The loud bustle of the bar is disorienting. Beer mugs are slammed into round, wooden tables as those who hold them laugh at a stupid joke and men and women alike converse with the strong influence of alcohol on their minds. The barmaids go to and fro, serving beer and mead and there is a chant of Chug, chug, chug! going on in a corner of the establishment. The stench of it all is putrid and disgusting but there is a reason that Clown walked into the bar in the first place and he isn't going to leave due to something as irrelevant as a scent.

The bartender keeps away after setting down his order of blood red wine, looking at him with surprised eyes for a second. It is to be expected, since wine –being pricey as it is– is the last thing someone would order in this town. A rough hand lands itself on his shoulder, the familiar voice that shouts over the others for a glass of whiskey being the only reason that Clown hasn't caused a death already.

The weight on his shoulder retracts and a man sets himself on the stool next to him. Clown doesn't turn to look at him, staring at the red liquid swirling in his glass as he twists it. He adjusts the mask on his face, making sure the straps are as tight as they were a second ago out of reflex.

"Hey, Clown!"

"Hey, Rasplin." he greets, finally leaning back to grace the other with his full attention. Then, he cuts right to the case and the sole reason he is putting up with all of this noise, "What did you want to tell me?"

"Cutting straight to it, huh?", the man sighs, the sound slightly muffled behind the material of his white mask. The design breaks apart into two straight, thick, ivory horns at the top and a red slash of red is painted over one eye, mirroring the scar which Clown knows is hiding underneath. His hair frames the mask like the fiery mane of a lion, coloured a vibrant, fierce crimson. His armour fits the colour and contrasts it nicely with gold trims and ivory spikes.

The story of the armour is old and half-forgotten; some old folktale materialising into reality. Rasplin retrieved it himself, fought for two days and two nights to make it his own. He fought with little sleep and no food but a lot of willpower and determination. This story he has told Clown only once, a few days after they met. He respected the man before but found himself respecting him even more after.

"Well?" Clown urges, turning his body and crossing a foot at the ankle. A glass of whiskey is set in front of Rasplin and the bartender leaves silently.

"Have you heard about Lifesteal?" Rasplin asks, leaning slightly forward and putting an elbow on his gold-plated knee.

Clown thinks about it. The name sounds familiar; there has been gossip running through this region about it but he hasn't found the source of it; hasn't had a reason to do so. Being a bounty hunter, he lives off of the rewards of monsters and criminals that trouble the kingdom, constantly risking his life to legally make a living off of murder. There has been no mention of any 'Lifesteal' on any of the bounty boards nor on the blacklists of neighbouring towns and so, Clown hasn't concerned himself further.

"I've heard about it. Gossip, mostly." he says.

At that, Rasplin lights up. "It's a forest just south of here. Rumour has it that anyone who dares to traverse it, is never seen again, like the forest opens up and swallows them whole."

That... is intriguing. It isn't the first time that Clown has heard of people disappearing inside a forest but most of the time that happens because a traveller unknowingly happened upon the den of a slumbering beast or a mother bear. Rarely, there are cases of people angering the fae and disappearing the next day. All of them returned either whole or with missing limbs or not at all. One time, Clown had retrieved the body of an adventurer who had tried to steal from the nest of a harpy.

"The forest itself or a fairy?" Clown questions, raising his mask to take a sip of his drink. Then, he sets it back in place, fingers sliding smoothly over the wide sharp-toothed grin embossed on the white surface of his mask. He blinks as the diagonal-cross eyes shift in place, shadowing his gaze.

"The locals say it's the forest that does it but I doubt it. A friend of mine passed through the area recently and told me that he didn't feel a curse placed on it. Whatever lives in it knows how to hide... so..." Rasplin leans in a little closer, a shoulder raising to his cheek in a What do you think? gesture that Clown knows all too well.

"So?" Clown raises an eyebrow under his mask and Rasplin knows. "It sounds interesting, sure, but I am not risking my life for nothing–"

"The town next to it is offering a hefty sum for a guard. Even more for someone who can lift the 'curse'." and Rasplin knows him too well, obviously; he trained Clown. He worked him into the excellent Hunter that he is today. Clown shifts in his seat, curious and perhaps, interested in investigating this man-eating forest.

"How much?"

Rasplin straightens up in a way that hides a triumphant grin. The man raises his mask to show it as he downs his whiskey in one go. Clown pushes his own away, his head already pounding from the bustle of the bar. Then, his mentor sets the mask in place and stands up. A hand lands itself on his shoulder in a rough pat that would have sent Clown face-first into the surface of the counter had Clown not anticipated it.

"See for yourself!" he says, excitement seeping into his tone of voice. A deep violet cape billows behind him as he turns, marching towards the door. "Head south!" he throws a wave over his shoulder and with the same hand, he pushes away a drunkard that almost fell on him.

Clown looks away once the silhouette of Rasplin disappears behind the door and into the darkness of night. Lanternlight glints on a handful of silver coins between the empty glass and his wine. He sighs heavily. The bartender looks at him cautiously as he wipes a glass with a rag.

"See for myself..." he repeats Rasplin's words in a murmur that gets lost in the noise.

If the locals are going to pay him, then why not indulge this one curiosity? Bounties often require some form of investigation; be it gossip from the town's ladies or asking around for his target. This one, however, evidently lacks available information. The prospect of adventuring in foreign land, exploring new territory, learning its secrets; it thrills him.

Nodding decidedly to himself, he stands. A red cape billows behind him as he turns and walks to the door. A man falls on him, bringing with a sense of deja vu. Clown halts, turning his head to face the man, who is yelling slurred obscenities at him, face flushed and sweaty from the heat of mead. Without waiting another moment, Clown rears his head back and knocks the dark, curved horns mended on his mask into the man's forehead.

The man goes down with a huff, the spot that was hit turning a bright red instantly. A few gasps erupt from the barmaid who passes through in that moment, the tray she's carrying expertly balanced in one hand as the limp body of the man almost knocks into her. There are some who laugh at him and some who yell. Clown doesn't stay to hear what they have to say.

The stablehand leads his horse out of its stall when Clown goes to retrieve it, the saddle fastened securely on its back and the reins tied in a knot to keep the horse from tripping over them. A tall, pitch-black stallion, strong and defiant, matching Clown in a way that none other ever could. Lovingly named 'Bloodlust', it is one of the best horses in the entire kingdom; perhaps, the best of its kind. The stallion's speed and strength certainly make it seem unrivalled; just like Clown.

"Come on, boy." he says as he takes the reins in hand, leading the horse the rest of the way out of the stable. Bloodlust whickers, pushing at Clown's upper arm. He chuckles. "We've got a long trip ahead of us."

He climbs on the saddle gracefully, weapons securely fastened on belts and holsters. He unties the reins and sets a southbound course.