abhorrent little round man, Quentin waited for a response.
"Ah, tha' there is. Ya t'..."
"Jus' gi' me the damn paper, and ge' ou'a my sigh'."
"Well, tha's t'thing, ya see. I wa'..."
In a smooth, swift motion, Quentin had drawn the slightly curved broadsword and placed the point of the weapon a half inch from the neck of this awful fat man, making it clear that no further conversation would be had. Of course, with the drawing of a sword, many eyes were drawn towards the darkened corner but Quentin ignored them for the moment, keeping eyes firmly on this abomination. The fat man threw down a piece of parchment, sealed with the same insignia as the previous job, then threw his hands into the air, massive dark patches on his attire where sweat must have been pouring from his armpits.
Standing up and backing off, waddling back to wherever it was he came from, the fat man left and Quentin resheathed his sword. Picking up the parchment, Quentin wondered what the Count wanted from him this time, also hoping the pay would be just as good. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment, and read from the same pristine, noble hand:
I, Count Sorthus, of the Queen's Court, hereby request, due to your performance in executing the family of Count Burock's family, that you bring my beloved daughter back to me.
She has ran away from home and the responsibility of marriage. I am of the belief that others are assisting her; you are to also provide whatever punishment you see fit upon these people.
Precedence, however, must lie in bringing back my daughter unharmed.
For this repeated employ you will be paid either a sum of three hundred(300) gold pieces, standard weight; or one hundred(100) gold pieces, standard weight, and a weapon or armour upgrade at the local bazaar, the cost of which will be met by myself.
I look forward to doing business once more with you, and trust your success will be complete and swift.
Yet another seemingly easy job in the works gave Quentin a rather satisfied grin as he threw his feet onto the table, leaning back in his chair to get as comfortable as possible in this hell hole of a tavern. Taking his pipe and lighting it, the mercenary decided that an extra hour or so of rest would do no harm.