The acrid smell of wood rot filled the tavern from years of spilled drink and human filth soaked into the grains of the tables and stools. The tenants' natural odors attempted to distract from the aroma only to add a layer of unbathed ruffian and the copper tinge of blood. It was funny how the swill they served almost tasted as it absorbed some of the stank in its brewing process as I gulped another mouthful of lukewarm ale.

Why was I here? I asked again to break the silence of my internal monologue. I knew the answer every time, but the question repeated like the pleading final words of a man about to face his inevitable demise. Where else would I go? This scar over one of my green eyes, this white hair even though it was cut short, and the overall look of someone who haunted the memories of so many Althanians. The Scourge of Skavia, Serpent of Salvar, Crimson Assassin, The Hand, bastard, murderer, blah, blah, blah...

The mug in my hand slammed to the table just loud enough to redirect a few eyes in the middle of their conversations. I drew a long breath and sighed-- a sight the occupants recognized as all too normal in the dive bar outside of the mainland. They snickered or scowled and returned to stories and rantings of things either true or overly embellished.

You could say that I felt a sense of pity toward myself but that wouldn't skim the top of the truth. You see, I lacked a sense of direction. I no longer controlled the Crimson Hand, nor had ties to figures like Arelianus, Madison, or Scarlet, the monster I created from a noble with a mystical gift. I stood alone again at a place where my roots were firmly grown and entangled. A lone solder or killer whose only motives lingered behind the sinister set of eyes that met with strangers. That is what brought me comfort. My vision, unimpaired from more alcohol than needed to floor a Kachuk Dwarf, settled on my blades to my side. Were it not for their meticulous care, you could almost see the layers upon layers of both the guilty and innocent painting their sheen in a wash of ichor. I felt indifferent-- no guilt or pleasure from this knowledge because again, it all lacked something.

"A'notha for ya, sir?" sang a middle-aged woman with her tits barely in the hammock of her blouse. Experience soaked into every pore of her face and though she spoke with flirtatious cadence, the repetition of her work hollowed the husk she wore.

"No," came my delayed reply. I pulled a few shillings and a silver from my pouch and laid them atop the filthy table. I slid them toward her and gestured an open hand. "My tab and the rest to keep."

"Why thank ya, darling!" She fetched them off the table with a practiced motion. "Enjoy your afternoon!"

Darling My lip curled and head shook as she turned away to tend to the hodgepodge of bodies that occupied seats elsewhere. Such a word of endearment unsuited for what I had become. Yet, hearing it mused enough of a pseudo smile.