Veridas woke slowly, and leisurely. The assassin was in his room in the Bannered Mare, and stripped to the waist. Glancing out the window, he estimated by the suns' angle, that it was mid morning,perhaps between nine and ten in the morning. Automatically, he was alert. It was a trait he'd developed in his youth. Swinging his legs out of bed, he dressed quickly, and buckled on his sword and dagger. He'd arrived the night before, from Riften, by carriage. Upon entering the city, he'd heard rumors of people hiding inside the city's hall of the dead.
The Breton thought this piece of information strange, but useful. He'd also heard that some of those people may have prices on their heads. The Stormcloaks were offering septims for anti-Ulfric conspirators and non-Nords, the Thalmor had contracts on priests of Talos and the Imperials had put bounties on Legion deserters and Stormcloak officers. All in all, there was a lot of profit to be made in Skyrim these days. However, the assassin refused to work for Stormcloaks. Especially since they'd branded him a traitor and chased him out of Windhelm. For the past few weeks hidden in Riften, taking small contracts that wouldn't lead the officials to him.
He left the inn several minutes later, having eaten breakfast and headed for the hall of the dead, avoiding main roads, until he reached the hall. Then he pushed the door open, easily avoiding a man that was pouring over papers and muttering to himself. Moving quietly, his supple leather boots making not a whisper of sound, he followed the sound of conversation, until he saw a pair of people, an elf, and an imperial, talking. Standing to his full height he cleared his throat. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" He inquired, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.