Dorok curled up in the secret cellar of an abandoned tavern. Damp mold mingled with the sour stench of cheap ale and seeped into his nostrils, but he ignored the foul smell entirely, focusing on what was happening overhead.
The measured tread of leather boots on flagstones, scattered shouts, and the more unsettling sounds of a meticulous, practiced search echoed against the boards above him.
Dorok instinctively tightened his grip on his Bastard Sword, waiting for someone to lift the boards overhead at any moment...
As he waited, the phrase "a stray dog" suddenly pierced his mind like an icicle. He shivered involuntarily, then felt an equally instinctive surge of anger.
Once the noises overhead faded, Dorok could not help muttering a hoarse curse.
The movement pulled at the wound beneath his ribs. A sharp stab of pain made him suck in a breath, and fine beads of cold sweat quickly appeared on his forehead.
He had suffered that wound when a Halberd grazed him as he broke through a Noble Private Army checkpoint. It was shallow, but it burned fiercely and was clearly becoming infected.
He needed clean bandages, disinfectant made in Bagnia, and a scalpel to cut away the rotting flesh.
At that thought, Dorok instinctively tugged at his thick, stiff homespun coat, which reeked of sweat and fish... It certainly deserved some credit for the infection.
He had stolen it from a drying rack. Baggy and bulky, it perfectly concealed his conspicuous Chainmail and muscular build, while barely covering several crudely bandaged wounds. A filthy, battered felt hat sat low on his head, hiding most of his face.
Wanted notices bearing his likeness now covered every street and alley. Although the drawing was crude, the bounty was high enough to tempt any desperado into questioning anyone who