Aivon couldn't quite place how many times he'd been punched in the face.



Perhaps his memory was foggy, or it was consumed by the anger that gripped his chest whenever it happened. Black eyes, bloodied fists... they all made their mark and if there was one thing that the charlatan prized most of all, it was the face he showed to others.



Fucker.



He stared down a man three inches shorter than he, of stocky build with fists that seemed more suited to a beast than a man. Blood dribbled down Aivon's chin as a spill of laughter vibrated past his lips. Raising an arm to wipe the blood on his wrist, he stared at his opponent before his attention found something... other. A sheet pinned to the wall, frayed at the edges with the bite of the wind held a particular crest on it. While he didn't recognize the insignia, he certainly understood the sign itself.



Interesting... he mused, just as another fist started to fly. Caught on the periphery, Aivon jerked his head back, catching his balance on his back foot before he pivoted. Craning forward, a carefully placed blow directly in the center of his opponent's chest winded him, hunched forward in a ready position for the charlatan to slam his face into the table and end this little altercation.



"Don't hit me in the face," he told the cur, just before he walked past the collapsed man. Vision blurred from the blow, it took several moments for his eyes to adjust, and once he read the sign, he found a coy smile stretching his lips.



A ship's captain from a noble house in Athenia? Score.



The only question was... where? Nursing his head against his wrist, the charlatan looked around, his opponent just about to rise from the floor. His guard raised, Aivon found that a cursory glance provided him with what he needed to continue. He had that look about him, the sort of frazzled hair and beaten skin that came with months at sea.



"Didn't mean to bed your girl, mate. No hard feelings? You got this impression about you that you know your way around the pier. You seen the ship that goes with that flier?"



The glitter of coin rested between Aivon's fingers, juggled between digits before he set the thing on the table and inched it forward with his middle finger.



"Take it, it's yours and tell me what I'd like to know."



The other man nursed his own wounds, his forehead bleeding and swollen from the impact on the very table they sat on now. Once provided with what he needed to know, the charlatan left, providing another coin for good measure before making his way to the port of Taengea.



He'd taken his time, stowing his bloodied tunic and replacing it with another, sturdy but well-worn trousers and leather-bound sandals carrying him through the capitol until he settled on the described ship. It seemed, given the light sway to and fro it was giving, that someone was moving on the deck.



"Oi, anyone about? I heard that a noble... Lord Adrestus of Nikolaos? He's lookin' for sailors, yeah? I want in."