Haern leaned back, the cloak hiding his grin. About damn time. He let the bottle roll limp from his hand, the sound of glass on stone grating in the silence.

“Just a drunk,” said one of them. “Go chase him off.”

Haern heard the soft sound of a blade scraping against leather, most likely the young one’s belt.

“Get out of here,” said the Serpent.

Haern let out a loud, obnoxious snore. A boot kicked his side, but it was weak, hesitant. He shuddered as if waking from a dream.

“Why…why you kick me?” he asked, his hood still low. He had to time it just right, at the exact moment the crate touched ground.

“Beat it!” hissed the young thief. “Now, or I’ll gut you!”

Haern looked up and stared into his eyes. His lips curled into a smirk. He knew shadows danced across his face, but his eyes…the man clearly saw his eyes. His dagger dipped in his hand, and he took a step back. Death was in Haern’s smirk, and steel in his gaze. As he heard the sound of the crate softly thumping to the ground, he stood, his ratty gray cloak falling aside to reveal the two swords sheathed at his hips.

“Shit, it’s him!” the thief screamed, turning to run.

Haern felt contempt ripple through him. Such poor training…did the guilds let anyone in now? He took the young man down, making sure no hit was lethal. He needed a message delivered.

“Who?” asked one, turning at the cry.

Haern cut his throat before he could draw his blade. The other yelped and stepped back. His dagger parried the first of Haern’s stabs, but he had no concept of positioning. Haern smacked the dagger twice to the right, then slipped his left sword into his belly and twisted. As the thief bled out, Haern looked to the Serpent atop the wall.

“Care to join the fun?” he asked, yanking out his blade and letting the blood drip to the street. “I’m out of players.”