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Despite their most unusual adventures in Oldcastle that autumn, Zharkov and Kozel's return to the city had been blessedly uneventful, save for the new additions to their little group. Zharkov had barely managed to convince Kozel to allow the slinking fox to stow away in the back of their cart, though neither of the men had had much choice anyway, since the (apparently mad) animal would not cease following along at their heels. The creature's presence was actually easy enough to forget, as he quietly curled up and covered his nose with the white tip of his tail, content to sleep the trip away. It was only by pointing out this calm demeanor that Zharkov managed to persuade his upset companion that it was not some bloodthirsty wolf.

The hawk that they had captured was a different story altogether. Injured and fussy, Zharkov had purchased a leash and blinder for it on the cheap, following the friendly suggestion of one of the patrons at the inn they'd stayed at. After a good meal, however, it had allowed itself to be wrapped gently in a blanket for the journey and hadn't tried to escape since. The following weeks found the Okrainan caring for it vigilantly, setting up an area in his room at the Fox and Hounds for it to perch and recuperate. Thankfully, the bird's wounds were not horribly severe, and its appetite for the meat Zharkov steadily supplied saw its strength rebounding quickly. Zharkov was almost sad at the thought of selling it, but he had nowhere to keep the majestic beast, and no time to take it out hunting. It was nearing the end of November when he decided to begin advertising the hawk for sale. Her feathers were glossy and clean, her injuries healed, and she was in good shape, ready to be taken by someone possessing the know-how needed to take care of her.

With Kozel's help he'd made up fliers, posting them at appropriate stations on the other side of the river. He'd come to find that the type of hawk they had captured was exactly the type that the nobility of Sunderland liked to train, and held high hopes on their abilities to garner a profit from selling the bird. The fliers listed no price, only that the sale of one fine quality Kingshawk was up for discussion; Zharkov was interested in what sorts of offers he would receive, unaware that most sane people probably bought from more respectable falconers or breeders of the beasts. Nevertheless, interested parties were asked to inquire for either Kozel or himself at the inn, at times around noon or dusk so as not to interfere with work. All that was left to do then, was wait!

There was no doubt that Lucterius had doubts about this flier. Birds were fine, noble creatures, and he feared that one raised (to whatever dubious definition of raised this fit) by, well, people who were not fit to fly them would not meet his standards. What was a fine hawk, by the standards of this...establishment? Lucterius supposed it was an establishment by some standard, anyway, but he could not help but shudder at the Fox and Hound's state - it was a nice enough inn, perhaps, for most, but...

Well. Lucterius, though technically common by blood, was titled, and his title had come with the sort of immeasurable wealth afforded those who owned business empires. (To tell the truth it was the title that had come with the wealth: but by Lucterius' time, both had been inherited from his father, and he'd had nothing really to do with the obtainment of the original honor...) As it was, he was not the sort of man who commonly stayed at inns, for he had a network of friends and "friends" who would gladly host him for a night or two whenever he needed travel, so long as he did the same for them. It was the same sort of song and dance everyone who was anyone performed, Lucterius thought, and so: this inn was not the sort of place he belonged. That much was obvious, and it was clear that this man agreed.

Lucterius looked him over, a frown in his eyes, and looked back at the flier he was examining rather cordially. In all honesty he hadn't intended to show up here: who would trust someone who raised hawks and lived (even for a short while) here? Lucterius knew fine breeders; his wife flew an Addison-bred bird who was her pride and joy. Yet perhaps he was feeling sentimental - his daughter did so like animals, and would hate to see a bird treated badly for its owners' ignorance. And perhaps it could be a distraction for himself, to give the bird discipline and purpose and make it look respectable. "Good day," he told the other man, then, mind made. "Would you happen to know when or where in this establishment Emil Zharkov and Damir Kozel might spend their time?"