milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's a rusty, stuttered rumble from the elevator shaft.

It sounds a little a motorcycle engine turning over in reluctant life before finally shutting off, echoing a little in the shaft and the garage.

The DOWN button blinks green. The lit 1 flickers, changes to GL, then changes again as gears turn and a low whirrrr sounds from behind the close doors before they open with a cheerful ding! that makes the man behind them wince and shoot the control panel a suspicious look.

He hates electronics.

Worse, he has to duck, so the top of the door doesn't clip the edge of the six-foot, cloth-wrapped cross he's carrying on his back, one hand slipped through one of a dozen or more black leather belts strapped around the thing, keeping the cloth in place. "Ahhhh..." he complains, slipping a pair of sunglasses off his face and giving the room a bemused glance. "I knew that caravan leader gave me the wrong directions. But what sort of man lies to a priest? Still, Mei doesn't lie to the east, Wolfwood, you moron. You should have trusted your instincts. After all, look where you've ended up!"

This monologue delivered as he walks into the room, and slouches onto a seat at the bar. The cross lands beside him, with a distinctly metallic thump as its foot hits the floor. Dust is settled thickly into the folds of his dark suit, and when he collapses with a petulant slump into his seat, it rises in a faint, disappointed cloud. The cigarette he taps moodily out of a battered pack is crumpled, but lights just fine, and he breathes in deep of the biting smoke, lets it out again in a hazy sigh.

It's anybody's guess whether he's actually noticed anything other than the fact that this is clearly not Mei City.

[OOC: Wolfwood is inna bar! However, he is not the same Wolfwood who was here before, nor is this the same player. If you recognize him and you aren't from Gunsmoke, he's going to be really confused. /warning.]

[ETA: All threads millitimed to after Zevran's.]

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So what they say is true: this place attracts all manner of strange people. Humans, mostly, but he is not alone as one of the other races. And that is neither here nor there, but at least he does not look quite as tired and bedraggled as this dark-clothed human.

He watches with a great deal of curiosity as the giant cross-shaped item he carries touches the floor. Who carries a thing like this on his back? Why? Are there not caravans for such heavy equipment?

This place is beyond strange.

"You look like someone who could use a nice cold drink, my friend. And so, I am offering."

He slides a glance at the newcomer, takes in the light hair, the strange clothing, the pointed ears (pointed ears?).

Is that a sword strapped to his back?

"A cold drink would be just the thing to salvage body and spirit," he tells his new friend, sitting back a little on the stool to pay attention, rather than continuing to sink into miserable thought. He coughs, grimaces.

"And to clear the dust from my throat."

One of these days that desert is actually going to kill him, he just knows it.

If Vash doesn't get there first. "Scotch. With ice, if you have any." If this guy's paying, he'll go ahead and treat himself.

Why not? He has coin -- there seems to be no lack of it hidden from place to place on his travels -- and two hands, and time and willingness. Altogether these things make for an excellent excuse for a drink. Drawing two silvers from his leather pouch, he taps the bar's surface lightly with the tips of two fingers.

"Scotch. With ice, for my friend. I will have one of your lightest ales."

He has no desire to lose control of himself.

The drinks simply appear as his coins do the opposite; he is used to this by now. The less familiar concoction, he slides over to the newcomer but retains the tankard of ale for himself.

"We have not met." This is perhaps news to no one. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Zevran Arainai."

It's really a good thing that he has his cigarette tucked between two knuckles rather than in his mouth when the drinks appear, because with the way his eyes widen and his jaw drops, he'd easily have burned a hole in his pant leg with the dropped smoke.

As it is, he simply gapes, then leans backwards. Forwards. Ducks to eye the drinks at the bar level, eyes narrowed and suspicious for a second's struggling thought before they widen again.

"It's a miracle!"

Maybe just a tiny one, but a miracle nonetheless. Ice! In his Scotch!

No, no. He shakes his head and focuses on the better part, the part where said Scotch and ice appeared out of thin air. The lost technology, perhaps?

Oh, introductions. He pulls his eyes away from the drinks long enough to give Zevran a crinkly-eyed smile. "Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Tell me, am I unconscious in the desert? Is this maybe one last gift of a forgiving God, allowing me a few moments peace and plenty before I die of exposure?"

It's certainly possible.

As always, his laugh is gleeful. "Unconscious in the desert? No, no, my friend, I think not." For the sake of everyone's sanity, he will keep it simple. "You are merely in a tavern. In a location you did not expect."

A place no one expects, and he is still unused to the idea but has been here frequently enough that he accepts it. "Perhaps that is the greater miracle, Nicholas D. Wolfwood. You were expecting the desert? Or perhaps something different?"

The ale in his tankard is just what he asked for, light and refreshing. It is worthy of elven brewery, he thinks. He is growing to like this place a great deal.

He doesn't even care that he's being laughed at, because this is too remarkable, a personal miracle. Being drawn here, instead of stranded in the desert or stuck in one of Mei's shadier establishments -- perhaps his new friend is right.

"You don't expect the desert," he says, picking up his glass tumbler and turning it against the light, studying the amber liquid inside. The cold of ice shocks his hand: it's as real as anything he's ever felt before. "The desert simply is. Like sin. It's everything. Still, I think I could safely say that I wasn't expecting this. So, it really isn't Mei City, is it?"

That much seems clear, but he's never shied away from asking the obvious questions, considering they sometimes have less than obvious answers.

"Mei City?" His shrug is easy, but he gives it for the most practical of all reasons. "I have never heard it referred to as that, but that does not make it impossible. However, I will tell you what it is called, or has been called by those I have met here. They call this tavern Milliways. It was unfamiliar to me when I first arrived. I had expected The Gutted Nug, or The Petulant Child, or whatever cleverly-named tavern I thought I stood before when I opened the door."

He gives the window a momentary glance, but it does not linger. One thing at a time.

"They say that we are at the end of the universe. Of course, I have no way of verifying that, so I take it at face value. A miracle indeed, perhaps?"

He has never been one to follow religion. The concept of the miraculous only applies, for him, to more mundane happenings. As in it is a miracle that I did not get killed in that battle or the ever-popular what a miracle, I got away with murder yet again. He will take what he can get when and where he can get it.

"Perhaps."

He brings the glass to his lips now, finally takes a sip after sniffing the heady, smoky-sweet scent. It's sharp with the faint snap of ice, and he sighs after lets the liquor roll around his mouth for a luxurious moment before swallowing. "Or it could be the lost technology. I'm no scholar, my best guess is all I own and I've been wrong enough times before to be sure I'm wrong now if I say anything is for certain."

Lifting the glass to his new acquaintance, he nods. A thin trail of smoke spirals from the lit end of his cigarette.

"For now, as long as I have the Angelina II in the garage below, and my trusty companion," the cross gets an affectionate pat, "I am content to simply enjoy my drink and company. Although you intrigue me: when you say they, do you mean a particular group? Someone who owns this place, maybe?"

Among the Crows there was a saying: he who owns everything holds nothing. He always thought it was a way of making those they brought into the fold feel better about having all their possessions taken away. Even now he owns things: the sword and dagger on his back, the armor covering his body, the amulet around his neck, the rings on his fingers. Everybody wants to have something to call his own: why did he not buy those leather boots when he had the chance?

"When I say they, I mean the other people here. As far as I know, the owner is absent." Apparently commerce is conducted the same way everywhere. "I may have no knowledge of this lost technology of which you speak, but trust me, my friend, there is definitely something at work at this place. I thought it to be magic at first. I still do. Whatever it is, I know I cannot explain it. You saw the drinks simply appear, yes? Talk to the bar. Or Bar, as she is known. She will provide you with what you need, within reason."

He has not been one to put these things to the test. No, no, he is far more practical than that and perhaps the Crows taught him well: he requires little in the way of possessions.

"A demonstration, if you will." He rests his palm on the bar's surface. "Bar, some dinner for my friend. A bowl of stew, if you have it." He donates another coin, and another coin disappears. After a moment's delay, a bowl of steaming hot stew appears in front of Wolfwood, complete with spoon, napkin, and bread.

"You see? Delightful, is it not?"

At least it isn't Knives.

An absentee owner is an owner he can work with: after all, his pockets are empty and all the spare cash he has is safely tucked away in the satchel he'd left with the bike, and a very visible proprietor is a proprietor he'd have to pay right away.

Or hope he could out-run.

Still, he watches with amazement as the coin vanishes and the stew appears, smelling like Heaven above and making his stomach grumble so loudly that a large rodent-type thing nearby shoots him a startled look.

Fresh. Everything fresh. This meat: it doesn't smell like Thomas meat. These vegetables don't look canned. The gravy has a faint slick of grease making the surface shimmer slightly.

Even the bread seems fresh-baked.

If he were in the desert right now, this may well have been the mirage that ended him.

"My friend," he says, reaching to pat Zevran on the shoulder, jovial, "this could be black witchcraft and I would still fall on my knees and give thanks for it without putting any other questions forward." Reaching for the bread, he tears a piece off, dunks it in the stew, and puts in his mouth with an expression of absolute contentment.

"Tell me, are there other wonders in store? This is enough, of course, but I find it's best to get the full measure of a place that can create food and liquor out of thin air."

"Other wonders? Let me see. Yes."

It is not even something he needs to ponder. "The door to the back leads to a field with several small out-buildings. There is a lake, a forest, and a mountain."

He has yet to explore the forest and mountain, although he has spent some small time by the lake. "In my case at least, there appears to be a marked lack of enemies and I tell you, friend, I find this to be no small relief."

One finger drums at his lower lip. "Let us see. Through that door, you will find rooms if you are in need of lodging. Personally I have not sampled them... yet." Although Zaknafein seemed to indicate that he had, but no, no, that is not part of his own experience. "Apparently there are rooms for exercise, although why one would need that is beyond me. A library, if you read. There appear to be fish in the fire, but they look content enough to swim around in the flames." Now he shrugs pointedly. "And it would probably be to your benefit not to look through the window at the display. They tell me it is nothing less than the sight of the universe ending, and it happens twice hourly."

Of course, now that he has mentioned it, will his friend be unable to keep his gaze from moving there? It remains to be seen.

"Oh, yes, one more wonder, if you will call it that. Apparently all manner of beings are brought here -- for what reason I really cannot say, although I wish I could -- from many points in space and time. I can assure you that this is a concept as foreign to me as was the concept that another version of myself had been here before, unbeknownst to me. I am not sure how common an occurrence this is, but be forewarned."

That, he thinks, is about it. No. One more detail.

"Ah, yes. In case you are wondering, the ears are real. I am no human. I am an elf."

"A lake?"

If he sounds mystified, it's because he is. Lakes, mountains, forests: none of these things exist in the wide wasteland of Gunsmoke. How could they? Water dries within seconds of touching the sand. Trees would choke in the dunes.

A lake would be as close to paradise as he could ever imagine.

This business about people being brought from all different points in space and times: that's a drop in the bewilderment of lake. Mountain. Forest. If he was brought here, it stands to reason others would as well, though he might not know why.

It's something he might ask of God, were he a priest who actually prayed.

The last comment makes him freeze in surprise, though, eyes going wide, before he shrugs it off, digging back into his stew phlegmatically.

"I can't say I've ever heard of an elf before, but as long as you aren't planning to shoot at me and I don't owe you money, who and what you are is none of my business."

Edited 2012-05-16 20:54 (UTC)

Now that is exactly the sort of attitude he thinks more humans ought to have. The words put a smile on his admittedly very pretty and very tattooed face.

"No, no, my friend, I have no plans to cause you harm of any kind. Did I mention that while being here is a privilege" -- food, drink, lodging, more -- there are rules that go along with it? No, I did not, so I will tell you now while you enjoy your food."

And enjoy it he seems to be doing.

"In no particular order: no business in the bar. What that means for others I have yet to decipher. I assume in my case it means that the sword and dagger stay on my back, rather than through someone's stomach or eye or brain, perhaps. The second is that all actions of a... how shall we say it delicately, intimate nature, must not take place in the bar. This would be why there are rooms, yes? The third is perhaps redundant for me, given the first, but not everyone makes a living with a sword: no fighting in the bar. I believe that covers it."

He has never been one to blindly follow rules, but these are simple enough. He can live with them.

"This is what I have been told, at any rate. It is pleasant enough here. I have felt no need to test these rules to see how far they can be bent before they break."

He doesn't need a second invitation to enjoy the food: it disappears rapidly, but not without first imparting a great deal of pleasure. Fresh food, fresh ingredients, real meat and real vegetables -- it's almost unheard of. How the hell does a place like this get all this stuff? Is there some sort of farm out by the lake and forest?

"That all seems very straightforward and well thought-out," he says, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. "Three simple rules to keep the peace, huh? I can think of more places that ought to implement rules like that. The 'no violence' is especially appealing."

Not that he imagines it could last long with Vash around.

"As for business, mine isn't exactly obtrusive, though I would maybe question whether or not charitable donations fall under the category of 'doing business'."

Surely a place like this will have a few lost souls who might want to better their chances of salvation with a confession and a donation to an organization as charitable as an orphanage.

That's not business, that's the Lord's work.

Sort of.

"Charitable donations, is it?" He laughs at the notion: there is nothing charitable about the land he comes from. "That, my friend, is something I could not tell you. The place seems to be rather, well, amenable to good deeds, however."

Perhaps yes, perhaps no. "You can try it and see, or ask someone far more knowledgeable than I am. But tell me, what sort of charitable donations are you looking for? What is your cause?"

In his experience, charity wears many different sets of clothing. And sometimes, it wears none at all.

He brightens, reaches down towards his hip, only for his face to fall as he realizes he'd left the satchel and confessional with the Angelina II.

Ah, well. Showing may be better than telling, or at least more convincing, but it isn't as though he can't explain it without props.

"I'm a traveling preacher," he explains. "Wandering the deserts in search of lost souls to bring back to the fold. I take confessions, do favors, and help in any way possible. In return, I ask for donations of money or food or clothing for the orphanage I run."

He shrugs, resigned.

"Some people are more generous than others."

"A traveling preacher." He shrugs at the title, but the terminology is familiar enough that he takes the meaning. A templar of sorts, or one who spreads the word. That he can do without, and has done without quite successfully for most of his admittedly brief life.

But something in Wolfwood's words does catch his attention.

"An orphanage? You run an orphanage?"

He is no fool for scammers and those who would take what is rightfully his. But this is something he must hear more about. For personal reasons, he has a vested interest in the story.

"That's right."

The one good, shining point in his life. The one thing he has that's untouched by Knives or Legato or Chapel. The place even he doesn't belong.

He considers his drink for a moment before swallowing some down, ice clinking against glass. "It's about three hundred iles outside the city of December, which I gather doesn't mean anything to you. Believe me when I say it's way, way out there, in the middle of the desert. I come across a lot of abandoned kids in my travels: kids whose parents have died or left them, and I take them back with me there."

He isn't sincere about a lot in his life, but the orphanage is the one thing that means something to him. He'd do anything for those kids.

Which is how he ended up here.

"So this is what you do? Gather abandoned children and take them in? Interesting." It does not cause a rise in any esteem, no, no, nothing of the sort. He merely wonders...

"And what do you do with them once they have been collected?"

He only knows his own story. "I ask because I was once orphaned, and sold when I was old enough, seven to be exact. I am curious about the way things operate in this December of yours."

"Take care of them."

When he was seven...

He still remembers the way the gun felt, huge in his tiny, shaking hands.

"We have a school there. Some children find adoptive families, but for the most part, the orphanage becomes their home, and the other children their brothers and sisters."

He shrugs, tilts his glass so the liquor swills back and forth in a smooth wave.

"They're not sold to anyone. But you can see why we need donations, in order to take care of so many."

So. Not unlike the whorehouse where he lived until the Crows bought him.

"I applaud your efforts, my friend. Your cause is most certainly a worthy one." Alas, he is an assassin-for-hire and no philanthropist, although he has no shortage of admiration for those who go through life helping others. It is not particularly lucrative, sadly. "One would think there are many people here who would be touched by your story."

How sad, he thinks, that he is not one of them. No sentimentalist he, and he has already spared several silvers for the man's food and drink.

"I'll be sure to look out for them," he agrees, nodding companionably over his drink. "My appearing here could be part of God's plan, after all."

It's at least not part of Knives', which is more than he'd expected, and plenty to be grateful for.

Not that he particularly expects people here to be all that different from people at home.

"You said you were sold as a child? I see the slave trade is hardly unique to Gunsmoke."

"Hardly unique. Where I am from, the practice is still a common one."

If he is going to tell his story, he might as well do it comfortably, and after a long cold sip of ale. "To make the long story short" -- particularly since Nicholas does not know elves -- "my father was never in the picture, and my mother died in childbirth. I was raised to the age of seven in an Antivan whorehouse, where I was cared for very nicely. Most likely the equivalent of your orphanage, but with fewer whores, no? At seven I was bought by the Crows of Antiva. A guild, as it were, and I hear they paid good money for me. After that I belonged to them, and they raised and trained me. It is only recently that I have managed to escape their clutches."

There. No word of assassins, no word of failed missions. Ego being what it is, he prefers to keep at least a part of his story to himself.

"However, it appears that the slave trade is also hardly unique to Antiva City, where I am from, and hardly unique to children. Elves are stolen all the time and sold to the highest bidder. Shipped to far corners of the world with no say in the matter. It is a sad state of affairs, is it not?"

It is also one of the few things that angers him on a regular basis. It angers him to the point of distraction. He will never be one of those kidnapped and sold. Never.

It is sad. It's the kind of thing he spends his time fighting, while simultaneously working for someone far worse.

So what sort of man does that make him?

"Despicable," he agrees. "And sadly familiar. I've always suspected that a harsh environment is not the only contributing factor to harsh behavior, but I admit to hoping I was wrong."

Unless Zevran is also a native of a Godforsaken desert planet, but he'd said lake and forest so casually...no, he thinks not. "Of course, the slave trade is illegal, but people are susceptible to a well-timed payoff, especially people in power."

He taps some ash from his cigarette, eyes distant. "I was an orphan myself. It's one reason I try to keep these kids out of trouble, so they don't end up slaves, or worse."

Worse. Like him.

"Very commendable, my friend." He has done no such thing, but he is young, still, and provided he does not perish at the hands of the Darkspawn, the human army, or the Crows, he could potentially have a long life ahead of him. It is an interesting concept, and one he clings to stubbornly.

He wonders what might be worse than slavery. Death is the logical answer, but he thinks he would prefer that to a life of servitude. At least with the Crows he had some autonomy, even if that level of freedom was mostly an illusion.

"Might I ask you about this thing you carry?" He nods over to the cross. "You must have good reason to bear such a heavy load. Personally, I prefer to travel more lightly, but to each his own, yes?"

Commendable? Maybe. His one good deed doesn't wipe away his other sins, but maybe he'll leave this world a little less dirty than when he came into it.

At the very least, he'll save someone else from taking this path, by staying on it as long as he can.

For now, though, he simply grins and pats the cross fondly, with a muffled sound like hitting metal.

"It's a mark of my trade," he says. "A little of God's word for use in a tight spot. Do you have priests in your world?"

"Priests? Yes, we have priests of the Chantry. You would find yourself out of place with them. They are all women."

And difficult to seduce as well. He knows. He's tried.

"Female priests?"

His eyebrows shoot up and the dangling cigarette dips a little between his lips. "I've never heard of that. In fact, I hardly know any other priests: just a handful, mostly wanderers like me. They travel with the caravans for a while, or move from town to town. Everybody's looking for a little faith, but sometimes it doesn't seem like there's enough to go around."

On the other hand...female priests.

Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

"So you have a passing knowledge of my profession, anyway. The cross is simply my load to bear."

The cross is not a symbol of the Chantry, but different worlds would of course have differing symbology. It even differs among the people of Thedas.

"Female priests, yes, although I cannot say that I am a student of religion or of faith. I grew up knowing the Chantry, of course, but if I was ever even a little bit devout, then I most definitely have strayed." When he was with the Dalish he learned of the many gods they worship and liked that, for a time, but never really practiced.

Then again, he is an assassin, and an elf at that. It is highly unlikely for him to seek refuge in the Chantry once that is taken into consideration.

"Were you in my world, you would be considered a Brother, not a priest. It is the way of things: the Prophet of the Maker Andraste was female, and so are those who follow in her footsteps. Men are allowed, of course, as non-ordained academics and initiates. This surprises you, yes?"

"My friend, it certainly does."

That much, he'll readily admit.

"At least, as far as the ministry goes. Where I come from, women can be nuns, or ministers in a different religion, I suppose, though I imagine they're fairly few and far between." More ash has built up; he taps it off onto a slowly growing pile.

"Personally, I'd be happy to see a few female priests around. It might make the men a little less cranky all the time, but then, considering the women I know, it would either be a fantastic idea, or a terrible one."

He tips the last few drops of Scotch down his throat, crunches an ice cube.

"Now you know all about my profession. How about yours?"

"Me? Well, that is simple: I am an assassin. Did I neglect to mention that at this place, your first drink is, as they say, on the house? Since I paid for yours, you have one waiting for you."

All distraction aside, and really, he does not require such a thing, he takes a sip of his ale.

"Or at least I was. Those who bought me when I was seven? An assassin's guild. I have recently left their employment and now travel in the company of a Grey Warden, which likely means little to one not from my world. However, it does mean no more assassinating for pay. Pity, that. I was very good at it."

He gives his companion a sidelong glance.

"That's quite a story."

It's one he knows intimately, because it's his story, or close enough: taken in at seven, raised to be a killer. The only difference is, he's not paid for that job.

Legato offers a different sort of payment.

"You could probably make a pretty fair living on my world, with skills like that. People always seem to need a hired gun or two to take care of their messier business. It sort of keeps me in a job, if you know what I mean."

His cigarette's almost burned down; he stubs it out and leaves the crumpled butt in the ashtray, sending up a pitiful stream of smoke that evaporates into the air.

"I've never heard of a Gray Warden, but it sounds like a pretty good deal. Good at your job or not, I haven't known many assassins who could really collect all that many perqs."

An assassin, he thinks, can make a living anywhere. Even if he strikes out on his own, victims usually carry a purse of some sort.

The work is very lucrative.

"I tell you, my friend, being an assassin is simply a job. It takes a certain willingness to commit murder, but aside from that it is little different from anything else. One goes to work, does the job, and goes home at the end of the day to his apartment or home or wherever it might be, and counts his coin."

In his case, there was also a great deal of seduction involved, but that does not need to be a part of the story tonight. Perhaps some other time. Nicholas D. Wolfwood looks as if he has suffered enough shock for one evening.

Outside the window, the end-of-the-universe show is spectacular. It unnerves him, still.

"Isn't every job like that?" he wonders, tapping out a new cigarette and lighting it with a scratch and flare of a match. "Maybe not literal murder, of course, but I know very few people who consider their manner of employment to be something integral to themselves as human beings."

Perhaps a better priest would consider that to be some sort of loss, but he's never considered himself to be a particularly devout follower. Or a very good priest.

"At the very least, I can imagine that it wouldn't be boring. Well, depending on the assassination at hand. Some are bound to require more creativity than others, but in the end, all men die in much the same way."

He does consider his manner of employment to be integral to himself as a person. Not as a human being, naturally, since is is an elf, but close enough. The narrowing of scope in terms of his occupation amuses him, though.

"As do the women."

It is simply a fact of life. Coin for his skill, that is how he must look at these things. Besides, traveling with a Grey Warden provides him with more than enough practice. Even if he is no longer with the Crows, he is still skilled with a blade.

"But no, it was never boring. Always a challenge, which is something I like. It kept me on my toes. I could say the same thing about leaving that life behind: never a dull moment."

The only thing he is not as fond of is cleaning Darkspawn blood from his blade. It smells terrible. But if that is the price he must pay for a degree of freedom, then so be it.

"I feel much the same way about my current mission," he agrees, puffing comfortably on the fresh cigarette. "Although I'm not sure I've been so much 'kept on my toes' as 'running for my life', but that's the life of a traveling preacher, surprisingly enough."

At least, it is when that preacher is keeping company with Vash the Stampede.

"I'm glad that you've found pleasure in your work, despite it's somewhat dark nature. And in your new employment. These Gray Wardens of yours, it sounds like they guard against something. In that case, I can fully imagine your life with one to be more than usually exciting."

Ah, yes, the Grey Wardens. He will get to that in a moment but first, he must take time to marvel over this man's lack of judging. Many people, when faced with an assassin, are not nearly as magnanimous. He could see it on the face of the Warden's party members when they first met.

Of course, he had ambushed them with the express intent of killing every single one of them. Fortunately for all concerned, that mission did not go as planned.

"The Grey Wardens are an ancient order -- as far as I understand these things -- sworn to protect our world against the Blight. This is a long story and I will make it short for you, because I am no history teacher. A race of creatures -- and that is all they are, monstrosities, if you will -- live underground. Every now and again they swarm to the surface and when they do, we refer to it as a Blight. As with any other type of pest, they must be eradicated, no? It is the job of the Grey Wardens to see to it that this happens, that their leader is defeated, and that order is restored to Thedas. Easy, no?"

No. One battle at a time, one Darkspawn at a time. There are not many people who willingly fight the things: they are difficult, fearless, and strong.

"I understand that Grey Warden numbers used to be greater. Now, we have only two in all Ferelden, the land where I find myself these days when I am not at the end of the universe. One of the two is strong, brave, intelligent, and good at making decisions. The other is..."

Alistair.

"...shall we say less inclined."

So, pest control. On a worldwide scale, against horrifying creatures sprung forth from the bowels of darkness?

He can see how that would be interesting employment.

"It certainly seems like a straightforward enough premise," he agrees, though easy? He doubts it. Few enough fights are, even against drunk and disorderly raiders. It's that desire to cling to life with tooth and nail that even the lowest creatures have that makes it so difficult, and he sincerely doubts his new friend is being entirely forthcoming with the level of difficulty at hand.

Why would anyone hire a companion unless they needed the help?

"And are you close the restoring order?"

"Close?" He laughs, and the laugh is tinged with a bitter hint of unhappiness. "My friend, we are only just beginning. There are those in my world who still insist this is not a true Blight. Who knows."

The Wardens appear to.

"I am merely along for the ride and not in any position to make decisions. Other than in the heat of battle, of course, and for the good of those with whom I fight."

He doubts that order will ever truly be restored, but again, he is merely along for the ride and glad he is that order is not his responsibility. He does much better with chaos.

There's an edge to his smile and laugh that's all too familiar. It's like the deep sorrow in Vash's smile, how even when he's happy, his eyes look far too old and far too weary.

Snap out of it! he tells himself. The last person you should be sympathizing with is the Humanoid Typhoon.

"At least you won't be lacking in employment," he offers philosophical. After all, if a fighter is hired to fight, would it be better or worse for there to be no enemies?

"I can't say it sounds like an ideal situation, but another day you and your friends make it out alive is another day to be grateful for, or so I've always thought."

"Believe me, my friend. I am never ungrateful for another day." And that is no lie. Nobody should ever regret the opportunity to live and perhaps he is simply too optimistic, but he would rather live a life full of joy or a life full of sorrow than no life at all.

"So, Nicholas. I trust you do not mind if I call you by name? Do you plan on taking a room at this tavern?" Either for the night or longer, and for once he has no ulterior motive, simply a willingness to be helpful. He remembers his own first night here and fortunately, he is not one of those who has ever been unable to leave as he desires. "If you do, merely ask Bar for a key. She will provide one for you."

He takes a last sip of his ale. Soon, he will be back in Thedas fighting and telling tales and annoying his fellow travelers. He does all these things exceedingly well.

"Not at all."

He certainly wouldn't expect to be called 'father,' here. Turning, he peers around the room, up at the stairs. "I don't think I have much of a choice. It's this, or back to the desert, and I don't mind saying that while I've slept in the desert before, I certainly prefer not to. You never know when you'll wake up with a dune on top of you or a sandstorm bearing down or a few gang members attempting to slit your throat."

You'd think passage would be easier for a man of the cloth, but no dice.

"Of course,the desert is also a price that can't be beat. Are the rooms here expensive?"

Whether they are or not, it isn't like he has much in the way of spare change.

"Helpful though I might be, that I cannot tell you, my friend. I have yet to require the use of one. However, most things here seem to be fairly reasonable. And if you look over there" -- he points to the tab board, the one listing what everyone with a debt here owes -- "you will find your name if you decide to... what is it they call it? Yes, yes, run up a tab. I am sure that this place will find a way of collecting when collection time arrives."

That, or Wolfwood could simply put forward the question to the bar itself. Likely, he would get an answer.

"If I were in your shoes, I would risk it. No one wants to sleep out in the desert when they have other options, am I right?"

Of course he is.

"A tab!"

He brightens. Tabs he can work with.

And occasionally run out on.

(He casts a surreptitious glance at the bartop; not that he would ever run out on it here, no. That would be a shameful way to treat the bar that saved his life!

"I would strongly suggest avoiding it if at all possible," he agrees, fervently. "There are few things in life I dislike more. Fortunately, owing money is not one of them, so I'll take my chances."

The question asked, the key provided, he glances curiously at the thing before getting up, shouldering the cross. "My friend, you have been most helpful, not to mention generous. If Heaven is merciful, the next time we meet, I'll have the means to buy you drink. Until then, may you go with the Lord's peace."

Or something like that.

If heaven is merciful, he thinks, then the next time they meet he will be under a debt to no man or woman, the Blight will be at an end, peace and harmony will reign, and no one will need to hire an assassin. But alas, he is far more practical than that.

"The pleasure has been all mine. It is beyond time I got back to the fight. What use is a sword if it always stays politely across one's back? None at all." It is simply a burden, but he will not put it that way given the cross Nicholas chooses to carry.

He needs no peace from any lord, but he accepts the words with a smile.

"Enjoy yourself, my friend. You have found a remarkable place. It would be a shame to spend all your time here in serious pursuit."

That is his best and only advice; he has imparted all other words of wisdom at his disposal. As he stands, he nods in parting.

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