There were a number of difficult propositions the man had been considering of late, decisions he'd made that part of him thought weren't the smartest. He'd only worked with others when a job or circumstances had called for it, and generally disliked having a partner since this always meant splitting the profits.
Recently, the sellsword had begrudgingly decided to allow another to follow along in his work, even though this partner required no share of the profits and offered to assist in matters he knew nothing about, namely the magics. He'd agreed for her to tag along, but there were strings attached. The first being that he could decide she wasn't suitable and ask her to leave at any time, and that she wasn't to interfere with his dealings and negotiations when it came to what sort of work he was to undertake nor what methods he used to complete his task. His final condition was that she was not to any of her 'mind melding or whispering' unless it meant life or death not to do so, something he was grateful for -- he had enough noise in his head from listening to his own thoughts, let alone someone else's.
He didn't know how well she'd taken to the idea of the ring, though, since it was symbolic of the very prison she'd been freed from in the first place. He'd insisted it was more a place that she could stay, a home, if you will, and that she could come and go as she pleased. He'd suggested this simply because the very nature of what she was meant she'd probably cause dislike, and worse, fear, in the men he often worked for -- simple men with simple ideals, who distrusted the magics and non-human creatures as much as he did, and hence he requested that the girl (if she could be called a girl) would stay mostly incognito during these times. Even though he may have disliked magic, protection from other magics was the primary reason he'd decided to let her tag along in the first place.
All of this, however, didn't take away from the fact that his new partner in question had a tendency to become teary on occasion and break into emotional bouts of reflection -- the sort of thing he disliked the most seeing people do in his line of work. This was the main doubt he had as to her steadfastness, whether she would hold her own in the face of death or break like those not used to the fight often did.
I give a her a week. Month, at most. Aye, then she'll quit.
It was then he wondered if the girl could actually read his thoughts -- a question he hadn't asked her during their ad-hoc job interview at the Broken Dagger. Read his thoughts -- what a horrible invasion of privacy. He'd have to set boundaries on those matters, too. But no voice was forthcoming, no bright flash of blue light or hissing argument in his ear, so he supposed he was safe from such intrusions for the moment... or at least he hoped.
He leant against one of the posts of the Broken Dagger's stables. Dusk was settling on another day, a day in which he should have left already, but had stayed for some reason -- there was still the matter of him and his new partner to complete, creases to be ironed out on their new... arrangement. That and this new note he'd received from a woman he knew nothing of. Services were required at a healer's den. What, they needed help with a scalpel? It seemed an odd place for a man of his expertise to be needed.
The crumpled note from Mercy was folded in one hand, goatskin of watered-down wine in the other, from which he drank regularly. On his left, the grey roan peered out through the window towards him, ears swivelling. The rouncey had been cooped up for almost a day now, eager for a long ride after being fattened as per Serrus' request to stableboys the day before. He had originally planned to travel to Heath, though he wasn't in a great hurry to get there, hence his delay. The horse gave an impatient nicker, stamping a hoof. Serrus glanced the animal's way, tossing the goatskin aside.
"Later, ya grumpy shite. First we'll see what all this healer bollocks is all about, eh?"
The walk from the stables to the Rememdium was only slightly longer than the walk to the Broken Dagger itself. Crickets chirped their song as the night began to settle, light of the in infamous inn shining across the inn's lawn in warm amber hues. As per usual, the man was dressed for business, in his leather brigadine - a jack of plates interwoven inside a thick fabric, underneath which sat his hauberk of chainmail over thick padded cotton, the coif lumped loosely behind his neck. He'd done away with wearing his sword's scabbard after all the nonsense going on in the town since his arrival, and steel from the hand-and-a-half sabre glinted orange in the torchlight of the Rememdium as he drew closer, the sword hanging loosely from the belt, his dirk sheathed on the other side. For outer clothing he wore the usual fingerless gloves, thick leggings and boots. It was much the same attire that he wore everyday, since men of his profession rarely went about their business not being actually dressed for business.
He came up the stairs to the entrance, stepping inside. He'd always hated apothecaries, physician houses and healing dens. The smell, pungent and thick, the screams, wails and moans of the sick and maimed, and the stains of blood in the woodwork that never ever washed out, no matter how many times the scullery maid would scour them top to bottom. He rounded an entryway to a door where the familiar moans could be heard. Some poor sap of a farmer had a nail or fence peg wedged inside his ankle, and was laid on a table while some healers attempted to remove the item, others holding the man down, though he made little struggle, only shouted and pounded his fist at the ebbs and flows of pain that came in each passing moment. Serrus watched the scene for a few more moments before moving on.
He supposed there weren't too many people in this town with a soft name like Mercy hanging about. He came to a large hallway, an area he supposed was the administrative area -- though it was hard to tell since it smelled just as bad as the other areas and there were scrapes and scuffs along the floor where folks had probably at one stage or another been dragged, hauled, or carried away, along with all the other unpleasantries he could only imagine happened in this place. He looked to the door, finding no name or markings, but it was obviously an office since it was closed and didn't have the same sense as trauma about it as in the other rooms. A hand reached up and rapped heavily on the door -- perhaps heavier than required -- whereupon Serrus Belcaw stepped back to lean against the opposite wall with his arms folded, hoping someone would provide some straight answers. Namely why of all things a man paid to kill or injure others was required in a place where all inside strove to do the exact opposite.