The Wraith of the Darmlands sat impatiently upon the large case which normally rested on his back, tapping his foot to pass the time, and also to help distract himself from the unpleasant atmosphere that surrounded him on all sides. In truth, there were scarce few places that he did enjoy lingering within, but bright, colorful lighting, clearly expensive woodwork, and meticulously crafted decorations were all especially offensive to a man of his exquisitely<span style="font-style: italic">sour</span>tastes. Worst of all, however, were the sounds that permeated the establishment. Good cheer, pleasant conversation, carefully orchestrated music,<span style="font-style: italic">clinking silverware, unmistakably authentic</span>...<br/><br/>It was torture, and there he sat in the middle of it all, with his hood drawn tightly forwards and the comfortable seat that had been offered to him pushed aside in favor of the luggage that he had adamantly refused to part with at the door. He looked in all ways the sort of vagabond who would never be allowed to enter such a reputable place, but he had arrived in the company of Ashton, and that was at least enough to get the two of them inside without the suspicion that they were paying with stolen money, presuming that either of them intended to pay in the first place. That had not saved the unlikely pair from being placed under constant watch, of course, but since the staff wished to at least feign some degree of politeness, it was all done in secret from a considerable distance. Clinging to that ideal had already cost them two sets of cutlery and three goblets, and neither they nor Ashton had noticed it yet.<br/><br/>In spite of his surroundings, the Wraith let out a quiet chuckle. He loved to make fools out of the rich and pompous. So he reminded himself.<br/><br/>"Do you find something amusing?" Ashton asked from across the table, looking legitimately surprised that his companion was capable of mirth.<br/><br/>"You'll see soon enough," he responded, in a threatening and ominous tone developed specifically to kill conversations before they ever began. The knight had already heard its like twice before, when he had attempted to convince his nameless ally to join him for an opportunity to converse with Agathor's nobility. Twice it had succeeded as well, until it was revealed that they would be doing so over the course of an evening meal, at which point the cloaked man had immediately capitulated with no further argument. While his other skills were less certain, he was quickly proving himself to be a peerless assassin of social precedents.<br/><br/>The meal in question was being hosted at the Golden Thrush, an apparently well-known eatery located deep within one of Agathor's more prominent highborn districts. It was perhaps one of the only places where a knight like Ashton would appear modest rather than extravagant, although the scar on his face betrayed a life outside of the courts that he could never truly hide. At the moment, it was obscured along with the rest of his head by the restaurant's menu, which the Wraith had already tried and failed to make sense of himself. He had come for the food and little else, but between the unfamiliar words and embellished script used in their writing, it was unlikely that he would be able to correctly identify just what he would receive no matter how long he studied his options. Why the establishment went to such lengths to ensure the<span style="font-style: italic">illegibility</span>of its leaflets was beyond him.<br/><br/>He was unused to the ways of nobles. In this he required no reminder, as the very idea of an aristocracy was unheard of in the Darmlands. Ashton's offer was in fact a very important opportunity for him to observe their habits down to the finest detail, but it would have been inappropriate to accept so willingly while maintaining such a caustic persona. To this end, it was very fortunate that the knight had been so persistent in his wish to be accompanied, even if he was likely beginning to regret that decision.<br/><br/>"Are you ready to order, sirs?" asked a passing servant, interrupting his thoughts. The Wraith immediately made note of his stiff posture and the subtle inflections of his voice, and continued to observe as he and Ashton exchanged a series of names which were no easier to interpret through sound than they had been on paper. When the servant's attention shifted, the rather transparent air of superiority that he assumed was also quickly recorded before the Wraith snatched up his own menu, skimmed through it for the first word that he could identify as "meat", and silently pointed it out to the man before handing the parchment over. For this breach of conduct, he received an audible "hmph".<br/><br/>"So, knight," he began, displaying an unexpected willingness to speak without prompting, yet not enough respect to actually look at the person he was speaking to. "Thought you was here for<span style="font-style: italic">socializing</span>."