INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

FARTHEN DUR

Dylon Blood danced a stone dagger between his slim fingers, all six of his digits swirling the fine weapon so fast that it was nothing but a silver blur.

In the dim light of the bar, Dylon eyed Obron Nyste across the table. An older Eharib, he had dirty blonde hair and a thick black beard that was coiled into several thick locks, jewels hanging from each one. There was a low hum of conversation as Obron anxiously wrung his hands, looking at Dylon with shifty blue eyes.

"Can it be done?" He asked softly. There was a blast of laughter, causing Obron to jolt in his seat. Dylon smiled wanly and allowed his yellow eyes to follow the source of the noise: Two Dwarib making sultry gestures to a curved dwarven barmaid. Dylon returned his attention to Obron, who was now sweating profusely.

"It can. What really matters, my friend," Dylon leaned forward, slamming his knife onto the wooden table. It stuck with a loud chunk, and the surrounding chatter lessened as Dwarves shifted uncomfortably, reaching for concealed weapons. Dylon stared at Obron until the talking picked up again, and gave Obron a handsome grin.

"Is gold." He finished, leaning backward on his chair, allowing long brown hair to fall past his ears and down the sides of his neck.

"It can be supplied. Are you sure you and your men will be able to-" Obron bent his head lower, placing his massive hands on the cold table.

"Are you sure they will be able to kill the Gun-nam Gun-La?"

"My fair Obron," Dylon started, his voice soothing.

"Regicide is our specialty."

Obron moved, sending out a pallid stench that grew from his own nervousness. Dylon scrunched his nose, picking up his glass of heated ale to cover the smell.

"It needs to be done before the treaty is signed. The human delegation will be arriving soon."

Dylon put down his cup softly, wiping his mouth as the alcohol warmed his stomach.

"It will be done, Obron. The King will die, that I can promise you, yangu baradu (my friend.)"

Obron settled back in his chair, relaxed prematurely.

"How about a drink, then?" He said with a fine smile. Dylon returned the look, letting out a small laugh as he imagined the wealth that would soon be dancing between his fingers, instead of this dagger.

I'm going to be killing my brother, soon. Won't that be pleasant? He thought with a tint of glee. Dylon pulled the dagger from the table, and began playing with it again, flipping it about his body with one hand.
                                  ***
Nasuada's quarters were large, for a ship, with enough room for a  mattress and even a drawer. A mirror was found opposite of them, and Murtagh rose his green eyes to find Nasuada looking at him, raised in a seated position, her blankets covering the lower portions of her body.

"What's wrong?" She asked, touching his scarred back. Before, that would have sent him recoiling from her, but now, to his dismay, he accepted the touch, allowing it to comfort him. He frowned then, his raven hair falling over his face like a veil.

No.

"I should be going." He said stiffly, raising himself from the bed. He eyed the floor for his clothing.

"It's still night." She said sadly as he felt her watch him. He found his trousers, pulling them on quickly as he reached for his boots.

"The sooner I leave the better." He said quietly as he pulled his tan shirt over his head. He turned, and allowed his dark verdant eyes to fall on her face once again. She was frowning, and crossed her arms.