Beatrice stood before a large door. She wore her uniform and sun-shaped earrings, but the absence of her hooded capelet revealed her red hair and pointed ears. The Vezenian Phoenix, once proudly displayed on her chest, was nowhere to be seen. She entered the bar.
Her eyes scanned the room, and found no sign of the mercenary. Her gaze met with many others'—dwarves, wood-elves, humans—all of which looked upon her with scrutiny. She walked further into the bar. The smell of moonshine and the sound of rap filled the air, both things she had only ever heard tales of.
She hesitantly approached the bartender, an older halfling with a comb-over, when the sound of approaching footsteps alerted her. She turned to face a large man with almond skin, black hair and jaws which left their bottom canines exposed. Orcs, she recognized.
"Oi, lady," he said, gray hoodie doing little to conceal his muscular build. "Don't see many of you high-elves 'round these parts. What brings you to Blackhill?"
Beatrice paused to choose her words. She remembered her training: orcs were a violent, dangerous people who were best avoided entirely. If encountered, one must either placate their natural anger or prove that one deserves respect through a show of dominance. The squire preferred the former option. She said:
"I am merely here to meet with someone. I seek no conflict and pose no threat."
The orc chuckled in response.
"Do you tell everyone you meet that you come in peace or is that just for orcs?" he questioned.
Beatrice froze like a jackalope in headlights.
"Carl," the orc said, looking at the bartender. "Put her next one on my tab."
She began to reflect on her training as the orc left the establishment. This must have been an isolated incident. An exception to the rule. Right? Her train of thought was interrupted by a metallic sound, that of a coin being flipped. She looked to her right, and alone in a corner booth, was the mercenary, still in that same leather jacket, tossing a coin upwards and catching it repeatedly. Beatrice did her best to remain calm as she approached, yet her tensed shoulders and measured pace gave away her state of mind.
Alex caught the coin one final time and put it in her pocket, saying:
"Orcish hospitality's somethin' new to ya, huh?"
"I did not expect such a thing from their kind," Beatrice responded. "Are all orcs...?"
"They're people," The mercenary responded, incredulous. "There's good ones an' bad ones."
"Forget it. We should focus on the task at hand," said the squire.
"A'ight, a'ight. Siddown."
Beatrice complied.
"First—" Alex leaned closer to emphasize her words "—Who the hell are ya?"
"I am Beatrice Woodhearth, of House Woodhearth, Squire of the Imperial Order of the Phoenix," she responded, with none of the pride usually present when she stated her titles.
"Alex Strider. I work for Skulltrader," she said, as a bartender delivered a cup of a foul-smelling clear liquid to the squire and a brightly colored can of soda to the mercenary. Beatrice quickly decided to not drink whatever that was.
"So," Alex continued. "The job. Gonna need deets 'fore I can say anythin' 'bout it."
The squire took a second to deduce the meaning of the word "deets." When she did, she responded:
"I was sent here to destroy that caravan, but I was lied to about its contents. The only two people who know about this mission are my Grandmaster, who's a respected member of Imperial command, and an agent, planted within Rooksbury. I don't know his name, nor his motivation, making him the only one who could be responsible for this. The law is clear: misuse of Imperial resources—such as squires—is treason, and punishable by death."
Alex opened her soda can, making a loud pop, and said:
"This ain't 'misuse,' it's a normal op. Vezenia pulls this kinda shit on the regular."
"If this happens regularly, then the corruption is simply deeper than I expected," Beatrice said, worryingly earnest in tone. "Still, the Empire stands for good and truth. That some would corrupt this is only natural."
Alex smiled grimly.
"Sunny, If this kinda shit is 'corruption,' then fuckin' everyone, all the way up to the Emperor's corrupt, too. Fightin' the evil part a' the Empire means figthin' the whole thing."
"What do you know of good and evil!?" Beatrice snapped. "You, a mercenary, one who murders for coin, want to lecture me about morality?" She questioned, gradually lowering her voice.
Alex paused. Her expression, for but a breif moment, carried some geniune emotion—though neither of them could identify which. Just as quick as it changed, her visage returned to that annoying, self-assured smile.
"Aight, Sunny. Y-"
"Stop calling me that," Beatrice interrupted.
"No," Alex responded. "Anyway, ya ain't wrong. I'm a killer-fo'-hire—and I'm great at it. You're good, fo' sure, but you're gonna need me if ya want this done. So, bottom line; how much?"
The squire wordlessly tossed a bag upon the table. It landed with a heavy thud. The mercenary took and opened it, seeing what must be over three hundred ten mark coins inside.
"I'm in. What's his last known location?"
"Milford Avenue, five sixty-four," the squire responded. "An abandoned building, fortified and repurposed as a hideout. I don't know if he remains there."
"Good enough. Grab some gear and meet me in two," the mercenary said, grabbing her drink, getting up and walking away. As she moved towards the exit, she revealed the back of her jacket. The cut Beatrice had delivered two days before was now covered by a large patch, that of a full moon.