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With a simple command, your allies scatter to scout out and talk to the various people in the village. You only visited here for a quick lay of the land and an extra job or two. You don't plan on saying here long.
Wendy seems WAY too disappointed at the idea of being separated from Lex for someone who's only known him for an hour tops, but before she can complain too much, Alexis drags her over to the mayor's office like she's her bratty daughter.
Lex and Quentin turn to look at each other. Lex raises his fist. Quentin raises his. They fistbump. Both of them crack silly-looking smiles, though Quentin struggles to move his facial muscles into a smile. All is well in the world. The two are about ready to stroll over to the MAP SHACK but you grab Quentin's shoulder at the last second.
You whisper something to the two of them. "Let Quentin go in first. See if the Drone reacts weird to a fellow spook." The two nod, even if they're not sure WHY you're asking this.
You then let the two go to deal with the shack.
"Welp." You turn to Ashley. "How much do you want to bet we'll be sent on some shitty fetch quest?"
Ashley takes a deep breath, letting cold air flood her lungs before she answers. "Considering he's calling us over, it's probably something about a Graverobber or he wants us to do his job for him."
[UNSTABLE + PERSON OF INTEREST] "Think it's a trick or a trap or somethin'?" Your gaze bounces around the village, as if trying to make sure no one is watching you. Can't ever be TOO sure in unknown territory. "What if the 'Faceless' was just a silver agent-"
"Dunno. Let's talk to them first." Ashley pats you on the head in an attempt to calm you down. "You got those wild eyes again. If anything bad happens, we'll be able to handle it. No need to rile yourself up." You're almost disgusted at how good you felt when she patted your head.
Oh well.
With your nerves calmed for now, you decide to see what this random NPC FUCK WHO YOU SHOULD PUNCH—this random dude wants. Father Above, your head feels like a mess.
House #3 is to the north, so it takes a bit to walk over there. You couldn't really get a good read on who was calling out for you, all you had to work on was their outline and voice. With the winter wind blowing throughout the village, you basically have no idea what to expect as you approach the house.
The man standing by the doorway is roughballing here, in his late 30s? You're guessing because it's clear living here has done a NUMBER to him that normal City life doesn't. His dark yellow eyes have sunken into his face, heavy eyebags underneath them from days or weeks with little sleep. His fur-lined outfit is drenched in dark, foul-smelling stains that reek of either infection or dark crimson blood.
His boots are held together with old leather straps and string, while his pants are roughly stitched together, clearly made from leftover scrap materials.
His left arm has been hacked clean off. However, there's something in its place.
