Two shady characters sat in the corner of the tavern, looking out at the scene before them – one amused, one indifferent. Their eyes were peeled on the display before them – an older gentleman, dressed in fine robes, obviously living a lavish life of luxury, commanding a slew of mercenaries. They did not appear to fit in with the normal scene of Zantaric, but because they had lived here for so long, they too, managed to blend in, even though their appearance might suggest that they should not.
Salazar, the one who sat to the right of the table, had heard of a man who appeared to be loved and lauded by the mercs of Zantaric, but he had never bothered to investigate the rumor. Thinking nothing of it, except that such a man might just be some rich old sod that had nothing better to do, he had let the rumors come and fall, as they always did, but curiosity – well, it killed the cat.
Dressed in his usual – a white, collared shirt, black breeches, and a black cape tied loosely around his neck, he did not look so out of place, for dirt smeared his clothes, wrinkled and tarnished – but he had his own aura, an aura of plague and shadows.
He watched, a single green eyebrow arched, as the older man snapped his fingers, which summoned a group of young maids carrying cakes and ale to strut out into the tavern. The men cheered, and accepted his gift, digging into the cake without an ounce of suspicion for such a luxurious delicacy. Not only did the mysterious man feed 'his' men, but the maids brought cake and ale for the rest of the tavern too, and even stopped by their table, dropping by two frosted cakes, along with a hearty mug of ale.
Balthazar, who sat to the left of the table, brought the mug of ale to his lips without a second thought, ignoring the maid who had brought it, who seemed to be clamoring for his attention. He waved him off, with a dismissive shake of his hand, looking towards Salazar, who did not look away from the gentleman, lost in thought. Balthazar, dressed in his usual suit and fedora, should be the last person to criticize how lavishly this person dressed – but besides his clothes, there was something off about him, something different. Still, was he so different that he had to be roused from his normal duties, just to see this man boss around his minions?
When the maid had finally realized that Bal was not interested in being solicited, he turned toward Sal, his breath low, bored. "Remind me what we're doing here again..." Bal sighed, but Salazar did not bother to look at him. He did not touch his cake, either, but continued to watch the display.
"We're listening," he informed, his voice a low hiss. "This man is obviously not just some rich geezer who gets off on ordering people around all day." His voice was a low bass – masculine, strong. "Who is he? Or rather, what he is... An eccentric? Or, no, something darker..."
"I couldn't care less," Bal muttered, toying with his fork, and sighed as one of his men spoke of raping and killing a girl. "His men speak like they're deviants for the sake of being deviant. I mean, really – it's more fun to seduce the girl and leave her broken-hearted. Honestly..." He twirled his fork between his fingers, eyes wide – suddenly inspired. "After all, isn't life more torturous than the sweet relief death brings?"
Sal groaned, inspecting the dirt underneath his fingernails. "I won't do with your nonsensical tirades tonight," he hissed, leaning over the table in order to get his brother's attention. "That man is no ordinary man – we owe it to ourselves to investigate this, at the very least. He may seem ... very eccentric, but if he's someone dark, someone who has lived perhaps as long as us..."
"This is about Beelzebub, isn't it?"
Sal cut his eyes at him, incensed, silenced.
"Very well, dear brother," Balthazar sighed, and stood up from their table, taking his mug of ale with him. Salazar followed suit, and the two strode over toward the strange man's table – Lord Ouranos, as he was called. Balthazar raised his mug of ale towards him, and wore his charming mask, grinning.
"You've won yourself two new recruits, Lord Ouranos!" he cried aloud, and took a seat at his table, as Sal followed suit again. "My brother and I are quite curious about this job – tell us more, about this venture!" He took a swing of ale in the lord's honor, and opened his ears and eyes – waiting, smirking, and listening in on the conversations all around him.
This man and his overeager enthusiasm for an "evil" – it was probably just a mask, one he wore in order to pump these men up, for some deed he wanted them to do. No one could be this over the top, could they? He would play along for now – for Salazar, and because of his own curiosity.
Salazar sat, only staring at the lord, his yellow eyes piercing, obviously trying to cipher just what stuff this man might be made of. If he was of dark descent, and as old as they were – perhaps he could be an ally. He had no intention of becoming a throwaway mercenary, no, and would approach him as soon as he was alone about that aura he exuded. But for now, he would drink ale, and listen, as his brother did, and wait for his time to rise.