Crow had hidden inside of the stables at the edge of town: Lodged between several bales of hay that were stuffed into the loft. He had removed all of the collected splinters of glass with careful patience, and found no wounds under his thick cloak: Much to his happiness. A wound, when running, or when dirty, was not a good thing. Infection was common, and the local do-it-all physician was more proficient at cutting hair, than saving lives. As several wide-spread illnesses had proven several winters prior.<br/><br/>The rogue shook off the thoughts of the far past, and tried desperately to wrap his brain around the more recent events: Kicking up his legs, and getting comfortable --the best he could at least-- in the loft. Surely he hadnt done something so vile, or so horrible, that it merited a murderous rage. At least he didnt think so. He hadnt killed anyone, stolen from anyone ---and been caught--- and there were so few who knew his name, that it had to have been something else. Crow mulled over the possibilities from the shaded sanctity of the upper floor of the stable. Paying no mind to the neighs and whinnies from the nearby horses. He simply let his eyes close as the questions left him in a stupor. Far too tired, and far too stressed out to realize what should have been obvious.<br/><br/>---Someone had hired the man to hunt down crow---