#tybolt

Newcroft was by no means a sleepy city. Even at night things lurked in the darkness and the hubbub of the social spots such as the Bigg Juggs and the Ruptured Skunk could be heard across the eve. 

Such noise rang through the half open window, through which a long pale hand holds a smoldering cigarette. The hand belonging to an equally pale elf, who sits with his feet propped up on the window sil, watching the mercenary in front of him. A cork-board with various photographs, newspaper clippings (The Newcroft Chronicle with its ever changing biases), and post-it notes pinned to it, connected by red twine, hangs on the wall beside the window, and the Merc mutters to himself as he sticks another post-it under the title ‘Cruikshanks’.

“Tybolt, while I love your enthusiasm, we have no new information, until the guards get back to us, we are sitting ducks” the elf sighs, taking a slow drag of his cigarette before tapping the ash out the window, smoke curling out from his mouth as he continues to speak, “Very colourful, target painted ducks”.

Tybolt looks to the smoking elf with an oddly charismatic smile. “Chin up, Valor, we can theorize, and if we keep an eye out for more clues in the meantime, something will come up”.

Valor scoffs and flicks the remains of his cigarette out the window, adjusting the hood that shadowed his profile, and stood, shutting the window against the biting cold of the bitter Springsdawn night. 

“How has that optimism survived adventuring? I know I have my light-hearted moments, much to the shock of anyone who thinks us priests are all broody, but Rolbor’s braided beard, man, its almost Planting, nobody should be this happy”. 

Tybolt smiles at the elf’s grumbling, and claps a hand firmly on his shoulder, making the priest jump.

“Maybe it’ll rub off on you Valor!”

“Ava paladhal, dahn’direlan”

The Mercernary laughs, looking back to the cork-board.

“While your words are a mystery to me, my friend, we have work to do!”

Valor rolls his eyes and picks his robes off the back of the chair he’d been sat on.

“You’re a mad bastard, Vheraan, it’s nearly morning. Best we go find our tree friend and have a drink. The bad men can wait a few more hours”

(I may add more to this...

“Ava paladhal, dahn’direlan” - eat a dick, idiot (LIT; eat cock, bee-puncher)