35th of Vhalar 719
Woe's office smelled of the dusty fumes of dried parchment, and coppery inks. His stationery supplies sat on his desk top, as he worked on his penmanship, trying to sort out his thoughts through the use of freewriting. Against the front of his desk, the Rapier he'd bought earlier leaned, it's hilt raised above the surface of the table. There was scant light, save for what passed as a window. A dirty beam from the sun illuminated the space, and served to dry the ink. Otherwise Woe had to drop powder on the ink to hasten its adherence to the parchment.
The man had taken to holding therapy sessions with aggrieved members of the Etzori populace. He was not only suited to it, but it was also good business, knowing how many suffered from the melancholic moods of late. Immortals knew they had reasons to. The Lisirra had done a bad turn to the Etzori. Yet for all the death and devastation wrought upon the mortal psyche, she left many of the structures intact. It was this free real estate that made it easy for Woe to find a place to set up shop, and lay his head at night.
He'd sent Fleaface abroad the city, with a set of notes and fliers written in Woe's own spidery handwriting. He had put out a call for lessons needed, lessons in swordplay, in specific terms. Woe had never been a great fighter, though he knew well enough how to take a beating. His adroitness on the offense were lacking.
So once again, he sent Fleaface around the city, to scare up an underemployed soldier or sellsword, who might be able to teach hi a trick or two.
Fleaface knocked at his door, which Woe presumed to mean that he found someone. The old man slipped inside, and wrapped his arms behind his back, waiting for the man he'd scared up to enter the office.
Woe looked up , and greeted whoever answered the call, "Hello," He extended his hand to shake. "I'm Woe. I'm the one asking after swordsmanship lessons?"