The cool night air, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth, settled around Lucan as he stepped out of the Hollow Tankard. The boisterous sounds of the tavern faded behind him, leaving a hushed stillness broken only by the chirping of unseen crickets. Captain Dorrell stood a few feet away, his lean silhouette stark against the fading light of the western sky. The two guards flanking him remained rigid, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their swords, their gazes fixed on Lucan with a suspicion as palpable as the night's chill.
"Sellsword," Dorrell began, his voice losing its tavern resonance, becoming low and probing. "That was… remarkably efficient work you displayed this morning. Dispatching those bandits with such… finality. It's not often we see such skill, or such… thoroughness, on these roads."
Lucan met his gaze directly, the pale violet of his eyes holding a hint of the ancient ice of the Godspine. "They presented a problem. The problem is resolved."
The burly guard with the scarred jaw grunted, shifting his weight. "Captain, he was drenched in blood. Claimed he just happened to be passing by. Smells like a lie to me."
Dorrell raised a hand, silencing his guard with a curt flick of his wrist. His attention remained locked on Lucan. "Convenient, perhaps. Or perhaps you have a knack for finding trouble, or… resolving it with extreme prejudice." He paused, his gaze sharp and assessing, taking in Lucan's imposing frame. "A man of your size and… bearing… doesn't often wander through the Evermarch unnoticed. Especially one who carries a blade capable of such carnage."
Lucan's hand, resting near his side, tightened almost imperceptibly. "I travel as needed. And I deal with what stands in my way."
"And what is that need, sellsword?" Dorrell pressed, his voice laced with a growing caution. "You mentioned the Riverlands. That's a long journey south. What truly brings you so far west, through the treacherous passes of the Godspine, into the territory of young Prince Rowan?"
Lucan hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something calculating in his violet eyes. "As I said, work. Coin. But sometimes… coin isn't the only currency that matters. Sometimes, a debt needs collecting. A life saved… that carries its own weight." His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly towards the tavern doors, a subtle hint of his earlier conversation with Sera.
"A debt?" Dorrell's brow furrowed slightly. "You imply you knew those travelers?"
"I did not," Lucan stated firmly, his gaze returning to Dorrell. "But a life was owed. And now… perhaps terms can be discussed."
The younger guard shifted nervously, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Captain, this sounds… complicated."
Dorrell nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Lucan's. "Indeed. Complicated. And in these times, with the encroaching darkness of the Eastern Dominion, complication is a luxury we can ill afford. Their spies are like vipers in the grass, their influence insidious. They would see the free realms of the Evermarch fall."
He paused, his gaze becoming even more intense. "A man of your skill, with talk of debts owed… you could be a tool for them, or against them. Which side do you favor, sellsword?"
Lucan met his intense stare, his own expression unreadable. "I favor the side that leaves me unmolested and pays its dues. My business here is simple. Rest, repair what little armor I have left, and… perhaps come to an understanding regarding a certain alchemist's future obligations."
Dorrell studied him for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the distant hoot of an owl and the faint murmur of voices from within the tavern. "Rest then, Lucan of the Riverlands. Repair your gear. But heed my words, young Prince Rowan, from his keep, keeps a close watch on all within his domain. Or prehaps his overseer does. Well anyway, cause no trouble. And settle your… debts… quickly. When you move on, do so swiftly." He gave a curt nod, his suspicion far from allayed. "Good night."
He turned and gestured to his guards, who followed him back towards the dimly lit guardhouse near the town gate, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestones.
Lucan watched them go, the weight of Dorrell's scrutiny settling in the cool night air. The mention of the Eastern Dominion, and the subtle hint of the chaos they sowed, resonated with a grim familiarity. He turned back towards the warm glow of the Hollow Tankard.
Unseen by Lucan, two pairs of red eyes glinted in the shadows across the street. The female Drow leaned slightly towards the male, her dark purple skin blending seamlessly with the deeper recesses of the alleyway.
"A debt," she murmured, her voice a soft whisper that carried on the night air. "Interesting."
The male Drow chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "And an alchemist involved. Perhaps this keep town isn't as dull as it seems." Their gazes remained fixed on the entrance of the Hollow Tankard, their silent vigil continuing as Lucan disappeared back inside.