The_IQ
New Member
Silvergrove
Mercenary ward
1000 City time
Slightly clouded, light rain
"Hear ye, hear ye," a crier shouted while waving around a loud bell. Causing the countless mercenaries that were waiting in this particular ward to cease their chatter and listen in. When a crier came to their quarters, it meant there was a sign-up and a job to be had. Unlike the people that entered and took one or two with them, criers often recruited extra forces for caravans. And caravans went out into the wastes. "Warriors, Mercenaries o' note'n present wastewalkers, hear ye! Th'Silver Merchant's guild be lookin' fer additional guardians fer a journey utmost ardeous in the wastes! We will depart in two days and shall take two weeks to reach Steelward!" He rung his bell once. "If yer certain y'got what it takes, report to the guild with due haste! Thank ye!" He brought his bell up again and started to repeat his message.
Among these mercenaries, towered none other than the former Thuluk chieftan, Arsenal. Who folded his hands as he listened, before nodding to himself. The large brute turned to his feet and casually moved over through the crowd, shoving and pushing aside anyone in his way roughly. He earned some ire, but most people were wise enough to leave the pointy eared, green-skin alone. They were quite a bit shorter than the massive stature of the man. And anyone was wise enough to not pick a fight with the masked savage.
It didn't take long for Arsenal to reach the guild. A scribe at a small, makeshift desk placed outside on the courtyard of the rather large, yet modest building. It wasn't constructed of polished marble or needlessly decorated. It was merely a large building to house the merchantile's bussiness. The desk had a sign infront of it, 'mercenaries' painted in black, sloppy letters. Arsenal moved into the queue. And just a few seconds later, he let out an annoyed grunt and just moved forward, putting his hand on the shoulder of the man that was currently writing and pulling him back. If looks could kill, he'd be dead by now. But they didn't, and Arsenal stared the man down, before turning to the desk. The scribe was taken aback by his rude mannerisms, but moreso by just how large Arsenal was. Pushing the small glasses on his nose, "N-name?" she stuttered, pulling up a new paper. "Arsenal, chieftan of the Thuluk tribe, leader of the Riv-elite" a deep voice, laced with a thick tribal accent came from him. Only made smothered and metallic due to the mask. Most people that were either complaining about his cutting in line or idly chattering were momentarily silenced as the name of the Thuluk tribe dropped. Everyone had heard the stories. The Thuluk raiders, the Riv-elite. "R-... Right away, Sir Arsenal," a soft grunt came from him and a hand softly thumped against the table. "Chieftan," he corrected. Before standing up straight again.
The freckled scribe eeped, before nodding. "Apologies, chieftan," she stated, pushing her glasses back up to her freckled nose. Causing a content hum from Arsenal. Being slightly reassured by the noise, she proceeded. "You realize the caravan departs in two days? Pay is 20 silver per day, daily pay-out. If you... Die," a slow growl from came from him, causing the young woman to swallow thickly. "We salvage your gear and bury you in the wastes. You bring your own gear. Are those terms agreeable?" A soft chuckle now resounded from the man. "I do not die. I agree," he nodded. Before turning around and leaving the queue, rolling his shoulder. "Wait, don't you need to-" he was already off, not interested in knowing where the meet-up point was or when exactly they'd depart. He'd just spend the coming nights at the main gate like the vagrant he was forced to live as due to a lack of contracts.
