The table sweated with a sticky glaze of god knows what at his fingertips and the bottoms of his boots stuck slightly to the floorboards. Godzton had graced hundreds of inn's and taverns throughout his life, but the Sand Ring was a different beast of untended foulness that thought to trap patrons in a wretched fasten of beer, puke, piss and blood.
He stared at the frothy head blooming over the top of his mug as the boisterous crowd's hooting and hollering drifted muffled in the air. He has been here before, this place where one hollows out to a deadened state, where memory sits a hall of shadows murmuring from the darkness. He raised the tankard up to his lips and took two hardy gulps. The voices whispered of the names from the top of the Crown List, where they did not belong. Gesalec Marielle, Owen Warmisch, and Yera Roerich, members of the Eldafienden set to take the place of the slain stewards and in time, seize the throne.
Lucinda had suggested they go to Northanos, to the Royal Overseers of the Iron High Guard, but that would have meant him abandoning his duty to serve justice and he would not do that. The Iron seeks justice through it all. She then suggested sending the ledger, but it was too valuable to send across the ocean without escort. The Roltharian's suggested course of action was the wiser and the voices in his head assured him of that daily but he would not listen. He would not sit and clear thought to hear them, so they screamed and he drank.
