The beastman mercenary kept quiet, he shuffled the sword to his lap and kept it there. The young hat-headed man kept himself shifting and fidgeting in his seat, avoiding eye contact. Myer was the young hat-headed man’s stated name, never gave a last name though. He looked like a wandering vagrant, wore beat up boots that miraculously didn’t disintegrate with every thump against the floor, a coat with more holes than his soles. It was a damn shame, both were well made, clearly worth a good few pennies. Soles of foreign leather, a coat of far away threads. He wasn’t sure why he was here-

The table jolted, his thoughts were interrupted. Neither Carrie nor Myer seemed to blame, stewing in an awkward exchange of spinning heads. He felt something graze his leg. There was the seesawing of a shaking chair- A wobbling thump and scraping of wood on wood. The table jumped, plates bumped, luckily nothing falling to the floor. He gripped the table, steadying it, silencing everything save for the seesaw. 

“On the topic of tablemanners, perhaps we should-”

“Tracker! Tracker! Have you killed anyone!” The boy of martial prowess shouted.

Tracker paused, only to ask, “No, have you?”