In a place without court politics, rumors were no longer of need and held no value. One's way of living was through killing, either as a mercenary, or to the Many-Faced God. A life for a life, faceless assassins trained for doing the dirt that others did not wish to redden their hands with.

You thought of taking that path for many years of your life, no use to resume your old work in Westeros when the Free Cities worked under different laws and government. It wasn't until months ago that you did give your life to serving the Many-Faced God, almost quite literally. You thought you would die, but you lived.

'Jaqen'. That's what your mentor-figure tells you to call him, but you know it's just another of his many aliases. He tells you he comes from Lorath, but that could also be another lie. In truth, you don't know anything about him, everything about him has an air of either death or mystery.

He's an expert at his work, he's also aware of that as much as you are. Jaqen prides himself as much, but doesn't show it in favor of his humility. He smiles often, showcases a friendly personality, but he's not sure why he inserts himself so much in that persona when he's around you, he knows he doesn't have to.

It's in the heart of the House of Black and White that he finds you, footsteps as silent as they always were. You sat by the pool, poisoned, but all the more mysterious to it's true properties.

"A man has a job for the one who came from the west." He speaks, voice calm and alluring. Jaqen or not, he was a polite man, and he'd remain a polite man.