Peake could only frown as he saw in the covered wagon and the squires basically dirtied him up. One of them harshly coated his features in the dirt he had scooped from the street, while the second one made sure his clothing was unpresentable as it got. He tore the fabric here and there, splashed some dirt on it, some wine, and threw around some sort of scent that smelled very much like horseshit. Or some other shit, as there was rarely any difference in smell. Anything to fit into the profile of a commoner, apparently. The other knights under his command were already infiltrated, and they needed no special arrangements made for their attires or manners. Unlike Peake, most of the knighthood was composed of boys and girls, raised in the farmlands, in the lower parts of the cities. Common and simple folk, perhaps unaware of the true nature of the world, folk that wanted to earn a flag on their own, to have something to say in their gravestones. They saw their city and their Kingdom as a treasure, ignoring its imperfections, and choosing to defend the people that roamed it.
Peake, of course, did identify with them. The Kingdom was dying, for it was rotten already. The King was a child with no say in the matter, the Queen was an expensive whore that assaulted the King’s crib. The Knighthood was becoming lazy and ineffective, the troops stacked within the Kingdom, the knights and their leaders sniffing each other’s balls like dogs. Meanwhile, the citizens grew lazy, unaware of just how fragile their peace was. Peake saw through it, beyond the city, beyond the oceans, into the threats that stood by and watched how the last Kingdom of men was slowly losing its most important value – its ambition. Leaving his thoughts aside, Peake finally inspected himself and his attire. The nobleman in rags, the king of the peasants. If it wasn’t his noble flesh the one buried below these clothes, he wouldn’t doubt to spit on himself. Alas, he didn’t. “My Lord, you’re ready. Whenever you give the signal, the second and third squad will be there to assist you. Goo—“Peake didn’t wait for the squire to end before he shoved the young boy’s face with his oversized palm, grunting in exchange.
Jumping out of the wagon, on one of the many dark corners of Andaris, Peake reached out to grab his simplistic cloak. Before he wrapped himself in it, however, Peake tossed it on the ground and used his feet to stomp on it, just to get more dirt on it. To think that was going around his body almost made him want to puke, dressing up like a simpleton… However, he did not complain, and after retrieving the cloak and wrapping himself in it, he stormed off into the night. The tavern in question, a small and somewhat recluse establishment near the docks, was a few turns here and there away. His feet were quick and light, contrasting greatly with his obvious bad mood, slithering through the stone streets like a spirit. Soon enough, the smell of fresh vomit and the noises of actual clientele echoed through the narrow streets, torches casting their light on the wet stone that formed the city. At the turn of a corner, Peake finally spotted the tavern’s door, which despite the nature of the establishment, was still quite hidden in the dead end that was this street. A perfect place for goons to hide, indeed.
Without much ceremony, Peake situated himself before the door, staring at the old wood as if he was gazing upon the eyes of the being he hated most, and without second thought, his hand reached for the doorknob and he opened the door.