“Did you hear 'bout what happened in Brachsenburg yesterday?” the innkeep leaned in close to Roland, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Here it came. The news had finally arrived.

The witch hunter raised a curious eyebrow, “No, I didn't? What was it?”

“You really didn't hear? They killed Orrin Skye. The wizard. He was murdered!” the man hissed.

The killer allowed his jaw to go slack, dropping the piece of mutton in his hand and staring at the innkeeper in disbelief.

“No, that's not possible. No,” he shook his head in dismay.

The man simply stayed tight-lipped, saying nothing.

“You're pulling me along, aren't you,” Arnow half smiled momentarily, “There's no way he's really- You're just jesting, surely!”

In his turn, the innkeep shook his head, “No, no joking here sir. He's dead. I heard he was shot through the heart, by an assassin.”

“That shouldn't be possible- It couldn't be,” Roland licked his lips and turned his face toward the mug of ale in front of him.

“That would explain why I wasn't admitted to the city, heh, had to pass by it entirely,” he said to himself half-jokingly.

“I'm afraid it may be a while yet sir,” the man said sympathetically, “They're still hunting for the murderer, soon, the whole duchy will be searching for him. The whole damn kingdom I'll bet. They'll catch the bastard.”

“I'm sure they will,” Roland nodded half-heartedly.

They would fail, they always did. No doubt some poor innocent vagrant would cop the guilt and hang. But it wouldn't be him, that was for sure.

“I just can't believe it. The man saved Donnerau. He saved so many, and now he's dead,” the innkeeper continued.

Saved Donnerau from a plague of his own making, and only after it had slain nearly five thousand.

Yet Roland did not voice this, he simply nodded solemnly, making no comment in response to the man's lamentations.

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“You have to wonder though,” the man continued, even as Roland took a swig of ale.

It was mid-day and the tavern was empty. He was the only visitor present, and the man just wanted to gossip.

“You have to wonder who was behind it, who would want to harm such a great man,” the innkeeper adjusted his apron and turned to his work cleaning tankards, “Such a good man.”

That was an easy answer. Plenty of people had wanted the wizard dead, for plenty of reasons. But more importantly than all others, the Gray Order had put out the mark. Decades of experimentation. Decades of dabbling. Years of disappearances. A vagrant here, a whore there. The man had escaped for far too long. Yet it was Donnerau that was the final straw for those wary old fools, and even then it had taken two investigators dead before they had finally turned to their last resort. Him.

And still, none of those thoughts left Roland's lips as he drained his tankard.

“I wish I could say,” he answered the innkeeper morosely, beckoning for the man to refill his drink.

“Mhm, I understand. It's quite a shock, felt just the same when I heard,” the man said, “Couldn't have been any ordinary assassin, had to have been someone really good- dangerous, and Lord knows who was funding 'em.”

Of course, that was true. It did take a special sort of madman to hunt a mage. To hunt an individual imbued with powers far beyond those of mere mortals.

Roland nearly smiled at the thought, barely stopping himself as he gratefully took the cup from the innkeeper, resuming his drinking.

“Watch it be those damn Thyrrians. They've always been jealous of our good fortune,” the man continued theorizing.

“Could be, could be,” the hunter nodded.

He was swiftly tiring of the conversation. It bothered him, the way everyone was so enamored with Orrin Skye. Were it possible, he would have told the man the truth of the matter. Martin and Croue. The thousands of innocents. All dead in the name of one wizard's hubris and arrogance. Yet all he could do was nod along as politely as possible, feigning interest in the conversation as he finished his meal, scarcely paying attention to what the man was saying. The hunter was not about to rush himself simply because some bumpkin couldn't stay silent about the damned assassination. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the sun had fully risen now. He was long overdue for departure.

“Apologies, sir, it has been a most fascinating conversation, yet I'd best be on my way. The borders still a ways off, and I'm expected in Loseine tonight,” he stood up, handing the innkeeper his pay.

Three silvers, an excessive reward for the watered-down ale and overcooked mutton, but an acceptable payment to avoid any issues. Sighing contentedly, he wiped his fingers on his napkin and made to leave the establishment.

“Ehem, With all due respect sire. You won't be leaving,” the innkeeper said slowly.

“What do you mean?” Roland turned around, true surprise illuminating his features.

“The border has been sealed, by order of Duke Sigmund himself. There's no leaving the duchy until the killer is caught,” the man shrugged apologetically, “Once they catch the killer, which I'm sure they will in the next few days, the way will be open once more.”

“Are you certain of this? Perhaps only the crossings nearest Brachsenburg, not the entirety-” the witch hunter shook his head.

“I'm afraid its the truth. We received a pigeon earlier today, right before you arrived. The entirety of the border is being sealed,” the innkeep said, “Surely you must understand, given the extraordinary circumstances the duke is taking no risks that the killer may escape. Such a dangerous man must be brought to justice.”

Roland let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his coarse hair and nodding his agreement.

“You're right,” he said, “I appreciate the warning. Hopefully they catch this bastard soon, so I can get home. Thank you.”

Without turning back, he strode out of the inn, his mind racing through the possible solutions. Sealed border or not, there was always a way out. One just had to know how to find it. This time he moved quickly, doing his best to hide his hurried motions.

“Lets go,” he unhooked Ruyters reins, the horse looking at him with disinterest as he approached it and replaced his bags.

In a single, practiced motion, he swung into the saddle, urging his mount out onto the main road. Despite the clear skies, few of the town's citizens were out and about, paying him no heed as he cleared the edges of the village.

As he cleared the sight of the last of the village denizens, Roland urged Ruyter to a trot, seeking to accelerate his pace toward the border. Warily, his hand caressed the revolver at his hip. A weapon of last resort, yet a small comfort nonetheless. He just hoped he didn't need to use it.