He finds himself in what appears to be a tavern. It's smoky and dimly-candlelit, full of people – mostly men, some women – in vaguely-medieval-styled clothing, clearly dressed for fighting, all of them visibly armed with swords or daggers.

A barmaid in a long dress jumps back, giving him a startled look. 

A tall, muscular woman in a dark blue military-ish uniform leaps up from her table, her hand flying to the sheathed sword at her belt. "Where did you come from?" 

“Ever heard of Brooklyn? Or Earth, sometimes saying Earth helps.”

Noting the ratio of sharp things : his internal organs, Vir slowly raises his hands and avoids making any sudden movements.

Vir tries to stop himself from checking out the military woman’s chest, but fails.

This just gets him a confused and suspicious look.

A portly older man rises from his seat opposite the military woman’s vacated bench. His eyes slide up and down, examining Vir.

“Huh. Got to say, you’re an odd specimen of a mercenary. Looking for work?” His thumb jerks in the woman’s direction. “She’s hiring.”

The woman rolls her eyes slightly, but nods.

(Vir imagines how Mr. Portly would look with a walrus mustache, and it seems like a fit.)

“You know... yeah, actually.” He musters up some respect and looks Captain Doesn’t-Take-Shit in the eyes. “I heard there’s a... bad... situation developing? And I would love to be part of the solution. To that. Uh, for money.”

She gives him a piercing look. "What's your fighting experience like?" 

“Mostly hand-to-hand, of the you should see the other guy variety. But I’m a quick study, I’ve been known to punch above my weight class, and I’m just now realizing I’m speaking entirely in idioms.”

Vir takes a breath, and ticks off his fingers: “Ex-guard. Ex-soldier. Daggers. Pikes. Swords, shields. Ballistas, if you’ve got ‘em.”

This is all bullshit, Vir doesn’t know shit about medieval weaponry.

This earns her a mildly dubious look, but the woman nods. "I see. By the way, I'm General Lissa Ashkevron, of Valdemar. And you are...?" 

Vir glances around and sees however many of the tavern-goers are still watching this interaction. He clears his throat, and gestures for permission to either join her at her table or sit down together in a less conspicuous corner somewhere.

Lissa reclaims her seat and pats the empty spot on the bench next to her. "Care for a drink?" 

Vir sits down. He winces and brings a thumb and finger to his forehead for a moment. With his adrenaline settling down, a very rude headache slowly throbs its way into awareness.

“I’d kill for a drink.” Opens his eyes, looks up from the table. “Name’s Vir Falchionbane, of Brooklyn. It’s — it’s just a lyn next to a brook.”

"I see." Lissa says this in a tone that indicates she does not see at all, but isn't going to press it. "What brings you to Mournedealth?" She absently raises a hand to flag down the barmaid. 

”Do I need the coin?” Vir shrugs artfully. “I have my debts. Am I a lonely road warrior looking to test my mettle? Some might say so.”

Vir steeples his fingers, looks around, lowers his voice conspiratorially. “But ultimately, I’m here because if the situation gets too out of hand, there might not be a Mournedealth anymore.”

He furrows his brow. “And there is a situation, isn’t there, General?”

Lissa's eyebrows almost vanish into her hair. "- Why exactly do you think that?" 

“Well for one thing, when a general starts hiring up mercenaries, it’s not because she’s planning a surprise party and couldn’t find any strippers or clowns.”

"Were you looking for me in particular, then? I can't think that I've advertised this as far away as, er, wherever your 'Brooklyn' is." 

“It’s more of a...” — Vir waves a hand — “winds of fate kind of deal. You know, this is where I needed to be, you’re who I needed to meet, that sort of thing.”

He sighs. The headache pounds harder.

“I can’t say I fully understand how it all works. But I promise you this: give me a chance, keep me close, and I will do everything in my power to keep Mournedealth, Valdemar, and Velgarth from falling into catastrophe.” (And pay off that damn portalsnake while I’m at it.)

Surprisingly, this gets him a scowl. "You've got to be goddamned kidding me. Great. More destiny. You're a Foreseer, then?" 

“Always have been, always will be.”

Lissa rolls her eyes. "Well. Sure. Guess I'll take that explanation. You came here by yourself, then?" 

He nods gravely. “Just me and the shirt on my back.”

"Well, I have to say that your choices are baffling to me, but for now I'm not complaining." 

The barmaid returns with two brimming tankards of ale and sets them down on the table. Lissa nudges Vir's across to him. 

Vir nurses his ale and his headache, hoping the one will go some way to treating the other.

He’s feeling pretty secure that this “mercenary-foreseer” play is going to give him a long leash with the Generalissima. So he’s not inclined to push things too fast or too brashly right now.

He makes some small talk with Lissa, Mr. Portly, and anyone else at the table.

Lissa seems content to banter with him. She's friendly and - maybe a bit flirty? It's hard to tell, given the cultural gap. 

At some point she's flagging the barmaid to refill both of their tankards, and the tavern around them is noticeably emptier. Lissa leans forward. "So. Your Foresight give you any other hints about what's coming with this damned war?" 

“Oh, mostly the usual: cryptic images, strange intuitions, frustratingly vague directions.”

Vir puts a hand to his forehead and squinches up his face: half in reaction to his ongoing migraine, and half in the universal gesture of I’m totally a psychic and I think I’m getting something.

“Although... I do remember... a snowball rolling down an enormous mountain, growing into an avalanche... a giant machine, like a water wheel made of swords, spinning faster and faster... a comet, getting brighter and brighter, until it lights the sky like an awful torch...”

He lets out a sharp exhalation, slumps slightly, runs a hand down his face. He looks up to see if any of that landed for her.

This mostly earns him a VERY dubious look. But - with a hint of curiosity. "A snowball? Any idea what that means?" 

He tosses his hands up. “I’m a foreseer, not a mind reader. Or — whatever you’d have to be to understand this stuff.”

Lissa shrugs, scowling. "I'm neither, and I won't pretend to understand any of it. Anyway, I need another drink. You?" 

Vir visibly weighs his options. “Mayyybe I should quit while I’m ahead. Getting drunk in a new city is all fun and games until you end up passed out in an alley with a raccoon chewing the leather off your boots.”

"Aww, come on, that wouldn't be any fun. And I badly need some fun tonight."

Vir’s eyebrows go up. He briefly wrestles with his id, who thinks some fun sounds like exactly what the portalsnake ordered.

With an effort of will, he pushes himself up from the table and sighs. “Alas; alack. I’ve gotta put in some more hours tonight on all this turning the tides of destiny shit.”

Lissa sighs loudly. "If you must. Reckon the responsible thing is for me to turn in for the night too." She seems moderately displeased about this, but drains her ale, sets down the cup, and stands. "See you tomorrow, then." 

Vir sees off Lissa, then does a spot of gathering information around the tavern.

He makes the acquaintance of other mercenaries, eavesdrops on conversations, and generally puts an ear to the ground. He’s most interested in finding out things to help him fit in, anything related to the “wizards of Velgarth,” and whether there’s any backroom gambling he can get in on and/or anyone dickish and loaded enough to be an acceptable mugging target.

He doesn't actually stand out all that much; the mercenaries currently socializing in the tavern seem to come from at least half a dozen different countries, with a wide range of different clothing and accents. 

The 'wizards' seem to more generally be referred to as mages; he can quickly find out that there are a few of them right here at the tavern, with their fellow mercenaries.

There is in fact backroom gambling, though mainly some sort of bafflingly complicated dice game that he's never heard of. Some of the mercenaries are certainly unpleasant people, but none look that rich, and they tend not to carry their money visibly if they have it on themselves at all. 

Vir gets in on Fractal Wizard Craps. He puts up his class ring as his buy-in (“see the gem? they call it a deathstone — and they say it makes you invincible against final strikes.” No one calls it that or says that.), and takes any credit people will give against his merc pay if it seems like that’ll fly.

He doesn’t play to win, so much as to lose gregariously (while marking who is winning, and what room they’re sleeping in).

The locals seem to find this highly entertaining! Most of them are a few drinks in, at this point, and oblivious to his careful observation; he can pretty easily find out where various people are put up for the night. 

Vir marks someone who’s at the top of the combined scoring chart for drunk, unpleasant, and Most Likely to Have Committed a Big Boy Crime. Call this poor sucker “the mark.”

In the middle of a raucous story, Vir gestures wildly and “accidentally” slaps the mark’s drink out of his hands, preferentially soaking his tunic as much as possible.

This earns him copious swearwords and a threateningly raised first, but "the mark" is too drunk, at this point in the evening, to carry it through into a real fight without egging-on, which none of his acquaintances nearby are providing. 

Vir raises his hands all innocent and apologetic — “my bad man, don’t —“

But as he locks eyes with the mark, Vir stiffens suddenly, goes silent. He moans in a low voice, his face twists in a rictus of disgust.

With a subtle kick under the table, Vir lurches backward as if thrown by an invisible force and tips out of his chair, landing with a crack on the tavern floor.

Baffled mercenaries scramble up or twist around in their chairs, trying to figure out what's happening. Someone starts to reach for his shoulder, then hesitates. 

"Did anyone see–"

"...should we call for a Healer–" 

Vir plays possum, like he’s been knocked out cold. Honestly he’s probably halfway there, with the pain gonging through his skull. He’d forgotten about his background migraine when he came up with a scam that involved slamming his head on the ground.

He overhears more snatches and mutters, some worried, most kind of exasperated, "- what was he playing at -" 

Eventually he hears footsteps as some of the people disperse to other tables less encumbered by an out-cold man on the floor. The tavern-keeper is summoned for advice. 

And another minute or so later:

"You needed a Healer? What happened here?" 

"He fell–" 

"No, he had a funny turn first - some sort of fit..." 

A hand lands on Vir's shoulder - and a second later, he feels a very odd sensation, a sort of cool tingling that ripples up and down his body before focusing on the bruised back of his skull. The pain lessens very slightly. 

Vir’s eyes snap open. He keeps his gaze unfocused, and slowly, with very convincing textbook concussion symptoms, looks around.

The supposed Healer is skinny and bearded and looks a bit irritated to be interrupted so late at night. "Mister - sorry what's his name," he turns to listen to the muffled answer from someone hovering nearby, "Vir, is that right - do you remember where you are?" He turns again to mutter to someone else, "who's he with?" 

Slightly slurring his speech: “I’m in Valdemar... no wait... Velgarth. With General... Lissie? ...Liza?”

His eyelids flutter shut dramatically.

"The Valdemaran. Lissa. I'll go get her," someone in the background mutters. Running footsteps. 

"Can you tell me what year it is?" the Healer asks. 

“Hmm... let’s go with 1492.”

"- What?" the Healer says, clearly baffled. "It's not. 1196 in the Common Calendar, and... Hmm, Kat, what year is it in the Valdemaran calendar...?" 

"Eight-ten," someone answers.

"You hit your head pretty hard," the Healer says to Vir. "Doesn't look like you're hurt otherwise, though. Figure you can sit up?" He offers a hand. 

Vir waves off the hand and shakily pushes himself up to sitting. “M’fine. M’fine. Just gotta... sleep it off.” His head slumps forward.

He’s going for an Oscar for Best Faked Injury, in the hopes that they’ll keep him somewhere for observation (or turn him over to Lissa) and he won’t have to book his own room for the night. 

Lissa arrives a minute or so later, grumbling. "What's he done to himself– oh, just perfect." She squats in front of him. "Vir? What happened?" 

“Vision... thief... baggins...” and then he mumbles incoherently, barely keeping his eyes open.

Lissa swears under her breath. "Great. Exactly what I don't want to deal with." To someone else nearby: "Guess I'd better get him upstairs - a hand?" 

Between her and the Healer, they haul Vir to his feet. 

Vir stumbles along gamely to wherever they take him.

It turns out to be a small, slant-ceilinged attic room with two beds. Lissa conveys Vir over to one of them and they plop him down. 

A woman dressed all in white is sitting on the other bed, yawning and cleaning a dagger. "Lissa?" she says uncertainly. 

"Our new recruit had some sort of incident, got himself banged up." She squats and starts digging out a bedroll. "Vir? What was that about thieves?" 

With half-lidded eyes, Vir groans and slowly, agonizingly, rolls his neck out — coincidentally doing a sweep of the room as he goes. He takes special interest in the dagger, any other personal effects, and to a lesser extent the woman in white.

“Thieves...” he shakes his head, and seems to pull it together slightly. “Thief. Singular. That big blokey guy from [country of origin] wearing that [recognizable item] with the [uniquely identifying scar or birthmark] on his big ugly face. Name might be Mark?”

He sighs with the weight of being so beset upon by the whimsy of fate. “I had a vision.”

"Huh! Really?" The two women glance curiously at each other. "Well. I'm taking the bedroll anyway, guess I can lay it out in front of the door. I'm a light sleeper, no one'll get past me." 

The other woman stands up. "Oy, if you pass me Need she can help me toss up some wards, maybe." 

"- Right, forgot about that." Lissa reaches to unhook the sheathed sword she's wearing at her belt. "Here you go." 

“No shit you’ve got a named magical sword? That’s literally fantastic.”

Lissa giggles, and then exchanges an eye-roll with the other woman. "Actually it's mostly obnoxious. She's very, well, opinionated." 

Suddenly dead serious: “How does she feel about killing drug dealers and pocketing their cash?”

Lissa looks nonplussed. 

There is, however, suddenly a voice talking in his head! It's sort of dry and dusty; decidedly female, but giving off the impression of a battle-hardened and somewhat crotchety older woman, talking to a child. 

:Depends. Do they hurt women?: 

(The emotions wafting along with the mental voice, however, hint that 'Need' is feeling some anticipation and glee at the thought of a good fight.) 

:Depends,: Vir thinks while clenching up. He’s pleased as punch that he gets to add “sword telepathy” to his mysterious psychic act. :Does getting 12-year-old girls so hooked on black tar heroin that they cut off their own leg at the knee and sell it to necromancers for a hit count as “hurting women”?:

:Because if so, then probably.:

Somehow he gets the purely-mental impression of suspicious narrowed eyes and dubiously beetled eyebrows. :Is that a real thing? Sounds bloody fake to me: 

:Wow, got it in one! Yeah, I was fucking with you. I don’t even know if you guys have drugs in medieval Velgarth. But come on, like there isn’t some jackass who got rich on the black market who beats his wife or slaps orphans? Sword please.:

:- Against my bloody better judgment, I like you. You've got spunk. Too bad you're a man: 

Shrug. :Eh, not the first woman who’s told me that. Anyhoo, wanna go against your better judgment some more and help me sneak out of here tonight? I’m trying to frame this asshole who reeks of assault and battery, but it’ll take some doing in the night, and apparently Madame General here is a light sleeper...:

:Sounds bloody irresponsible and illegal: 

The sword's mental voice, however, is definitely intrigued, and faintly approving. 

Vir mentally winks.

:Well, I can't get you past Lissa. Reckon you could climb out the window, though? Oh, and back in, that part's important too. I can do a sound-barrier so the others don't wake: 

:Fuck yes I can.:

Vir yawns, stretches, and ostentatiously pandiculates.

”Well, all those visions and head injuries really did a number on me! I’m gonna pass out hard, don’t wake me till dawn unless Mark is reaching for my lucky charms.”

"Right, right." Lissa chuckles, exchanging a look with the Herald. "Sleep well, then." She's in the process of laying out her own bedroll in front of the door. 

:I can warn you once she's asleep: Need offers, :but I bloody well won't help you stay awake until then: 

Vir lays down and closes his eyes. :Don’t worry, I’m a master of 37 separate mnemonic techniques for the modulation of states of consciousness. I got this.:

Then, produced so quietly that Vir himself cannot hear it: “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes... she’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes...”

About half an hour later, Need prods him again. :Both asleep. You going?: 

:Game on:

(Finishes mumble-singing: “...one tin soldier rides away.”)

Silently and undercover, Vir strips off his clothes, until he’s naked as a Roman spy. He creeps out of bed and arranges the pillows, sheets, and clothing to have at least Ferris-Bueller levels of resemblance to his sleeping form.

Padding toe-heel, toe-heel across the room, he slips away with the dagger belonging to the woman in white. Inch by inch he levers open the window. He watches and waits to make sure the coast is clear.

Then, dagger held between his teeth, Vir climbs down the outside of the inn.

This goes without incident! Except for the fact that the ground immediately under their room's window proves to contain several (thorny) rosebushes. 

“Nngh nah gehhing hucked oher vhy a vhunch a hucking hlowers!” Vir blusters around the dagger. He lowers himself with excruciating slowness through and out of the rosebushes, sustaining only minor scrapes, gashes, and puncture wounds.

Once he’s on solid ground, he makes sure he’s not going to drip a trail of blood anywhere, grips the dagger low by his side, and creeps around to the inn’s back door, service entrance, or some unobtrusive window. 

There's a servants' back door that lets out into a narrow alley. It's unlocked. The alley also seems to be the official dumping-ground for chamber pots and various other refuse. 

Vir grimaces and silently pads through ammonia-reeking sludge and chicken bones. He crosses his fingers that whatever Healer magic they’ve got can cure the Fantasy Hepatitis he’s surely just contracted.

He wipes his feet. Listens at the door. Ducks inside. He makes his way through to the guest quarters where he can find tonight’s big winners — especially whoever ended up with his class ring.

Cautiously, on a level of high alert only available to the completely nude, he tries the handle of Door Number One.

Door Number One is not even locked!

Door Number Two, if and when he tries that, is locked, but it's not a very high-tech lock. 

It’s my lucky day. Well, I mean, not really, today’s been frigging terrible.

Vir rifles through the winning gambler’s personal effects and takes any cash. He also steals a knapsack/saddlebag (which he christens “Inventory”) and any small pieces of metal that he might be able to pressgang into an improvised lockpick.

For Door Number Two, however, he’ll use his trusty dagger to jimmy open the lock, happily leaving gouges in the door or doorframe as long as he can manage it quietly.

Fortunately the sleeping gamblers in question are tipsy enough that poking around in their rooms doesn't wake them. 

Vir hits 3-4 rooms total, enough to get a nice haul of loot without wasting too much time avoiding detection by holding his breath in a closet or something.

With the “theft” part of the plan accomplished, Vir sneaks to the Door of Mark. He wants to play this one clean as a clam, so if the door is locked, he checks Inventory to see what he can cobble together for lock picking.

His loot doesn't contain any dedicated lockpicking equipment, apparently the various gamblers aren't that ambitious or organized, but there's a pretty brooch attached to a cloak-pin which is decently long and pointed, and a copper twisted-wire bracelet that can be partially unraveled, and a few other odds and ends usable for the purpose. 

Vir gets his lockpick game on. He’s used to, ehhh, 1980s Chicago locks, which more often than not have been through some adversarial co-evolution against lock picks that make them a real pain.

If I can’t beat the tumblers on this medieval pub room knob, when I get home they’ll make me stand on the side of the road and wear that “Vir is a sissy” sandwich board.

He can absolutely beat the medieval pub lock! It takes some persistence and patience but it doesn’t set a high bar for required skill. 

He reravels the copper bracelet and drops everything into Inventory (other than the nice lady’s dagger). Then he creeps in, stows the sack o’ loot in and among Mark’s possessions, possibly under a filthy tunic, and creeps back out.

His creeping is successful. Mark is snoring loudly, diagonal across his inn bed. 

Vir silently shuts the door — and realizes he can’t lock it from the outside. He grimaces, racking his brain…

Whatever, like that lump will even notice.

He duckwalks back out of the inn and climbs back up the outside wall to his room’s window. All along the way, under his breath he’s chanting “perfect crime, perfect crime.”

Lissa grumbles something in her sleep and rolls over when he tries to slip back in. 

Gotta have faith in the freaky sword spirit.

He eases himself into the room, into his bed, stashes the dagger where he found it, shimmies his clothes back on, and — lord friggin’ willing — passes out.

He is woken at a somewhat ungodly hour by Lissa getting dressed and doing various stretches and exercises in preparation for heading out to spar. 

“Uggghhhu.” He buries his face in his pillow and pulls it up around his ears.

Oh no wait — it’s Christmas morning!

“Hey — Lissa — Modern Major General! I figured it out, what the visions were pointing at, it’s all clear now! There’s a dirty, thieving scoundrel right here in this inn — and I know what room he’s in.”

"You what?" Lissa looks dubious, but a little intrigued as well. Whatever, it's entertainment, she'll play along. "You sure? Where?" 

“Dead certain. Follow me — and rouse up a posse comitatus while you’re at it, the perp is armed and dangerous.”

Vir stalks down the hall to The Mark’s room, ranting and raving that there is a criminal in our midst, and generally trying to wake up the building and get a crowd going.

Most of the people are pretty grumpy about this! It's barely dawn and this seems VERY unreasonable and he gets a lot of muttered swearwords and refusals to open doors. He can, however, amass a group of half a dozen people curious enough to see what's going on. 

“J’accuse!” Vir shouts, and stomp-kicks the door open so hard it rattles the windows when it slams into the wall.

The Mark groans something incomprehensible and pulls the covers over his head. 

Vir points aggressively but vaguely around his room. “It’s in here, I can feel it! The ring I lost to that other dude in the dice game last night… if you just search his belongings —“ he turns to Lissa. “This is where the visions were pointing me. I’m sure of it.”

He takes a beat.

”Do you trust me?”

"- Well, no. But we're all here now, guess we might as well have a look." 

Mark grunts something and sits up, hand over his forehead. "Wha...?" 

"You've been accused of theft, apparently. If you're innocent we'll know soon enough." Sharp look at Vir, which conveys 'you had better not be messing with me or you WILL regret it.' 

“Don’t listen to a word this criminal says, even if it is just ‘wha…’”

Vir rummages through several random places in the room, really taking his sweet time with this bit, and then pulls the bag with the goods out from under Mark’s bed. He pours out the stolen loot onto the floor in dramatic fashion, like a toddler getting out their legos.

”How do you explain this?!”

The Mark rubs his eyes. "I - what - how did that get there???" 

Lissa is frowning so suspiciously, but doesn't seem sure which of them to point her suspicion at. 

Vir puts on his most convincing expression. “Foresight. It works, General.”

"If you say so." 

The innkeeper is summoned without much delay, yawning and rumpled. He also seems dubious of the whole affair, but like he can't be bothered to diverge off the default path here. Mark is summarily evicted from the inn. 

After all that’s wrapped up, he finds General Lissa. He claps his hands once and rubs them together. “Alright, what’s next? Field trip to Valdemar?”

"We were planning to head out tomorrow morning. Can maybe manage by tonight if we hustle the mercenaries hard enough. I'd like to give you an assignment, actually." Grin. 

Vir gives a big honking thumbs up. “Hit me.”

He's handed the names of three mercenary companies and their captains! Lissa wants him to go track them down in Mournedealth and harass them - bully them if necessary - into having all of their people and supplies ready by tonight. 

Vir takes the list and finds the first mercenary captain.

First captain isn't too hard to find! He's at a sort of military supply store down the street, haggling over the price of helmets and breastplates for his new recruits. He confirms he can be ready and waiting at the inn by evening. 

Tracking down the second name takes a lot longer! Vir can eventually track down someone who's seen him recently and points out where he went. The place being pointed out is clearly some sort of brothel. 

“Everybody freeze, Holy Divine Arbiter Lance Ashkevron!” Vir shouts commandingly as he kicks open the door to the brothel. “Bring [Second Captain] out here before I have the God above Gods scorch this hive of scum and villainy to the earth.”

A plump, matronly woman sticks her head out from a curtain and gives him a sharp, disapproving look. “Keep your voice down, would you. What’s got you a bee in your bonnet today?”

“Hello ma’am, apologies, I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Would you please deliver this note to [Second Captain]? General’s orders.”

He hands her a vellum postcard with fine calligraphy expressing in polite but not uncertain terms that this Captain had better stop getting his dick wet and round up his men and supplies for tonight if he wants to keep said dick, over.

She reads it, snickers, and gives him a mock salute. "I'll most certainly do that, sir. Anything else I can do for you?" She gestures vaguely down the hall, at two scantily-clad young women poking their heads out from behind a beaded curtain to investigate all the commotion.