Javik sat down at his preferred shady corner in The Tasty Tankard. A silly name for a tavern, but he supposed that one couldn't be choosey this far from the main cities. It was a business after all, likely generational. Some grandfather's grandfather decided the name would bring plenty of gold on the road, only for it to turn into a curse of mockery centuries down the line. Javik internally chuckled at the thought. Today's business was a new step for him: Rather than take a contract, he'd offer one. Of course, he was still going to partake in the action. He just needed a new associate to help him.
There was a man somewhere in this village with a bounty on his head. Small, but enough to pay the bills. What better way of hunting him down than teaching some newcomer the ropes? There was some fun to be had, he supposed. He decided it'd be an open contract; first come, first serve. No need for a vetting process. Any mercenary worth their salt would be able to keep up, and if not, well it was on them for being fools in the first place. Javik took a swig of his brandy as he waited for word to get around town. Hopefully someone would show, and soon.
His aging eyes watched the entrances and exits to the tavern, counting every body that walked through. He counted the bodies in the tavern. Years of experience taught him to watch the people and the environment, for there was no telling when his own assailants would come after him. The day would come when he'd have to stop running and take a stand. For now, though, bills needed to be paid. In blood.
Esme sat on the bench of her wagon and considered the handbill for a long time. Bounty hunting seemed very brigand-adjacent indeed. She was a healer, not a killer (except for that one time in the woods, approximately twelve hours into her mercenary career.) Byrne would look at her with those sad blue eyes of his and, perhaps, be a little disappointed. For all that he was spending an inordinate amount of time teaching her to kill men with the crossbow.
Those were all … Reasons not to do it. Maybe not good ones, that last one especially. But she was hungry — and alchemical reagents were expensive. Sighing, she stuffed the notice into her cloak pocket and gathered up what she thought she might need. A couple potions and her weapons. A handful of experimental new bolts with blunt round heads on them. They wouldn’t fly as far but they needed testing all the same.
Esme made her way to the Tasty Tankard, doubting that name by the smell of the place. The contact was waiting. He looked like someone plucked from a novel about this sort of thing — broad and scarred, muscular in a functional sort of way that wasn’t much to look at. Old for this kind of thing. Whoever heard of old bounty hunters?
She thrust the crumpled handbill at him.
“Uhm– Hello, ser. Is the bounty job still open?” Looking around, it didn’t seem as though anyone else was vying for his attention. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It’d be a moral relief to be told to go home, even if she needed the coin.
Javik hated waiting, he never had the patience for it except when moving in for the kill. Nearly twenty years of running meant he never had time to just lie low and wait. So he waited. And waited. And waited. He downed a glass of brandy as a newcomer walked through the door. A taller woman, either brunette or redhead - he couldn't tell in the light - with a fair number of freckles on her face. He expected her to go to the bar, order a drink, dine and chatter like all the customers do, and then go about her merry way. What he did not expect was for her to beeline straight to him with a crumpled note in her hand. Upon closer inspection, she seemed like a capable type. Though he wondered how she'd hold up with the mission at hand.
Can I help you, Miss...? Javik started as she asked about the job. Yeah, job's still open. Been waiting close to an hour now but no biters 'til you came along. Javik chuckled with his gruff, raspy voice. He waved his hand out, offering her a seat at the table as he sat up straight. He pulled out a note of his own - a detailed drawing of the man residing somewhere in the village. The ma n had longer hair, down to his shoulders, and a scruffle beard. No mustache. Blue eyes, judging by the color in the picture. At the bottom of the bounty note, it reads "Wanted, Dead or Alive" along with a lump sum of gold. The amount for bringing the target in alive was more than dead, as per usual. It was for this reason Javik preferred not to kill his targets unless absolutely necessary. The bidders always paid more for a fresh body and not a corpse.
Here's the deal. This man - memorize the face, name's irrelevant - has a bounty out for his head. Now, I don't know why he's wanted, or what he's done - nor do I care. In this line of business, it rarely matters. We have our mark. The bounty says dead or alive, but we'll be bringing him in warm. Pays more gold, and I'm sure that's what we both want. If everything goes smoothly, we'll split the reward an even fifty-fifty. I'm being generous on this one. You ever done bounty work before? Javik asked, his hands interlaced with elbows on the table.
“Oh. Good.” Was an hour a long time to wait for something like this? He spoke like it was. Esme took the seat across from the bounty hunter, watching him with an uncertain wide-eyed wariness. Then she bent her head to study the bounty poster as he slid it over.
The man on it shared some superficial features with the sick elf she’d met a few nights ago. The eyes and ears didn’t match, of course – and that was somewhat of a relief. More so, that they could agree on wanting to capture the bounty alive. Better not to show that, though – might make this stranger think she couldn’t handle the job. She ended up frowning at the target’s likeness, memorizing his name as well as his face. Bryson Hansley. Maybe she could ask around, flush him from the bush.
People would be more willing to talk to a pretty girl, bad leg and weapons be damned.
Fifty-fifty was only fair, not necessarily generous. Esme’s gaze flicked up to point that out, before she thought against it. Ruffling the bounty hunter’s feathers when she was already getting even pay would only work against her.
“Err – No, not as such. Left Kirkwall as a caravan guard. I need something else now that that’s done.” She wasn’t about to lie for a walk-up job like this. But she wasn’t going to say how recent this all was, either. Or how poorly the caravan escort had gone.
“Alive’s good with me.” Her expression turned speculative for a moment. “What about our names, Ser? Should I call you anything?” She’d never had a code name before. This was exciting.
