Hunter, Juggernaut, Assassin, Warrior (DNF)

Of The Good Ale

Dream watched the tavern from a rooftop not too far away. Just as he suspected, each man took a role, a position. From what he knew, the men had only known each other for no longer than a few days, but they worked together like a four cogs in a well oiled machine. Ant took a stance in the from of the tavern, hiding in plain-sight nearby. Sapnap headed to the back, Dream guessed he was heading back in case Dream tried to escape through there. And George and Bad headed inside.

He weighted the different thoughts. Bad was an assassin, he knew that well. Dream drew his hand to his face, clinking his chewed nails against his mask. A habit of his. Bad would probably slither his way into the kitchen, poison a drink or two. Classic move Bad, but one Dream knew well. Dream clicked his tongue. George. George was an interesting case. He'd probably followed Bad in to actually spy on Dream.

He laughed. Their plan was already figured out, and Dream hadn't even hit foot inside of the tavern. He sat down on the roof, allowing his legs to dangle over the edge. Dream swung his legs back and forth like a child.

Show time.

He slid down the roof and landed on the dirt road. He got a few strange looks from strangers but he didn't mind. The man was a leo, he enjoyed the attention. With pride and confidence swirling in his blood, he walked the way to the tavern.

It was a two story building, crafted of wood and cobblestone. Even from the outside, you could smell the stingy scent from within. Just above the door, a sign stuck up. 'Hbomb's Tavern and Inn' was written out in black paint. Dream absentmindedly took note of the sign.

He forced the door open with ease, he had caught a few eyes. Dream quickly went to door analyzing and taking in every detail of the downstairs bar. Several tables, full of gruff men and tavern wenches filled the majority of the floor. The bar counter sat against the furthest wall from the door. The bar-hand was running back and forth, taking and giving out orders of ales and cheap food.

The table nearest one of the support beams, was a man. Not one of the burly, muscle ridden heathens that sat at the other tables, this man was different. He wasn't fragile per se, but he wasn't built either. His head was hung low, fluffy brown locks hidden behind a beanie. The man wore a black coat the reached the floor. But most noticeably, the lyre in his hands. The man plucked the strings with rhythm, even though to gentle melody wouldn't be heard over the general noise of the tavern.

Dream grinned to himself. As he was walking over to this music man, he noticed the corkboard near the bar counter, and the man looking at it. Cloaked in navy blue. The Hunter. George. Clever clever clever was he.

He waltz his way over to the man with the lyre, and took a seat across from him. Dream noticed when he sat down, the hunter wondered closer, careful to hide his face.

"So," the lyre man greeted with a gruff grin, he stopped playing and placed his instrument on the table, "you ask me here on matters of utmost important. A dire situation. And you are late." He words were laced with amusement. This man had an accent, one that was very similar to that of George Founders. Dream knew this, and glanced over to George.

"Would you have come if I stated overwise, Soot?" Dream said with an unseen smirk, drawing his eyes back to Soot.

"Soot? Oh we have to use code names, I remember now." Soot leaned forward, his brown gaze burning through Dream's mask. "So?"

"We don't have to rush old friend." Dream chuckled, relaxing his shoulders back. "How's everything back home? Your brothers? Your father?"

Soot cheekily smiled. "Dear old dad still rules with an iron fist and a heart of gold. My youngest brother had found a fondness for the gardner's boy."