A Conversation in the Dining Hall of the Western Terrace

originally posted May 2, 2006

"A few days ago. Three of them. They were picked up in Lara, heavy with ill-gotten loot," the first fellow mentioned.
He was a portly sort, heavily bearded with a shaggy mane of fair hair. Like myself and many others in the dining room on the western terrace, he was enjoying a cup of black wine after his morning repast.
"They were amongst those who attacked Jerome and his fellows en route to the Sardar?" the second fellow asked.
He was smaller than the first fellow, clean shaven with close-cropped, dark hair. He was still working on his morning repast, apparently a slower eater than the other.
"Jerome identified them himself. The men of Treve disdain to conceal their identities, even during occasions of lawlessness and brigandry," the bearded fellow informed him.
"Ho, proud fellows of Treve," the clean shaven one said, speaking as he chewed a mouthful of fried eggs, "but for a scarf about your face, you might still be lain betwixt the thighs of Laran whores."
The first fellow laughed, but only at the pride of the men of Treve and what it had cost them ultimately. A quiet sort of laugh, for men of the Merchant Jerome had perished in the field that day.
"Indeed," he remarked.
"What of their Captain?" asked the clean shaven fellow of the bearded one.
"Surely, he was amongst those apprehended."
"He remains at large," the bearded fellow remarked.
The second fellow pushed forward his plate, having cleaned it. He snapped his fingers and in a moment his cup was freshened. The black wine, piping hot, was served without creams or sugars.
"Will they pursue him?" he asked of the first fellow.
"They will get what information they can out of his subordinates, I think," said the first fellow.
The second fellow remarked, "Such men do not speak. I cannot imagine they would give up the whereabouts of their Captain."
"Doubtless you are correct, friend," said the first fellow, he with the beard. "Perhaps they will take them to the rookeries."
"The tarn death?" the second fellow asked. "It is not often done."
"They are tarnsmen. Mercenaries. Murderers. It is fitting," the first fellow remarked.
The fellow with the dark, close-cropped hair sipped at his black wine, considering the thoughts of his friend before opining with his own.
"I would give them over to the sport of Jerome's surviving guardsman," he said.
"That, too, would be fitting. Yes," agreed the first fellow.