"And all we, like sheep, have gone astray to find salvation by our own means." began Robert his hands clasped before him, his eyes shut tightly by the restraints of sincerity. He sat beneath a small grove of trees near the coast of the Heaton Fiefdom. His boat, a relatively light and nimble vessel sat anchored just along the shore, hurriedly being loaded with a wide variety of trinkets to sell to the Baskars by a handful of his many associates.

"Forgive me for my desire for personal greatness, for my attempts to make God of myself, for my willingness to exalt myself at the expense of others." Even as he spoke he could hear the loud cries of the boats captain shouting commands. The man had an abnormally loud voice, most likely due to his commanding some the most indignant and self-righteous criminals on the sea. Of all the items he was taking to trade with barbarians the most important, and most difficult to procure, were the bushels of iron tipped arrows, and cache of steel blades. Fine weapons to the Baskar, if only slightly outdated by Thiasian standards.

"Forgive me for my unwillingness to submit to your will. The spirit is willing but my flesh is weak. I have sinned; I admit this as I admit to my inability to prevent its continuation. I do not ask for forgiveness, I do not ask for pity, I pray today, as everyday for nothing more then time. Just a little while longer, and you can send my soul to whatever Hell you seem fitting." Robert opened his eyes at last; the cutlass he had worn for so many years lay before him on the ground glinting in the midday sun. It seemed unfitting to sit before God with wearing a weapon that had done so much evil already. The crunch of the ground behind him was the only signal he had to the approach of an individual. Hopefully no one had found his ship. It seemed to early in the day for bloodshed.

Conn found himself in the strangest places. This time he'd been drawn by the sounds coming from the boat pulled up near shore. A smuggler's boat. It had piqued his interest: a profit-making venture, and he didn't have a cut in it? This might well be something he'd want to get a slice of. It did occur to him that he was pretty damn small-time, from the perspective of a major smuggler... but then, Conn had never been one to underestimate his potential. He wandered the shore, thinking on how to approach the men manning the boat, and stopped near a little grove of trees, arrested by the sound of someone praying.

"A strange despairing kind o' prayer," Conn called out at last, taking a few steps toward the man. From behind, he could make only the nice cut of his clothes. Yes; it was obvious this fellow was quality, well worth the trouble of his time. "Generally, don't'cha know, I find priests make better confessors than trees."

He leaned against one, watching the man as he knelt. His gaze caught the glint of something metal--some weapon, on the ground before him. Hardly a coincidence he was so close to the smuggling-boat, then.

"Not that I'm one to judge." He kept a hand on the little throwing-knife in his belt, just in case. For now, though, he'd try to keep the tone of the encounter light. "I'm nought but an 'umble merc.* Name of Robert Morrigan."



*colloquial, 'mercenary'

Robert opened his eyes, with a troubled sigh. The voice that greeted him did not belong to one of his men, nor one of the local contacts. Leaving the company of his employees came with its risks, but being approached by young strangers was not exactly something a man like Robert was overly frightened of. He had killed far better, and far worse then those of curious minds and loud mouths. He rose up, lifting his sheathed cutlass as he did, the metal glinting in the bright light of the afternoon. There was little work to be done, at least for the moment. As the ships owner he had little choice but to wait for the workers to finish their chores before he could be of any use.

He stood at his full height of a little over six feet, though unlike most men his size he was not lanky but barrel chested and muscle bound, the consequences of a life of work and military service. He listened to the boys words with a sort of mild neglect as his mind was already calculating whether to slay the young man, beat him unconscious, or let him be. They were not difficult choices for a man who has already condemned himself from Gods good graces and makes decisions free of the shackles wrought of good conscious.


"We are all mercenaries boy, the Priests of the Catholic Church ranked highest among them," said Robert as he turned, his black eyes boring into the skull of the one called Morrigan. The old criminals hand lay heavy on his sword for a moment, before falling to his side. He was not fool enough to not notice the throwing dagger on the mans hip, nor was he fool to not notice that this man, while dressed as a pauper as he nevertheless appeared to have the makings of something more. Whether it was in the boys tone, his posture, or his eyes Robert never cared to consider. The fact was, that this Morrigan had a presence above that of a common criminal, above that of a common man, and most certainly above that of his current fashion.

"So," began Robert Lee as he brushed his clothing clean. They were of quality, though Robert could hardly say the same of himself. "What brings a 'umble merc to my little grove of trees?" asked Robert, deviating from his thick Scalian accent in order to mimic the others speech habit.

Conn shrugged, relaxing infinitesimally. After all, if his interlocutor had been serious about killing him, he would have done it already. He didn't seem like the kind of man (now that Conn had a look at his robust physique and the set of his face) to wait around.

He was taller than Conn, this man. He noticed that immediately when the stranger stood, but he didn't find himself too intimidated. After all, he was used to taller men, and richer men... albeit they didn't usually come equipt with cutlasses. Those eyes, he had to admit, were a little uncanny. Eyes that had seen too much, mayhap. He shook off the effect with a slight twitch of his skin, and the eerie feeling fled.

"It's not nice to mimic someone's manner of speech," Conn said to change the mood, raising one eyebrow to show he wasn't offended. "But if you must know, I was passing through. Between jobs, don't y'know." He tipped his head back to look at the stranger a little calculatingly. "I dun' suppose a man such as yerself might offer me a job, Mister...?"

He trailed off, waiting for a name. A name--it could tell you a lot, or nothing at all. But if this one was the sort to stay in one trade and build up a reputation, he might've heard of him. He didn't have the same sort of flexibility a man like Conn enjoyed--didn't have the freedom to change identities at will. Even his current accent was a tad exaggerated, as part of his Morrigan persona; still, he couldn't pretend it didn't sting just a little to hear it ridiculed. Not long ago his patterns of speech had been even worse.