The heir had stepped off a carriage in the last town, dressed in a lavish cloak. He strode into the tavern with an air of confidence. Whether this was borne of naivety or experience, time would tell. He looked decidedly out of place among the patrons, drunks slumped over tables and fighters in dirtied armour.

"I require escort to the hamlet. The estate of the D-" the heir stopped. An unearthly silence had fallen over the tavern, like earth settling on a grave. The patrons had all snapped around to look at him, even the drunks perking up and taking notice. The estate's name was never spoken aloud, and when it became necessary to refer to it, the colloquial name was the "Darkest Estate". The original name was bad luck. Any who had doubted this fact saw the foremost critic grasped by a tentacle and pulled into the swamps but seconds after uttering it. The word has barely left his lips when the slimy appendage wrapped around his torso. There were no native species with tentacles. Ever since, even the bravest man watched his tongue. Now, Reynauld and Dismas, shining examples of the bar's patrons, taking the roles of weary warrior and disoriented drunk respectively, paid more attention than most, and for different reason. They needed gold and needed it quickly. They had been hard-pressed to find work, and soon they wouldn't even have enough to live. Dismas had attempted cheating at the gambling table, but that had ended... Poorly. Reynauld went over to the man, dodging the disapproving stares.

"Come over here and let's hear the offer," Reynauld whispered, putting a hand around the man's shoulder and guided him to his table. Once they had the man settled in with a mug of ale, he elaborated.

"You see, I recently received a letter from my father, estranged for many years. I was to return to the D- Darkest Estate," he nearly said the name, but quickly corrected himself as glares fixed onto him.

"I must cleanse the estate of its evils. Afraid I can't go into detail on the nature of it, but rest assured it's a job for steel and gunfire. You'll be paid, and renowned as the heroes who cleansed the estate."

"Hold up. This is all peachy, but vague promises are useless. I want numbers," Dismay demanded.

"Of course. 750 apiece for escort to the estate, and 1000 for everytime you perform work of the nature I described. All expenses paid, covering room and board, training, weapons and armour, and... Recreational activities." At this, Reynauld swore he saw Dismas smirk.

"Excuse us a second, sir," Reynauld told the heir, pulling Dismas aside

"By all means," he waved them aside.

"So, what do you think?" Reynauld was experienced, but a stranger to grifters, and thus he called on Dismas' expertise.

"Damn good deal. Fantastic rate. Normally I'd say something was up, but it's the Darkest Estate. Rate matches the reputation. He's not conning. So if you're game for the Darkest Estate, go for it," Dismas took another swig of ale.

Reynauld stood there, pondering. An estate of evil, a reputation so dire none would touch it... Well, that sounded like a situation that required a holy warrior. Besides, it was the situation the holy warrior required. Now out of his order, to earn fame and fortune on his own would be the greatest boon he could possibly receive.

Reynauld sat in front of the heir, Dismas trudging after.

"We accept," Reynauld told the heir.

"Hm, two questions first. Just the two of you? And, uh, is he always like this?" The heir glanced at Dismas, who had just punched a man in the face.

"Yes, and we'll be enough. I'll show you the plan later. As for him, Dismas is a consummate professional when working. He puts just as much energy into partying properly. On that note, we should leave. Quickly." Dismas had won the bar fight, but Reynauld didn't much like that the man's friends were moving to get up. He grabbed Dismas by the collar of his coat and hustled the group out of the tavern.

"Shall we leave, then? We can talk strategy in the stagecoach," the heir posited, gesturing to the stagecoach. It was in severe disrepair, the wheels cracked and the fabric ripped. Chests were haphazardly strapped onto it, the poor vehicle groaning from the strain. The heir gave a sheepish look.

"Only coach that runs the path, I get it," Reynauld remarked.

They got on the stagecoach, and Reynauld explained the plan he'd hastily thrown together once he was determined to embark on this errand. They would keep to the side paths, crossing onto the main road only at the last possible moment. The heir seemed to have trouble concentrating, his gaze wandering every so often before snapping back to look at him, disconcerted. Strategy was a nice interest, he supposed. They spent the rest of the trip listening to the chattering of wheels on gravel, interspersed with the crack of a whip or the snore of Dismas, sleeping off the alcohol.