The Dwendalian Empire is not where he wants to be. Zadash even less so. There are too many people who might recognize him from when he fought in the arena not too long ago, too many who knows his crimes still printed on faded pieces of paper throughout the city. The bounty on his head still stands, and, well, Lord Acheron Blackguard, a minor member of the Cerberus Assembly, will pay handsomely for whoever brings this "tiefling" to him alive.
Coming to Zadash was a fool's errand. But with empty pockets and weeks of traveling out in the Felderwin Tillage with only scrap bit of coin to be earned from Farmer's petty grievances, he had come back to the biggest city in the region, hoping for a mercenary company or other adventuring party to help get him to the Menagerie Coast.
The Leaky Tap in the Eastern Outersteads is where he decides to start his search. Dipping into the doorway, he adjusts himself, glad that the time on the road has given him a chance to change his appearance slightly. Gone is the clean-shaven face he wore in the arena, but a decent beard and moustache help frame his sharp teeth. The gorget around his neck is dulled by the leather he has placed over it, the rest of his armor mismatched- dull and dinged and secondhand, far from the gleaming, showy pieces he had worn as the Victory Pit's former champion. The only two things that matter are kept best- the round wooden shield on his back and the scimitar kept in a scabard on his hip.
"Ale, please. And information." He asks the barkeep, sliding a couple of copper coins across the worn out wood. He'll need to learn the lay of the land, and keep his head low if he was going to survive this little adventure.
At the back of the tavern, there's another tiefling. He's sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance, nursing a drink by his elbow, a large axe propped beside the other arm — an oddly large weapon for someone who otherwise looks fairly weedy, but so be it — and his interest seems piqued at the new arrival.
Malcius Derdenvaad has been on an irritating, open-ended errand for a while now: to find new recruits for his mercenary group. Their last engagement left them down a couple heads (one hospitalised for the foreseeable, the other quite literally beheaded), and they're in need of replenishing their numbers — so, as one of the newer members himself, they've camped him and other members out at various bars and pubs scattered across the city. Don't come back until you have a prospect.
Mostly, the Leaky Tap has been been grubby farmhands and merchants looking to unwind for the day, not the standard swaggering adventurer ready to brawl and take up arms, glinting with destiny and derring-do. Mal's been close to calling it for the night, finishing off his drink and leaving, when this fellow walks in through the doors. Certainly a fighter, with all those muscles and hard-used equipment.
Interesting, he thinks, and waits and watches as the other tiefling gets his drink. Finishes his chat with the barkeep. When the fighter turns around, Mal outright just gives Heli a wave and a beckoning gesture, pointing to their drinks — he'll buy him a round.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
You All Meet in an Inn...
Coming to Zadash was a fool's errand. But with empty pockets and weeks of traveling out in the Felderwin Tillage with only scrap bit of coin to be earned from Farmer's petty grievances, he had come back to the biggest city in the region, hoping for a mercenary company or other adventuring party to help get him to the Menagerie Coast.
The Leaky Tap in the Eastern Outersteads is where he decides to start his search. Dipping into the doorway, he adjusts himself, glad that the time on the road has given him a chance to change his appearance slightly. Gone is the clean-shaven face he wore in the arena, but a decent beard and moustache help frame his sharp teeth. The gorget around his neck is dulled by the leather he has placed over it, the rest of his armor mismatched- dull and dinged and secondhand, far from the gleaming, showy pieces he had worn as the Victory Pit's former champion. The only two things that matter are kept best- the round wooden shield on his back and the scimitar kept in a scabard on his hip.
"Ale, please. And information." He asks the barkeep, sliding a couple of copper coins across the worn out wood. He'll need to learn the lay of the land, and keep his head low if he was going to survive this little adventure.
no subject
Malcius Derdenvaad has been on an irritating, open-ended errand for a while now: to find new recruits for his mercenary group. Their last engagement left them down a couple heads (one hospitalised for the foreseeable, the other quite literally beheaded), and they're in need of replenishing their numbers — so, as one of the newer members himself, they've camped him and other members out at various bars and pubs scattered across the city. Don't come back until you have a prospect.
Mostly, the Leaky Tap has been been grubby farmhands and merchants looking to unwind for the day, not the standard swaggering adventurer ready to brawl and take up arms, glinting with destiny and derring-do. Mal's been close to calling it for the night, finishing off his drink and leaving, when this fellow walks in through the doors. Certainly a fighter, with all those muscles and hard-used equipment.
Interesting, he thinks, and waits and watches as the other tiefling gets his drink. Finishes his chat with the barkeep. When the fighter turns around, Mal outright just gives Heli a wave and a beckoning gesture, pointing to their drinks — he'll buy him a round.
Never been particularly good at discretion, Mal.