<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/l3Xq5en.jpg)</div><strong>Hagan Bancroft</strong>(https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1768445)<br/><sup><em>Lvl 1 Human Slayer</em></sup><br/><strong>HP</strong>:  11 / 11;<strong>AC</strong>:  19;<strong>CMD</strong>:  17<br/><strong>Location</strong>:  Trunau<hr/>Hagan had had a rough night.  The moment Maeve had decided to hitch her answer to his, he'd known what choice he was going to make.  She'd tipped her hand a bit too much with her initial enthusiasm, this place was her home, and she wanted to protect it.  Still, she held off ... either because she wanted the freedom to follow after him when he next headed out, or because she wanted to leverage him into accepting Trunau as his home as well.  He didn't like having his arm twisted, but he didn't want his sister to deny herself simply because of him either.  Unable to figure out a way out of the neat little trap he found himself snared in, he did the only thing he could think to.<br/><br/>He drank.<br/><br/>A<em>lot</em>.<br/><br/>Tankard after tankard of dark, foaming bitter ale.  He hadn't drank like that since the night the Dwarven mercs had signed him on, and he'd tried to match the dense boulder-kin round for round.  He'd wandered away from the fires and the noise sometime in the night, missing the archery competition entirely.  It wasn't until he staggered back into the Ramblehouse with the dawning sun, missing the entrance and walking blithely into the wall before stumbling back into the handrail of the porch.  Squinting a bit, he managed to thread the needle and enter the Trunau's lone inn, scowling and grumbling dismissive greetings to anyone who'd call out to him.<br/><br/>It felt like his head had barely hit the pillow when the crowd had begun to assemble.  He'd tried to bury his head under the pillow at first, but it soon became apparent that he'd have to get up.  Ejected from the crime scene, he stumbled through the bustling crowd, hollow eyes peering against the morning sun.  Finally finding a barrel of rain water, he splashed his face with cold water, trying to clear his head of cotton.  Hair dripping and plastered to the top of his head, he groggily answered.<br/><br/>"What kinda question is that?" he grumbled, "You really think Rodrik would kill 'imself?  'Course it was foul play." he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.