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@visualspice
"Please, my daughter and my grandson, they fled to Serendipity. My grandson, he's... Well, you know. So they left, but they could take so little with them. Almost nothing!" The well-dressed, elder man wrang his hands, fretting visibly over this. It was clear from looking at him that no grandson of his could b possibly go through life with nothing! "Please, you must understand. I want him to have a future, an education! I tried to send them something by conventional means, I do have trade connections that cross the border you know, but it's almost impossible now! Even... even with bribes," he added in a hushed tone. Though he'd already been speaking hardly above a whisper. "I asked and asked where I might find help. Where I might find someone - anyone! - who can make it across. Who can be trusted. No one. Until someone gave me your name. Please, you have to help me. You're my last hope."
The man folded his hands on the grimy tavern table and looked imploringly at her. Dolores Ansbacher, or Hawkeye by her professional name, looked at him with a casual pity. The poor old money bags, couldn't imagine the inhumanity of his daughter and her mage brat having nothing. Like half the rest of the world. Please. But she didn't say that; she gave him a polite, businesslike smile.
"You have to understand, Mister Cantillon, my business isn't 'helping people,'" she explained calmly, holding up a hand to silence the sputtering corrections ready to burst from his mouth. "But yes, I can make the delivery you want." The man practically melted in relief. "I still have ways over the southern mountains that go undetected. But my price is high."
"Name it!" the man breathed heavily, looking like he was ready to throw money at her right there. Then they settled down to the business of settling business. When they were done, they shook hands, exchanged money, and the grateful old man bought her a beer out of goodwill, shook her hand again, and said he would see her soon to complete the transaction. To give her his precious cargo.
Dolores watched him go, propping her boots up on the table and leaning back in her chair. She took a long sip of the crisp amber ale. She had lied, of course. She would take his things - money and previous jewels and the like - but she had no intention of taking them to Serendipity. And why should she? The man would never know. With the war raging, communication between the nations was virtually impossible. He'd feel better, believing his kin better off, his daughter and grandson would make do (after all, she'd grown up with nothing, and she was alive and well), and Hawkeye would reap the profits.
There was a killing to be made in Connlaoth.