Some things were just easier said than done. And as could be expected Tenran was not happy about any of it. The bounty should have been easy, should have been a piece of autumn pumpkin pie! But instead it was just quickly becoming a pain in the ass. The bounty was a lucrative one on some old fart that went by the name of Josef Bonacher, a thief, conman, and a dirty lech. That alone was reason enough to off the 60 year old bastard. However, it seemed the primary quandary was that people had a hard time singling him out from the usual rabble of garbage that ended up on the local bounty list.
Tenran was dogged, frustrated, but dogged and wouldn't let the bastard get out of his grasp so easily. Where he may have evaded the clutches of other bounty hunters after him, Tenran had enough of a good description, and committed it to memory enough to be capable of finding and identifying him. Tenran had the luck to have Liana sketch him out three possible portraits from the description he had; and her hand proved well and true.
Most if not all people he questioned about the man, seemed to settle on one in particular. An older man with small beady eyes beneath white caterpillar-like brows. Hair grew patchily on his head, coming up in wild tufts about his ears and sideburns. A thick, ugly beard grew from his stubby chin, billowing out from underneath his crooked nose like overgrown weeds, gnarled and nasty.
The most recent lead told him Bonacher was hold up somewhere in the vicinity of a small farming community deep in the hills of the Valley, no doubt feeling comfortable enough to come up with his latest scheme. Rumours of a witch were pouring out of the woodwork and there wasn't a doubt in the bounty hunter's mind that Bonacher would find some way to cash in on the locals' fear.
The sky was uncooperative and muggy clouds proved to want to dampen his progress when he finally trudged through the mud between huts and mud-brick houses. A hood was draped over his head and dabbled here and there with heavy raindrops. He was a little cold, but his leather armor provided enough comfort and insulation to at least keep him dry. There were worse things than a little a little rain.
"Bonacher, I wonder what name you're hiding under now?" Tenran grumbled to himself.
He supposed the best place to start would be with asking the locals. So when he knocked on the door of a young couple, Tenran braved the cold welcome and presented the portrait sketch to them. "I'm sorry to bother you on such a lovely day, my good man," Tenran said cleverly, with a flashing grin. "But I was just wondering if you would happen to know where I can find my old uncle! You see, him and my father haven't been speaking for years, some old feud that's been going on since before I was born, and I've been trying to find him, to give him a letter he wrote just before he died. He hadn't the courage to give it to him the few chances he had before he died. As his son, it was the least I could do for him, and for my uncle."
The husband in the doorway, seemingly fresh on army leave, was moved by his words – and Tenran was inwardly amused at the thought that he actually fell for it – and took a good look at the picture. "Well, I'm sure that must be old Albrecht Darroway, lives in a li'l old shack down at the base of the hill due west of the village. My wife told me he's a-gonna find a way to break the witch's curse. But we ought to watch out just in case she tries to take revenge or stop him. Your uncle, he's a right smart man, Mr. ..er."
"Thank you so much, good sir. Here for your troubles. Sorry to cut our talk so short, but thank you for your time. I must be going now," Tenran quickly took his sketch back and in doing so, slipped the man a coin in his hand before pocketing it and stepping away, heading toward the western edge of town. The man had told him interesting bits of information, that Bonacher planned somehow to break a witch's curse, no doubt the apparent 'cause' of the poor crop produced in the village. He wondered what sort of complexities the old fart was trying to pull to steal what gold he could from these poor superstitious folk.
The house wasn't difficult to spot, and he did the only thing he felt was right to do, and he knocked on the thin shack door. "Mr. Darroway! Mr. Darroway, I've seen her! I've seen the witch!"
