In Azir Hollanson's perfect world, innkeepers who rented rooms to traveling Norns knowing full well that the bed therein would be laughably undersized would be hung from the nearest gallows along with all the other ne'er-do-wells of the world. The thought took off some of the sting the indignity of having the better part of his leg hanging off the edge of the bed imposed upon him (But not much). If the massive Norn had been actually planning to use this bed for sleeping this night, he probably would have long since given up and spread out his own bedroll on the floor. As it was, though, sleep was the last thing on his mind.<br/><br/>He wasn't old, not yet anyway, even by Norn standards he wasn't even quite middle-aged. The harsh lines of his tanned, weathered face were still softened somewhat by the last dregs of a youthful glow, like the stubborn remnants of ale clinging to the edge of an empty mug. The strong jaw was darkened with the scruff of a man who seemed to only shave when he remembered (Which wasn't often), and the thick auburn mane of hair showed a similar lack of attention – wild and knotted into long, thick dreadlocks that spilled from his scalp like roots of a ageless tree.  The eyes, bright and golden like the waxing edges of sunrise, stared up at the graying wooden planks of the ceiling without seeing it, gazing past.  It was almost three o'clock in the morning, but not an ounce of fatigue threatened his body, nor weighted his eyelids. No, Azir Hollanson was waiting.<br/><br/>The battle-worn leathers wrapped around his gargantuan frame like a second skin, one that muttered and creaked like dried leaves as he sat up and swung the log-like legs to the floor and stood. Nine feet tall, if he was an inch, he moved like something a fraction of his size, pacing almost silently to the door and pressing an ear to it's wooden surface. In the quiet, not even his heartbeat broke the stillness as he listened intently for any hint, any bare whisper of wakefulness from beyond. It was a routine he had repeated every hour since retiring to his room at ten o'clock that evening, having first gone through half of the inn's store of Hoelbrak Ale in the tavern downstairs. It was bad luck to not drink before a job, even if it was one a wee bit more...Stealthy than he was used to.<br/><br/>No sounds came back to him through the doorway, save for the almost imperceptible rhythm of sleeping breaths from the other rooms beyond. It was time.<br/><br/>For almost two months, now, Azir had been tracking something. Well, half of something if one wanted to be specific. A somewhat ragged piece of parchment covered in archaic symbols and inks long since extinct from Tyria. It was a map, or half of one anyway, one made long before the Human Kingdom of Ascalon had burned, long before the Charr threw down their false gods. One that, supposedly, showed the way to otherworldly wealth and treasure if the riddles it presented could but be solved. At least, that's what the insane, babbling man Azir had bought the scrap currently tucked safely away in a hidden pocket against his side had said. The human had smelled faintly of cabbage and wet dog, hunched and broken from age and liberal abuse of hallucinogenic mushrooms. From the depths of the rickety antique and oddity shop his sunken brown eyes had been glazed and unfocused, and for twenty golden coins, he had presented Azir with the ragged, torn parchment as if it were made of the finest silk, muttering in barely coherent bursts about selling the other half years ago to pay for old debts. Azir had left, sweeping out as the man's high-pitched whine turned to cursing a nearby feather duster.<br/><br/>Now, countless miles, hours, dead-end leads, and wandering later, the tall Norn carefully unsheathed a long dagger from it's place on the small of his back and took the rusted metal doorknob in his giant palm. Whispers and rumors of a traveler bearing a similar bit of parchment had led him to this tiny inn far to the south of Divinity's Reach, chasing ethereal bits of information like they might disappear like the embers of a fire. The door's hinges made no noise (Having been well-greased earlier by Azir) as the portal swung open into the deserted hall. In one of these rooms, hopefully, he would find the other half of that map that had, for over the past fortnight, eluded his grasp.  Gripping the corded handle of his dagger tighter in his gauntlet-clad hands, he crept forward like a shadow into the passage, moving towards the first door.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>