Hollen

Bhazuth keeps his hood low, speaking in murmurs and looking at the floor. His family’s murder has been written off as a bandit attack, as common, but the merchant trade left Bhazuth open to many new people, and somebody may recognise him. “Take this” Bhazuth drops a few measly silver pieces into the man’s palm, “I’m going to need some ale, a hog, and a few good fighting men”.