You were in a tavern. It tried to capture that old-fashioned DnD atmosphere. In the corner sat a roguish figure in a white cloak. He was grumbling, trying to cut a loaf of bread with a butter knife. He was hardly the image of your typical assassin. He was quite childish, but he was an assassin at heart. This wasn't his best hour. He had failed at eliminating his target, the vampire, Stirling.