"I don't care whose fault it was," the man ranted. "I'll not have a customer of mine damaging the building. Now, get out!"

Athgar took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He tugged on the axe, pulling it from the wall, along with stray bits of plaster that flew everywhere.

He made his way out of the room and down the stairs, his head swimming. There was a push on his back as he reached ground level, propelling him through the door and flat onto his face. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him lying on the ground.

Sitting up, he took stock of his surroundings. It was the middle of the night, the street deserted, a far cry from the heavy traffic he had witnessed earlier. Wiping the blood from his face, he rose, tucking the axe firmly into his belt. Feeling a drop of water hit his face, he swore as more followed in rapid succession. Casting his eyes about, he spied an alleyway where the roofs of the adjoining buildings overhung enough to provide some cover. He stood unsteadily, waiting for his head to clear, and then staggered towards the alley, making his way slowly as the street appeared to lurch. Moments later, he was there, beneath the eaves, his tunic wet from rain, but not quite soaked through.

Athgar leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, listening as the rain pelted down. His legs began to shake, and he slowly slid down to land, still upright, but now sitting on the ground. Struggling to stay conscious, he tried to think through his situation, but all his mind could focus on was the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Sleep soon claimed him.

Athgar awoke with a start. His head throbbed mercilessly, his legs stiff and sore. He glanced about, realizing he was still in the alleyway. In fear, he checked his belt, but the reassuring shape of his axe was still present.

What was he to do, he wondered, then decided to take stock of his situation. His possessions included only the clothes on his back, an axe, and his torc, but little else. All of his coins had been in the bag, along with the trade items the Orcs had supplied. Should he return to the Orc village? He knew he would be welcome, but the very thought of returning in failure brought bile to his throat.

He looked to the sky, in an effort to gauge the time of day. The sun was well past its zenith, telling him he had been unconscious for an inordinate amount of time. Surely someone would have seen him, he thought, but then he remembered the statue he had observed the day before; no one here would care about a Therengian lying in an alleyway. Anyone who saw him probably thought him a vagrant.