The door of the West Hills tavern swung open with a theatrical flair, and in stepped a man who seemed as out of place as a Mabari in an Orlesian ballroom. Horus sauntered inside, his steps a little too deliberate to be casual, a little too meandering to be hurried. His hat, tilted at an absurdly rakish angle, bobbed slightly as he turned his head to take in the room. The leather of his coat gleamed faintly in the dim light, its many mismatched patches a testament to years of dubious adventures.
He paused just inside the doorway, surveying the patrons with an exaggerated air of curiosity, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief—or perhaps just the hint of a good story waiting to be told.
Well, well, what have we here? Horus muttered to himself, though loud enough for a few patrons to glance his way before quickly looking back at their drinks. He grinned, the kind of grin that promised trouble, then ambled toward the bar.
The barkeep glanced up, clearly unimpressed by the flamboyant figure approaching. Horus leaned one elbow on the counter, tipping his hat back slightly as he regarded the man with an expression of exaggerated politeness.
Good sir, he began, his voice a lilting drawl that somehow managed to sound both charming and vaguely mocking at the same time, I find myself in dire need of a beverage—something strong, something with character, something that might remind me of the sea and conveniently erase the memory of this dust-choked little town from my mind. In short... rum. Have you got any?
The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his response a skeptical grunt. Horus didn’t seem to notice—or more likely, didn’t care. He drummed his fingers on the counter, his other hand toying with one of the beads braided into his dark hair.
I’ll take that as a yes. Lovely. He slid a coin across the counter, the movement deft and practiced. And while you’re fetching that, perhaps you could also tell me why this fair village of yours has misplaced a rather good friend of mine? Said they’d be here, and yet... He spread his hands dramatically. No friend. It’s most inconvenient, really.
Horus tilted his head, watching the barkeep closely as he waited for both his rum and, perhaps, a bit of gossip. After all, errands were best run with a drink in hand and a story on the wind.
When the stranger entered in the tavern, many of the clients that came there often started to act uneasy. It was odd, considering the influx of refugees that West Hills was receiving for them to act at times so suspicious of strangers. She had to admit that this one particularly seemed hard to ignore, he was talkative and the sort of person that made you look at them.
She eyed the stranger, deciding that for now he wasn’t a danger, for some reason she decided to enter in the conversation. Usually Ael would have stuck to minding her own business but perhaps boredom was moving her to do things that she hadn’t expected before like striking a conversation with a stranger.
“So…what’s your friend like? If we don’t know them we can’t know if we have seen them around” she said raising an eyebrow from her corner of the counter.
Horus turned his head with a deliberate, almost theatrical slowness, his hat dipping as he peered at Ael from beneath its brim. He tilted his head, a bead in his hair catching the light as his grin spread wider.
Ah, excellent! A volunteer! he exclaimed, pushing off the counter with a flourish and spinning to face her. My friend, dear lady, is the sort of fellow who is... well, let's just say, equally likely to charm you out of your coin or save your life in a pinch. Depending, of course, on the hour and his mood. Quite the character. Goes by the name of Jarek. Tallish. Handsome—though not as handsome as me, naturally. Fond of daggers and skulking about. Ringing any bells?
He leaned slightly closer, his expression conspiratorial, though his tone remained as irreverent as ever. Or perhaps you've heard whispers of a man fitting such a description meeting with some... ah, unfortunate circumstances? Because if so, I'd very much like to know if I should be offering condolences or vengeance. Both have their merits, you see.
His fingers fluttered in the air, as if weighing imaginary scales. Then he straightened abruptly, pointing a finger skyward. And, of course, if you’d rather not share such delicate information in public, I’m more than willing to accept it in exchange for, say... a second round of drinks?
His grin returned, roguish and entirely too self-satisfied, as if he had already won a game no one else was playing.
“I’m not volunteering for anything” she said as she narrowed her eyes, her words out like a reflex “The only charming guy around here is Wyatt or perhaps that friend of Rosalie that passes by at times..Alan? Alastor?...” what was his name? She didn’t hear what he said half of the time because honestly he spoke way too much for her tastes “Jarek rings no bell and this village is way too small to go unnoticed, specially a man with that description” she added with an shrug.
“I don’t know what you should offer because I have no fucking clue about where he is, let alone his fate” she said as she rose an eyebrow before turning her attention towards the bartender, ignoring his ‘exchange offer’ “Have you heard about anyone from out of West Hills called Jarek?”
After all the tavern owner likely saw everyone that came and left this small town.
The barkeep paused mid-polish, his expression souring as though someone had asked him to eat week-old stew. He cast a sidelong glance at Ael, then at Horus, clearly unimpressed with the latter’s theatrics. With a grunt, he set down the mug he’d been cleaning and rested his knuckles on the counter.
Jarek, you said? the barkeep finally muttered, his tone gruff. Don’t recall anyone by that name. If he’s skulking about, he’s doing a damned good job of it. But then, folk like that usually don’t come through the front door, if you catch my meaning.
Horus, undeterred, clapped his hands together, causing several patrons to jump. Ah, an excellent point, my good man! Front doors—so overrated. Windows, rooftops, maybe even a particularly sturdy tree! All valid options for the more creatively inclined.
He turned back to Ael with a wink. Your barkeep seems the suspicious type, doesn’t he? Charming, though. I’ll take his advice under consideration.
The barkeep shot him a glare, but Horus carried on unfazed. He leaned on the counter again, closer to Ael this time, his voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper.
And what about you, milady of mystery? You seem to have an eye for the comings and goings of this fine establishment. Perhaps you’ve spotted a skulker or two in your time? Or are you suggesting my friend has entirely forgotten how to be *interesting* enough to be noticed?
He placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of exaggerated dismay. Perish the thought!
His gaze lingered on her, teasing and probing in equal measure, as though he expected her to either crack a smile or throw her drink at him. He didn’t imagine she was holding back on him, but he felt like one extra push was in order, just to be sure. If his friend wasn’t there yet, he’d just have to keep himself entertained until he arrived.
“Thank you” she merely said at the barkeeper, looking as unimpressed as him by the man’s antics. He had a really good point, usually people that didn’t want to be found used a low profile for the obvious reasons.
“Are you always this chatty?” she merely asked Horus as she wrinkled her nose, clearly not enjoying his tendency to rambles.
“Suspicious? Hardly he just doesn’t want to be bothered and clearly we were bothering him” she said with a sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I haven’t spotted shit because I am half of the day slaving away on the medical clinic which doesn’t leave me a lot of free time to frolic on the taverns as you can guess” she deadpanned as she looked at the man.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked with absolute disbelief of that anyone had stabbed this man prior, or you know perhaps he had been stabbed but not successfully enough apparently.
Horus gasped, clutching his chest as if she had just run him through with a blade. His eyes widened in mock horror before narrowing into something more akin to amusement.
You wound me, madam. Truly. Right here. He tapped his chest twice, over his heart, then tilted his head, considering. Well, not *right* there. There was that one time in Rivain—turns out people get very territorial over rum shipments. But I digress!
He straightened, rolling his shoulders back with an air of practiced nonchalance. As for my chatty nature, let’s just say I find silence to be rather dull, and the world is a much livelier place when one fills it with conversation. Or, failing that, at least a few well-placed quips.
His grin turned lazy, and he leaned against the counter once more, propping his chin on his hand. But I do apologize, dear healer. Had I known you were *so* terribly overworked, I’d have offered my sympathies before prattling on. Maybe even brought you a gift! Bandages? A fine bottle of wine? An escape plan?
He waved a hand dismissively before she could respond. Ah, but to your real question. Who am I? A name! Yes, names are important, aren’t they? He pressed a hand to his chest again, this time with a flourish. Horus, at your service. Adventurer. Occasional entrepreneur. Purveyor of fine mischief and even finer disasters. And, in this particular case, a concerned friend searching for one wayward rogue.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. And you, my dear overworked medic—what name does one curse when one’s stitches are too tight and one’s tonics taste entirely too bitter?
