Jodiah Ayreg woke from his midday rest. His muscles were sore, but perhaps it was only because he kept seeing little gnomes dancing around in his head, singing about rum, and ships, and stars to sail them by. Anyone with images like that in his head was bound to not sleep well.

He slid his boots onto his feet, and tied his shirtstrings up the front of his scarred chest. His coat went around his shoulders next, but he left it untied. With no call to impress, he felt no burning desire to look his best. He was not standing on ceremony, after all.

The common room of the Red Dragon went on much as it always did. A great demon seemed to be abusing Icer, Jewell was serving at the bar, he wasn't sure but he thought he might have seen Grem in there as well. The others he did not know, and likely would not. Ever.

Sliding onto a barstool, he rubbed his knee briefly and pulled his pipe from his pack. He thumbed some tabac into it while Jewell got him a tankard of that terrible ale and placed it before him. He grumbled to himself, taking a long draw from his pipe. Tendrils of blue smoke rolling out of the corners of his mouth. He kept to himself for a time.

"The ocean is like one of them highborn Rhy'Din ladies: ye can love her, but ye can't trust her. One minute, she's as placid as a sea-cow and yer sailin' along as easy as kiss-my-hand, everybody leanin' on the rail and spittin' to leeward;"

Ayreg was a bit taken aback as the image of Torbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) appeared in his head, giving him another lecture on why he should have been a pirate.

"the next she throws a hurricane at ye, and yer runnin' as if all the hounds of hell was on your trail, swearin' that if ye gets out of this alive ye'll never set foot on a boat again."

He smoked quietly to himself at the bar in the common room of the Red Dragon, nursing from his ale. He almost thought of ordering some rum next, just to get in the spirit -- really, he was either going to become a pirate and join the `crew` with the gnomes; or we was going to just murder the lot of them and throw their rotting carcasses in the river running through town.

"But ye always do go back to her, see? Because, despite her bein' an untrustworthy, ungrateful, murderous wench and all, ye' bloody well do love her, more than ye love life itself."

Ayreg's thin lips twitched. He recollects that it was around that time he merely booted the little annoying gnome out of the silver shop. It was a bad sort of poetry, really, the kind an old salt of the seas might think up. Still, Jodiah noted with some dismay, it did have a point. Women were untrustworthy, ungrateful, murderous wenches. And all. With the exception of his dream about Tara the night before, he didn't even had a single thought that entertained the idea of lust. At least, not since he was reborn, anyway. Back in the old days, he was a proper man-whore.

"Like all Rhy'Din citizens are supposed to be" he mused.

It was at this particular moment that Icer tripped onto his booted foot. Again. He shook his foot beneath her, trying to get her off, but she merely clamped down with teeth and talon. He shook his leg more, swatting at her. "I'd truly hate to be the one to tell your mother I had to turn you into a fine pair of gloves for bothering me, again."

It seemed to do the trick. She flitted up to his shoulder and perched, tiny claws digging into his wiry flesh there and tugging at his long, graying hair with her jaws. It was about this time he finally took notice of a woman who was speaking to him. He never got her name, to tell the truth, but one day she might be known to him as Rhaine. She spoke of the past, and of the future, seeming to offer him a chance at wanton destruction again. He took her words in passing, of course not trusting the woman very much. She offered him a card with some numbers on it that he knew -- he was skilled at map reading, after all.

He returned to his drink after abruptly ending the conversation with her. Somewhere in the room, a tinkling bell made the corner of his eye twitch. He ignored it for now, only it continued to happen. He turned his head, spotting Talomar and.. some woman, but her face was covered by a veil.

That's when she started to flee from Talomar. Now, normally, Jodiah Ayreg is not one to be noble in any way. Since a dashing rescue of the damsel might earn him a dandy to bounce on his knee for an hour, as well as interfering with the night games of his rival Longden, he decided he just might spring into action like his rival of old -- a paladin named Corlagon, who for all practical purposes is likely dead now. Easing his warsword in his belt-loop, he took a few steps in their direction.

Then stopped. She seemed to stop fighting, and folded just as mild as milk into his arms. Hmpf. Someone playing hard-to-get, apparently. He leaned back against the bar, returning briefly to his drink. The veil was ripped off, though, by the woman. A closer inspection revealed that she was, in fact, Tara. His thin lips twitched and his gaunt features became again creased by the perpetual, snarling frown he carried about with him.

He wanted to walk away, at first, staring at the two. He couldn't hear them speaking softly, or perhaps staring at each other wordlessly -- it was hard to be sure, with these things of things. Mustering up some nerve, though, he walked across the room and stepped up to them. His feet were planted firmly into the ground, and he regarded his rival.

"Longden."

"How can I help you?" he asked, slowly turning.

"I give you credit, sir."

The Count seemed taken aback. "Credit? Credit for what?"

Ayreg had said all he was going to say, though. His head tilted down toward Tara, who seemed to be trying to bore a hole through him with her eyes. His own eyes flicked back up toward Talomar once, before turning sharply on his heel and walking away, retreating back to his room. He had enough of the common room, for one night.

Back in his room, Ayreg spread a map across the small table. It wasn't as fine a map as Amthy had the other day, but it would do. Taking out the small card from his pack, he slid his fingers across the map as he located the position pointed out to him by Rhaine.

"Women are untrustworthy, ungrateful, murderous wenches" he repeated to himself. Longden had chosen his allies and subjects well. Perhaps it was a chance meeting that he was not supposed to witness, but, in his mind, he had ferreted out at least one of Longden's spies now. This one had almost gotten to him, too.

The best ones always did have a pretty face.

The next day, Ayreg did not go to the silver shop. Surely one of the near-on dozen or so little gnomish `pirates` could cover the silver work for a day while he ventured out.

Ayreg tied the strings of his shirt shut, and pulled his black coat on over it. The high-collared coat buttoned up the right side of his torso, now, instead of drawstrings up the center. Ayreg got himself that new coat he had been considering about -- indeed, buttons were really quite a marvelous replacement for the drawstrings. Over the coat came his blackened-alloy mail shirt, and a belt wrapped around his waist over it. Enameled bracers were next donned, strapped over his wrists and forearms. Soon after the heavy black cloak was settled onto his shoulders, he drew the hood up -- more or less the universal sign that he didn't wish to be bothered.

His warsword, engraved with the icons of The Nihil, was next. The soft sound of scraping metal greeted his ears as he slid it down into the sheath hanging from his heavy leather belt. His lips twitched, and Ayreg felt strangely at peace in his adornments. Now, he simply needed a suit of full-plate. Too bad he hadn't found an armorer yet who'se wares he liked enough to commission it.

Not that he could afford it yet, anyway.

The last thing he gathered up was the map he marked with the location that woman left for him, last night. Not anywhere near trusting, even on a good day, Ayreg felt the uncanny sense of curiosity to know exactly what she was offering. He folded the map up, sliding it into his pack with his pipe and small pouch of tabac.

It was several hours later when Ayreg came to the location, at last. Some kind of blackened stone archway -- a circle, or very near to it, at any rate, and seemingly grown from marble. It had the look of having just sprouted from the ground, but the crackling of magic almost made him want to call upon The Nihil for protection. No Saa crossed his eyes, though. Some special gifts were better left a secret until they were truly needed, after all.

He came out of the treeline, unsheathing his warsword, and stalking forward like some kind of great jungle cat on its guard. He came to a crouch next to the portal, grounding the tip of his blade into the earth, and resting his aching knee against the ground. It felt colder here at the mouth of the portal than elsewhere he had been that day. The raw magical energy even affected him as he felt a kind of rumbling deep in his gut, the kind felt when an extremely low-pitched sound echoes against one's body.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Ayreg merely watched the striations of color, cloud, and sparks. He felt the pulses of magical energy this gateway produced.

He did not move for some time.