A House Call for Ignas

[Malaroth]

Malaroth sighed as he drew nearer to the Broken Dagger. Evidently further rains had swept away most of the remnants of a foul, alien battle that took place only last night. He puzzles across the lawn with narrowed, suspicious eyes and light feet - moving back and forth several, laborious times to ensure that none of the creature's bizarre ground-traps had been left behind.

Having found a clear path, he returned to the package he had left upon the ground. Bound in dark cloth and rope, he hefted several of the packages beneath his arm and intertwined his fingers beneathe the knotted rope to carry the rest. Every step drew a sharp wince and haggard sigh, a gesture with which he was overly familiar anyway, and the pain began to goad him into considering fighting that particular habit. With a wry, self-directed grin he supposed that pain could make anything seem uninviting.

Save, perhaps, for the battle. Though Ignas had been sorely wounded, and the elf warrior had paid a hefty price, he could not quite shake the shadow of a smile as he slipped inside. It had seemed a noble, simple goal - to protect people from some alien thing that had proven to be quite dangerous.

He reached the bartender and, one by one, slipped the packages down on the bartop accompanied by several choice coins that Thomas had generously bequeathed him.

"See to it that Ignas, the unfortuate soul from last night, is fed all of this lamb. The... physician... implied that eating meat was important for his survival." He scowled at the memory of the enigmatic witch-doctor, recalling the man's sharp tongue for the compassionate, if soft-spoken, elf.

The bartender nodded, urged to by the gift of coin. Malaroth drew himself up within his ruined garments and offered a tight, polite smile that pulled into a half-scowl as his ribs violently complained.

"My thanks," he offered, and was soon out the door.