something Wicked this way comes...

[miltonyorkcastle]

Cole swings open the door to his room, and takes a minute to absorb the view.  Grinning, he saunters in, his blood crusted armor rattling with each step.  Mumbling something about oil and a bath, he unbuckles the straps to his breastplate first, before working himself out of his boots and scale leggings.  

Sighing, he leans back in his chair, his skin finally free to breath.  He stretches out his mangled right arm, looking down the length of it's tangled mess of scar tissue and regrown muscle, when he catches sight of his door and realizes he forgot to lock it- a necessary precaution against tipsy, singing halflings come to curl up in a corner of pillows.  Pulling himself out of his desk chair, he moves to the door, his bare feet a wonderous quiet next to the accustomed bang of his boots.  

Locking the door, he turns back to face the pile of crafted metal and leather strips, trying to work up the desire to scrub and oil them.  Then he smiles.  He walks over to the pile, and from the bottom of it, drawing it from its magical sheathe, takes the newly acquired blade into both his hands.  The pommel has a scripted "S" at its base, and magical runes center along the blade, which is cold to the touch.  Very cold.  

He sits down, taking some oil and a rag from a desk drawer, and begins to clean little bits of blood remaining along the five foot length.  Satisfied with the clean sheen of oil, Cole lifts the sword, observing the the curves and points and the shark-tooth tip.  He brings the blade close to his face, gazing at his reflection in it, at the distortions in it, and the memories of each kill the blade has tasted thus far in its still young life appear before the mercenary's coal black eyes.  Cole's nostrils flare, and he takes a deep breath before speaking to the sword.

"The cold heart of death beats within ye and resounds deep in me own arteries.  I shall call ye Wicked, for tis a wicked death ye deal."

A sudden pounding on the door forces him out of his revelry, and a familiar voice bellows over the silence.

"Eewwww!  Coooooole!  The door's locked, and I just stepped in something that looks like-" Acacea swallows hard. "Like goblin brains."

Chuckling, he grabs a robe from the armoir and pads over to the door, laying the sword across the bed.

[Acacea]

A small clicking noise is heard, and the door opens as Cole reaches for it. Acacea stands with her arms crossed, the lockpick already tucked away again. She looks at him, then looks down at her feet. Then back up to Cole. She glares at him for a long moment and then waves her arms around, a long string of words assailing him.

"Honestly Cole, what are you thinking! That has to be one of the most disgusting things I've ever seen in my whole LIFE and I've seen some pretty gross things, like that lizard lady who could lick her own eye, or that dwarven drinking contest where they got sick all over the stage and I had to perform on it the next day, or Aleister in pink and yellow, or...what is your sword doing on the bed? Is that your armor all over the floor? And why are you in a robe? Oh for the love of ale and magic, are you being friendly with metal? Again? That's it! I am SO moving out! That's gross! You're gross! Eck!"

Despite the 'threat,' she wriggles past Cole and flops dramatically into a pile of pillows in her corner of the room, muttering something about crazy mercenaries, goblins, and for some really weird reason, magic pie.

A moment after the mind-numbing ramble, a pillow flies over the divider and narrowly misses Cole, and a cough is heard.

"Sorry! There was a bug on it! No malice intended! And you should really clean your armor. It smells bad."

[miltonyorkcastle]

Cole quietly watches Acacea, and listens, still supporting a half-grin.  Cutting a sheet off a roll of canvas from the armory chest by his desk, he cleans up the mess outside his door.  He throws the canvas in a trash barrel and pours a half-bottle of Iron Bock over the mess area.  Using another rag to wipe that up, he looks over the wet, but now clean area, satisfied it at least won't stink.  

He saunters back over to his pile of armor and picks out his pack.  Digging through it, he pulls out a small box, which he then retrieves a large wedge of pecan pie from.  Glancing back to the mumbling Acacea, who is now squishing the life out of a pillow, her little brow furrowed, she hardly notices as he goes to the hearth and starts a small fire.  He sets the wedge in a tin pan that hangs over the flames, then goes to one of the liqor chests and grabs a bottle of firewood lager.  Cole pops the cork and smells it, smiles, and then sets it down in front of Acacea, who looks up at him with a loook of exhasperation and snatches at the lager.  Before she can get a word to him, he scoops out the pie from the tin pan and plops it onto one of the wooden plates stacked on the mantle.  Making the entre' complete with a wooden spoon, he sets this down in front of Acacea as well, the steam from the hot pie curling up in wisps.  

"There ye go, Smiles.  Don't be upset.  I jes walked in and ye jes hev te give me time te get everything done.  Ye know I'm old and slow."  Cole offers a disarming smile. "And I'm sorry about the mess outside the door, though I don't think thet was goblin brains.  I'm pretty sure thet was part of a giant's liver.  I fergot it got stuck te one of the spikes on me boots.  Musta finally fallen off."

And with that, Acacea makes another face at him, then dives into the pie, only to let out a small scream and a series of whimpers as she confesses, "It's hot !"  Grinning and shaking his head, Cole leaves the room and steps into the one next door, where the steam rises from the hot waters of the Leilon Arms common bath.

[cappyra]

*Derrick stops in front of the door to his room and sniffs the air..

"Hmmmm...  Iron Bock...   and uncooked Giant liver?"  *shrugges and enters his room.