I sat at the table eating my breakfast when the Redbrand brutes strode up to the barman, the leader of the group eyeing the man with a cocky smirk upon his face. I knew a shakedown when I saw one, so knew to ready my weapon in secret beneath the table lest a fight break out – though I intended not to start one.
I consider myself grateful for my instincts, for no sooner had the last man stepped forth into the room than he felt the needle-point of a rapier pierce him from behind.
Used to many a bar brawl in my past, I flipped the table I sat beside at once and crouched behind it, taking careful shots at the bandits as my companions dispatched them with surprising rapidity.
So much for disguise…
It seems that, after this, my false persona may soon be no less conspicuous to the Redbrands than my true self. How long retains this ruse its worth?
The barkeep seemed strangely and naively grateful for the intervention, thanking us for our help, as if unaware of (or perhaps unconcerned by) the vengeance the Redbrand superiors might enact upon him for having several of their grunts slain.
Disturbingly, the altercation at the inn seemed also to confirm for me my suspicions regarding the rogueish tabaxi Bo Jingles.
Though I saw not who held the blade, I suspect that it could only have been Bo, for I counted all but him amongst me in the room before the fight.
That the cat’s bloodlust seemed so unbridled troubles me greatly, for whilst he remains an ally for now, how long before any one of us feels an unexpected rapier-blade at OUR backs?
My mind is cast back to Tasar, and the cave. I saw the murderous look in his eyes there, too, the eyes of one ready and willing to kill one who had professed himself an ally.
He kills without feeling; without remorse, basing his actions coldly on personal need alone. I know now for certain that such a man could never be trusted. To do so is to risk death.