Judge leaned back in his seat, fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table as he took in the noisy ambiance around him. The tavern wasn't particularly fancy, but it had the rustic charm that brought in the sort of crowd that barely noticed an oddball like him. And considering his attire of mercenary garb, he felt just eccentric enough to fit right in— though perhaps "eccentric" was a bit of an understatement.
He observed the locals, straining his ears to catch any useful chatter while appearing to casually wait for his meal. The snippets of conversation that floated by were woefully dull, revolving around crop yields, whose goat had wandered off, and someone's alarming discovery of what a "modern bath" was supposed to be like. Fascinating stuff, really. Judge rolled his eyes beneath his mask that he had put on after exiting the bank. Mercenaries having masks was nothing new. He was wondering if these folks ever spoke of anything remotely intriguing.
