“Then they attacked the poor kid, for no reason. I did my best, of course, but I’m no fighter. They said they were from here, so I’m hoping I can find the kid soon.” Preston had just finished explaining the plight of a young tiefling, the ending of his tale from Scara Brae. The pair seemed slightly more interested in the young merchant after his story. But, before Preston could unsheathe the masterwork rapier at his side, another person walked up to the trio.

“Another tiefling? What are the odds...” Preston thought, a bit shocked to see another one after having just told the guard and his stout dwarven friend how he hardly ever saw the race. The man spoke calmly, evenly. The words felt though as if they were more tongue-in-cheek than to be taken seriously. The newcomer was taller than Preston, with a slightly wider chest, and a sly look to his sharp features. “A foreigner too. Maybe Akashima?”

Before Preston could ponder further, the man fluidly donned a mask without another word. As the merchant looked at the dwarf for confirmation on just how odd the interaction had become, he heard the heavy inhale of surprise. There was a slight grunt in that moment, and Preston turned back to the newcomer only to find a new mask of his own; this one a smattering of warm liquid.

It took a full second for the young man to register the event. He absently noted the wink behind the mask as the stranger turned away from him. The man started to dart into the crowded market leaving Preston to gather himself. He placed a gloved hand on his face and, with a dumbfounded wipe, pulled away a slick trail of blood. The metallic taste suddenly caught his attention, and his stomach churned as he looked towards the guard. The man was on the ground, hands wrapped around his throat and eyes wide.

“Guards?” Preston half-cried out. “Guards!” Around him people were muttering and pointing at the scene, at him. He looked at his hand and tried to rub it on his pants, smearing it with the spatter that had struck them. “Call the guards!”

Preston reached down and snatched the dead guard's crossbow, a bolt from the quiver, and pulled his mace from his belt. Suddenly his body was in a dash, shoving the ring of onlookers out of the way as he chased the assassin. He knew the direction the man had gone, but it was the shocked and angry crowd displaced by avoiding him that gave the young merchant his path. He ran as quickly as he could, his boots pounding the cobblestones, as he followed the frantic directions of citizens guiding him towards an alleyway.

“Halt!” He yelled, his voice an attempt at depth and command but underlined with the shakiness of someone far outside their element. He could have sworn that he heard it crack a little as he spoke. “You. Stop right there.”

The crossbow was leveled and he could feel his arms try and tense against the shaking of adrenaline. His eyes were so focused on the masked man he did not even realize that the crossbow was not only not primed to fire, it also was missing the projectile.