Murder and mayhem

Es was a man of efficiency. Excellence was an art, and self-inflated bluster was its opposite.

Reason and logic were the flavours of grounding and sanity. However, he did allow room for what was an important phenomenon in his life:

Es did not believe in coincidences.

Little ornamental fish in a pond, indeed.

It had been a long time since Es had been cut off from everyone he knew. His house, his family, colleagues, employees, allies, acquaintances.

The stowaway, at first distrusted, was now gaining some rapport with him. Now he knew more about her.

Bree was quaint. A little too quaint for what Es and Nen were used to, despite whatever impressions they gave the locals.

They rode south of Bree, into Herne. There, lodgings were secured. A house; more spacious and furnished more finely than the Breeish cottages they'd looked into. For now the stowaway could rest easy with her creature comforts. Security, privacy, a bath. Simplicity was needed while Esgaulegor regathered himself.

He intended it to be a destructive visit to the blackjack tables. Burn the coin, watch it go up in flames like everything else had done. 

Instead, it turned into a win.

Just like that, they gained three horses. Decent ones.

Nenaura had conned some passing merchants, during his delay. He wanted to know how she'd done it, but refused to give her the satisfaction of asking.

They had coin, now. The stowaway wanted comfort, and he was obliged by custom to provide it. 

What blood was wrought from me and mine, I have taken back tenfold.

The quill in his always-gloved hand fell still. The light from the campfire flickered sedately, casting an evening hue well after midnight. It was the first night in fourteen months and five days he hadn't kissed the bottle.

He stared down at his own writing, lifted the nib to dip to more ink, then carried on with more fervour.