Preston could feel his arms quiver as he tried to steady the crossbow. He could feel the hair on his arms and legs begin to stand on end, feel the goosebumps tickle their way down his back to his legs, pushing against his clothes. Between the adrenaline and the scent of blood, and his burning lungs from the short jog, the young man could feel the bile clawing its way up his throat to the back of his mouth. He tunnel-visioned on the man in front of him. The coy nature of the assassin both frightened and angered him more.

“I can kill him. He can kill me. What the hell am I doing? The guards better be on the way.” The stream of conscious screamed in his head as the man began to wander towards him. His swagger was smooth, confident, infuriating. Preston listened as he tried to take everything in. Slowly he lowered the crossbow and shot multiple, quick glances at the weapon trying to see if the man was right about it being loaded. After a few darting glances, he lowered it and slung it by the leather strap over his shoulder.

As the man grew closer, Preston held up a gloved finger still dripping with slowly coagulating blood. His ears were ringing, but he could still hear the man’s words as sharp as a knife, yet as slick as one covered in poison. “Wait.” he said, burping up acidic bile and holding back the desire – insistence – to wretch. “Are you trying to buy weapons from me?”

Preston inhaled deeply and stared at the man. Deep into the dark blue eyes, his own crystal blue slowly graying with the emotions overwhelming him. He raised an eyebrow and half-turned around, but immediately reminded himself of the situation. In the distance, he could hear the clatter of slap-shod armor from the Beat Watch, patrolling the area and trying to find the pair. Suddenly he remembered he was holding his breath and exhaled heavily.

“I know about the underworld,” the merchant finally said under his breath, as if someone was listening that would implicate him in a negative way. “My Patron would be very unhappy if she didn’t get her money back, so I don’t think you would want to...” he lifted the mace from his belt and tapped the head lightly against his chin, “get rid of the witness, I think you said?”

His voice was shaky, wavering, but he was trying to push what little confidence he had into his response. It was not a lie, he had taken a significant loan out for a few transport ships between Corone and Scara Brae and she would be very unhappy not getting paid for them. “I also –,” he coughed, and repositioned the mace with his off-hand and reached with his left hand to the hilt of the kukri in its sheath across his back. He tried to, and failed, to pull his faux confidence together. “I also don’t take threats kindly, or good – well I mean. I don’t take them well. I don’t like them... you know what I mean. If you want to fight, let's do it. But I’m a thinker and a trader first, so it would be embarrassing to have to lose to me...”