Just as Balgrim took a seat and was beginning to get comfortable a man appeared through the tavern doorway. He had the look of a man well worn by time but somewhat prosperous and upper class in the manner he dressed. Leaning heavily on his cane the man made his way to a table and addressed the entire tavern.

Balgrim learned this man was the Guild's recruiter, and soon after his declaration those whom Balgrim suspected were guild prospects began to make their way towards him. Balgrim almost mistook the first person to approach the recruiter for an elf. The way he carried himself up to the table screamed posh to him but upon hearing the man speak Balgrim was at a loss and wasn't familiar with the man's accent.

Second was another man to approach the recruiter, though this one looked much more plainly dressed. Balgrim wondered if the man had been staying at the tavern and was keeping his wargear in a room upstairs. The man also had an accent that was unfamiliar to Balgrim, if much more comprehensible than the previous.

Balgrim felt somewhat delighted hearing these different manlings speak. He didn't know there were so many varieties in their speech depending on where they hailed from and he wondered if all the men in the tavern possessed such diverse ways of speaking.

Begrudgingly Balgrim lifted himself from his seat and made his way towards the recruiter's table. He had just beginning to feel comfortable but knew this was the opportunity he had been seeking. Pack still full with traveling supplies he waddled over, his equipment subtly jingling as he moved.

"Good day to yeh, name's Balgrim Steelpick. I seek to join the guild and earn my keep. Been a ranger for years and ave' skills in tracking and scouting and could pin any greenskin to a tree with me axes."

Meinhardt nodded his approval at the foreigners intent to stay out of others quarrels. It was a wise sentiment for a mercenary, though he suspected Frans the Bretonnian would take offence at being called that. A newcomer to the tavern interrupted their conversation, and as Severo Emigdio introduced himself to the room, Frans rose keenly.

“Excuse moi for zee moment friend,” said the Bretonnian politely and Meinhardt gestured in a ‘by all means’ sort of way.

For his part, there was no hurry. Meinhardt knew that in this business there was never a cap on how many men got hired on and preferred to see who he was working with. It was vanity, of course. The old soldier would have signed on with a cadre of black toothed villains at this point, merely to be gone of this place. He’d nearly given up on the notion of settling down.

As Frans was joined by another young hopeful, Meinhardt sighed at the prospects of his next engagement. It was looking like he’d be spending the next week or two playing nursemaid to a bunch of pups. Ulric preserve us, he thought. At least there was a Dwarf, they were always good in a fight if they weren’t too ornery towards their own companions. The man drained his mug in two big swallows then stood, striding easily over to the Tilean recruiter.

“Severo, you garlic-eating cyclops!” Meinhardt said boldly. “What is it this time? A caravan to Nuln? Guarding some dignitary to a Count? Either way you know I’m in. Same contract as usual, I suspect?”

If ‘old Captain Volker’ was over the hill, then Severo Emigdio was in the gully on the other side. Meinhardt had heard a few stories of the Tileans adventures, and the near-mythic story of how he’d lost his eye. If half those stories were true, he would have been a hell of a man to fight beside back in the day. Coupled with the fact the at he brought reliable, if unexciting, work with reliable pay, Severo was a good man in Meinhardt’s book. Secretly, he hoped Severo knew that and was annoyed by it.

As the ridiculous looking recruiter entered the tavern, Drimbold would mutter 'bout time' as he grabbed another Zhufbar Ale, having already inhaled the first one in a matter of seconds. The atmosphere in the Nag had shifted to something more business-like, but Drimbold remained as unchanging as when he walked in (bar the Elf). Longbeards had patience unlike anything else in the world, and he was too busy drinking at the moment. If the manlings and the beardling were eager, he'd let them ask for recruitment.

Once he had finished his fourth pint for a bit of light drinking, he hopped off the stool he'd climb up on. The timber furniture was grateful for the intense weight that had disappeared from atop it. Grabbing the axe that leaned on the counter side, he set off toward the Estalian once the last manling had finished speaking to him. A perpetual unsatisfied and unbridaled grimness to his face, Drimbold eyed the one eyed Guild representative.

"Pay me a fair wage, I'll kill what ye want and march where ye want, provided it doesn't dishonor me hearth and home." He said, then glanced to the side to the White Lion. "If the Elgi comes along, that's extra." His voice sounded like rocks grating against one another. "If ye have no more gold, as ye look too scrawny to be a man of means, just see he keeps his distance."

Drimbold didn't even wait for a proper answer, only staying enough to be satisfied with the man's acceptance before he went back to drinking.

@Blueskin@POOHEAD189@Andreyich@Drinky@Dusty

It was fortunate, mostly for his own sanity, that Severo was quite used to having himself rushed by entire rooms of mercenaries and cut-throats at the same time, all clamouring for employment and the opportunity to earn some coin. In this case it was not an entire room – thanks the Gods – but there were enough that he was forced to listen to each of them as they separately approached before he could even get a word in edgeways.

“Perhaps you did not all hear me?” He questioned in an authoritative tone that belied his otherwise haggard appearance, “I said one at a time.” There as a short snort, a flourishing sweep of his cloak, and he adjusted his seating before fixing the young Breton with an expert eye; a poor adventurer he may have prove to be, but he was an excellent judge of character.

“Bretonnian...” came the start of his mutterings, his quill scratching against parchment, although who knew what he was writing? Perhaps something of import, or perhaps nothing interesting at all!

“Calls himself 'Sir' Francois Vou Bluspereaux...nineteen, no, twenty or so years of age, clearly noble born and both tall and clean of limb...chain and plate and sword...”

After scribbling for moments, glancing back and forth between man and scroll, he gave a satisfactory nod and spoke directly to Frans Vou, “welcome to the Guild, Breton. Sign your name or make your mark on the line at the bottom of the scroll...and don't worry, I shall make sure you get only the best employment.”

A spare quill was extended and the ink fountain pushed forward on the table.

The scroll was a simple piece of documentation, recording the applicants name and anything of interest – obvious armament, marks, and so forth – before moving onto a long piece of legal jargon that more-or-less stated that the signatory agreed to membership of the Guild (including giving a percentage of any loot to the Guild), and that death was altogether plausible in pursuit of whatever duty they were assigned.

"My name is Waldemar Vetroff, I would like to go into your employ. I think I have valuable skills that would earn you a pretty penny... with me getting an obvious piece of the penny course."

Another dipping of the quill, another long sigh.

“Kislevite, probably Gospodar...tall...middle twenty years...apparently an Ice mage to boot.”

If Waldemar believed he was going to get any sort of reaction from the Estalian then he would be most disappointed, for Severo had seen almost all there was to see in terms of skill and such, and some young man dipping his hand into water did nothing to impress him.

“Sign here and wait with the Breton,” he grunted, jabbing a thumb at Frans, “welcome to the Guild.”

It would have become obvious by now that the Guild was not fussy about who they hired, even to the point that no questions about pursuing families, jilted lovers and so on were asked. This was because they weren't, not even close. If you could hold a sword and voluntarily joined, well, then the Guild would take you.

"Good day to yeh, name's Balgrim Steelpick. I seek to join the guild and earn my keep. Been a ranger for years and ave' skills in tracking and scouting and could pin any greenskin to a tree with me axes."

“Dwarf, Balgrim, Steelpick clan. Good clothing, roughly three feet and...eleven inches...ranger...tracking and scouting...simple beard and short hair.”

“Sign here, Master Steelpick, and welcome to the Guild.”

“Severo, you garlic-eating cyclops!” Meinhardt said boldly. “What is it this time? A caravan to Nuln? Guarding some dignitary to a Count? Either way you know I’m in. Same contract as usual, I suspect?”

As much as Meinhardt annoyed Severo, their little verbal duels provided a bit of humour in his employ, and he could give as good as he got!

“Sergeant Volker, what an unethspected pleasure! I would have thought you would be dead by now, what with being so very old and past your prime? Non, here you are before me, for what number of time I cannot even recall.” Wetting his lips and allowing a grin to play over his face, he rummaged through his satchel and pulled a specific piece of parchment – nay, three pieces – from it; upon those pieces were Meinhardts 'record of service' with the Guild, every single time he had signed up and every contact given and completed.

“Just for you!” Severo exclaimed, patting the ink-pasted scroll, “special scroll for those who should retire, but are too stupid to do so. You know what to do.”

"Pay me a fair wage, I'll kill what ye want and march where ye want, provided it doesn't dishonor me hearth and home." Rumbled a long-bearded Dwarf, then glanced to the side to the White Lion. "If the Elgi comes along, that's extra." His voice sounded like rocks grating against one another. "If ye have no more gold, as ye look too scrawny to be a man of means, just see he keeps his distance."

“Dwarf...old...arrogant...well equipped and likely experienced...dislike of Elves...”

Giving the ink a quick drying blow, he waited until Drimbold had returned to his seat before holding it up in the air and yelling across the room, “my apologies Master Dwarf, but I require your name or rune or mark on this scroll. It is Guild policy I am afraid.” He would not bother to give the parchment to anyone else, but waited, as stony faced as Drimbold himself, for the Dwarf to either come back over and learn some humility or stay where he was an miss out.

Galadred watched the procession of mercenaries swamp the Estalian recruiter with a touch of disdain. He was as excited as any of them, surely, for the chance of some real work, some adventure perhaps, but they had tipped their hand in the negotiations by rushing to the man, some of them even attempting to show off, to sell themselves, as it were. Except for Volker, who had apparently met the recruiter before. Galadred had not. He made it a point to wait quietly, to conserve his air of stoic mystery until he was sure that no others would step up. The dwarf that had given him the glare earlier had neglected to make his mark on the parchment, and had also stated that he would charge double for his services if Galadred came along. That was all the spurring the elf needed.

Wordlessly, The Lion strode to the table, nodded to the man. "I am Galadred. I was a White Lion of Chrace." he paused for a moment, to see if the mention of his old order rang any bells. Regardless, he would sign his name in his flowing Tar-Eltharin hand, as he always did.

"I am Galadred. I was a White Lion of Chrace."

Severo managed to squint up at the Elf with his one good eye, give a small grunt and a grimace, and then note down a number of details - temporarily placing Drimbold's contract back on the table, where it would remain until he came to sign it.

"Of course you are, I can tell by that stupid giant cat on your shoulder," chided the recruiter, "Galadred? Yes...you signed up with some of our competitors before, I believe. Well, sign here and stand with the rest of them."

Rising to his feet, and giving another nod to Ludolf, he spoke up once more, "if there are any others who wish to sign their name, make yourself known. I shall be here for ten minutes, and not a minute more. Until then..." He said as he turned his head those already gathered, shuffling their papers together and stuffing them into his satchel, "...I thuggest you finith your drinks."

Prior to the entrance of the - Tilean... Estalian... whatever - umgi recruiter, Vargni had staggered outside past Balgrim and Galadred to relieve himself in a nearby hedge, and quite missed their arrival. The pleasant thing about hating living as much as Vargni did, was that you began to appreciate the little things. Voiding his bowels had become a highlight of his otherwise despondent daily routine of alcoholism, and he strode back towards the inn with something of a spring in his step.

He paused by a trough at the entrance to splash some water on his face and wash the oily sweat from his naked torso. As the waters stilled, he spent an uncomfortable moment looking at his reflection. The reflection of something ruined. Something that couldn't be put back.

Furrowing his brow at this surprisingly bleak thought, he dried his face using his thick beard as a towel and walked back through the threshold of the inn to see a gaggle of the patrons crowding around the umgi recruiter.

"I step outside for not five leaps of a hare and suddenly work crawls out of the woodwork! That's just my bloody luck." said Vargni to no one in particular.

As he navigated his way through the array of tables and stools occupying the tavern, he heard the recruiter speak up:

"If there are any others who wish to sign their name, make yourself known. I shall be here for ten minutes, and not a minute more. Until then, I thuggest you finith your drinks."

Clearing his throat, Vargni pushed his way through the milling crowd of newly contracted mercenaries to the front, as Galadred finished his signature.

"Hold your britches, friend - I'll sign up, and I'll do it for naught but a supply of ale and a good meal a day, as long as you don't mess us about and sell us off to the service of some petty umgi lord wot needs some rats catching."

After he added a series of jagged dwarfen runes to a contract, he caught sight of Galadred standing to his side out the corner of his eye, and turned to give the Elf a brief, hard look.

"You're a bit ugly for an elgi, aren't you? All those scars on your pretty face. I like that."

@Lucian

“Sergeant Volker, what an unethspected pleasure!” The Tilean said in his usual precipitatious way. Meinhardt couldn’t help but give him a wry smile in turn.

“It appears both of us are fools who don’t know when to get out of the game, Severo,” said the Middenlander with arms spread.

Meinhardt made his mark on the paperwork with the quick efficiency of experience. The excitement of a coming campaign was all ready starting to fill him, though he didn’t really expect any action. It seemed he was never so at ease as when he was camping on cold earth or marching over harsh ground. What does that say about me? wondered Meinhardt inwardly, before pushing the thought away. He’d spend the rest of the evening with an ale in his hand, maybe try to get the Breton lad drunk as a Marienburg sailor, to see how well he could ride hungover in the morning. Then they would put boots to road for the guild and maybe pretend to be heroes for a while. Meinhardt headed for a refill.

@Blueskin@Lucian@Dusty@Drinky@Andreyich@POOHEAD189@TJByrum@Laduguer

Well...well...well...

The group assembled both on the parchment now safely concealed within his satchel, and standing around like some group of 'olde time' heroes of the past, was certainly one of the most diverse that the Estalian had ever seen in his career; if the Dwarfs didn't murder the singular Elf within a couple of weeks then he would be one surprised cyclops.

Eagerly he fingered through the available contracts from the Guild, hissing and tutting as he did so, discarding some of them with a quick snort or sigh while eyeing others for some time before moving on.

“Ah,” he exclaimed with a grin, “it seemths that I have found something you may like.”

“We shall need to travel north into the Reikwald first, to see a lady known to possess certain abilities though she lives in naught but a hovel.”

Surely this could not be it, he imagined some may be thinking, some that had never travelled the Reikwald before in their short and miserable lives...or lives of privilege, if it came to the Breton or Elf.

“Get some rest, prepare yourselves and your weapons, and meet me outside at exactly five o' clock tomorrow morning. I bid you all bon dia.”

With that he was off, up the stairs of the tavern and out of sight – all equipment and contracts slung beneath one arm – his heavy breath following along with him as he went.

Time for a well deserved rest!

---

---

Five O' clock came around faster than most could have anticipated, Severo rising at least an hour before the time and procuring a mount from the seemingly sleepless stableboy; a grim grey sky sat low above the forest and tavern, pregnant clouds swollen with rain threatening to relieve themselves every minute, and the Estalian shivered.

Vlad rubbed his hands together once the day's business was over, and looked over his company. There was the foppish elf, the same Dwarfs, and two human buggers; a motley crew to be sure. He wondered how he'd synergise with them but then decided such a thought experiment was pointless for only time would tell. Instead, he bade them all good night and stepped outside. There he lay together with his horse, using his fur coat as something to lie on. He did not at all seem phased by the cold of the night, happily staring into the twinkling stars until he went to sleep with a raspy breath that verged on a light snore.

---

Vlad would awake about half an hour later than the Estalian, brought to his current consciousness by the rise of the sun becoming acute. He procured some water and waved his current boss good morning, humming a nursing tune as he did so. The mage wasn't quite sure what to do with his time so he decided to sit and watch his steed grazing whilst he sharpened one of his blades.

As the time came, he put his sword away, brushed himself off and stood up. He'd seek out the Estalian while whistling the melody from earlier. Going along he wondered what his first assignment would be. The employer clearly needed a group that could probably even take a troll or two, based on the weapons they were carrying and his own... talents. A moment passed where he wondered if he was making a mistake, if the adventurous life would turn out to be a miserable thing, going from one scarp for your life to another just so you could go back to a tavern for a week, drink away your coin, and repeat until you dropped dead here or there. Again he brushed aside the thoughts, knowing that he could quite any time he liked. Thus, he stood waiting for the rest of the group to come.

"Some rest?" Drimbold echoed, and then huffed through his beard. He'd come back over and signed the damned thing, now the manling thought he was at his beck and call. Grimnir damn that, he was going to go back to the drinking table. And so he did, drinking and reveling in stories of old. Even naming the 136 names of Gold he knew in a bawdy song. Thankfully, once he grew tired of manling company, he did decide to get a few hours of sleep.

Most men and Elgi would sleep the night away after such exertion. Drimbold was made of stern stuff however, and he rose just when he needed to. He grabbed another drink for good measure, along with some hearty ham, his pack already strapped to his broad back. His muscles granite and his skin thick as leather, even with only a few hours of sleep, Drimbold would march until the others stopped to rest their legs. That or, until he needed to take a piss or vomit since he had a small drinking binge the other night.

Here's hoping this mercenary expedition would provide enough gold for him to fawn over, and spend more money on beer. And hopefully he could get better beer than the manling piss water!

Balgrim wandered off to a nearby table once his name had been signed. All this excitement for his first adventure with manlings and elgi was causing him to work up an appetite. As he took a seat Balgrim reached into his pack and produced a small metal cauldron that had its lid tied down with some rope. He licked his lips as he popped the lid off and gave his meal a quick sniff. It was some leftover stew he had prepared during his journey from Karak Norn. As adventurous as he was feeling he wasn't quite up for sampling manling food, preferring to take comfort in a meal he prepared himself and moreover tasted previously. Though the meal wasn't hot and fresh Balgrim enjoyed its heartiness. A mixture of vegetables and some rabbit meat he had hunted, Balgrim began shoveling the stew down his throat and audibly grumbled as he vigorously stuffed his face.

Balgrim didn't even notice the other adventurers strolling up to sign their name to the company's ledger, which was something quite uncharacteristic of his observant nature he prided himself on. However in this instance his meal took priority. Reaching into his pack again he produced a travel sized barrel keg of dwarf beer and a rather plain wooden mug. He preferred the taste of beer from a nice stone mug but opted for wood based on the weight. As the beer flowed and frothed from his keg he heard the manling with the Guild roster speak up. Preoccupied with conducting a good pour of his valuable beer Balgrim only caught the tail end of the manling's speech.

"Five o' clock tomorrow morning" Balgrim noted, and continued to focus on his meal.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Balgrim rolled out of his rented bed at quarter to five, quickly dressing and swinging his noisy pack onto his shoulders. He was used to rising and being on the move quickly and knew he wouldn't need any time to prepare before the journey. As he slowly lumbered down the tavern's stairs one step at a time, his belly bouncing with each step, Balgrim produced a small pipe from his cloak and lit some of the Mootland tobacco he had traded for. As he took his first drag, the taste was heavenly. It had the power and flavor he expected from the finest dwarf tobacco but without the heaviness. Pushing open the door to the tavern Balgrim exhaled a large puff of smoke.

He noticed the manling from the guild and a few others were already waiting outside and secretly hoped he hadn't kept them waiting. If he knew there were going to be so many early risers like this was exam day at the engineering guild Balgrim would've pushed himself out of bed earlier.

"What a lovely day for travel!" he exclaimed excitedly to the group.

---

---

Scribbling down his name in a flowery hand the young Breton left the Estalian to deal with the growing crowd of likeminded mercenary aspirants. He dallied in the common room sipping wine and observing his new company with curious reservation. Their speech was oft to accented and swift to understand in full, and the Breton only managed to catch a word or two of the conversations as he picked at his dinner. Eventually the Estalian man Severo called their attention outlining their first task and starting time, much to Frans Vou’s delight. It seemed no time would be wasted, with a prompt assemblage the next morning. Deciding to retire for the evening early, Frans Vou ascended the tavern’s wooden stair, meeting his page Adrian on the second floor landing. The boy handed over a heavy cast iron key, giving his knight a respectful bow.

“Zee second room on zee left is made up for you sir. Zee best in zee inn as zee monsieur requested.”

Accepting both key and directions Frans Vou left young Adrian with instructions to have the horse and mules ready by five o’clock tomorrow morning, before entering his quarters. The rooms here were dingy, not befitting Bretonnian nobility, but at least it beat a tent and cloak. Unbuckling his sword belt Frans Vou laid it gently down at the foot of his bed, resting upon his knees on the moldy wooden floor, head bowed in silent veneration. For a full two minutes he remained this way, his thoughts and prayers directed towards the Lady of the Lake in this short moment of reverence.

Rising Frans Vou took up his sword and set it upon the nightstand before reclining upon the bed. Blowing out the bedside lantern and kicking off his boots Frans Vou slipped away, the muffled sounds from the bar thrumming in his ears.

---

The next morning Frans Vou awoke early, washing and dressing before taking an early breakfast in the kitchen. His actions were those of routine, and before long he met Adrian and Moreu in the stables, taking the bridle of his steed from the page. Leading both horse and servants from the stables Frans Vou’s blue eyes alighted upon the gathering party on the path outside the Limping Nag. Raising his hand in greeting Frans Vou made his way over to them, his companions staying at a respectful distance, awaiting any further instructions.

“A fair day indeed monsieur nains. Monsieur Severo, monsieur… Vlad was it?” Striding to a halt the young Breton cast a reserved downward glance at Balgrim and Drimbold. Even dismounted the top of the dwarves heads just barely exceeded Frans Vou’s waist, and their stubby unproportioned legs did not grant the knight much confidence. He’d heard tales of course, which described the short bearded men as much more then what met the eye. But Frans Vou could not keep the note of contempt completely from his voice as he addressed, what seemed to him an obvious concern. “Pardon moi asking monsieur nains, but I see no beast of burden to carry zee. Ou do zou intend to keep pace? I suspect our journey will be long and tiring, and time will be of zee essence, no? Surely zou does not intend to run zee entire way.”

@Blueskin@Lucian@Dusty@Drinky@Andreyich@POOHEAD189@TJByrum@Laduguer

Once the party had gathered outside the tavern, some later than others it must be said, Severo gave everyone a quick once-over sweep of his professional eye and a curt but definite nod of his head. Later, but not by much, the dawn sunlight rose above the treetops and a small column of ponies - four to be precise - were presented to the troop, laden with food, drink and all that they would need for the journey but could not carry on their persons; it was unlikely that they would need so many or so much, but the Guild was a fine provider for those employed and would not have it said otherwise.

"Our journey will take us several days, possibly three or four depending on the weather, be on your guard as we go and sthtay in formathion. The Reikwald is not the Drakenwald or the foreths of the north, but they are home to many dangers nonetheleth."

---

---

The journey did indeed take a number of days, longer than the Estalian had expected in fact, due mostly to torrential downpours and rugged terrain. It was most fortunate that his group, for the most part, were seasoned soldiers - or warriors at least - a number of them of the rough mountain-folk and hardened to such prevations.

Each day was otherwise regular as clockwork; the group would pick themselves up, or exit their shelters/tents, have breakfast, then they would march at various paces throughout the day interspersed with conversation and good-humoured (mostly) ribalding. Eventually the march would cease, the group would settle once more, and that was the time for tall-tales and boasting, the sharing of a few drinks and memories...or old grudges, in the case of the Dwarfs.

Even as the weather began to grow colder - a chill wind blowing in from the far northern reaches of the world - the party made their way to within half-a-mile of their goal, Severo pulling his cloak tighter about him and creasing his face into an expression of some concern.

"There should have been guards here...hired muscle..." he muttered more to himself, tasting the air in the same way as a snake might and grimacing at the faint tang of charred wood, "this is not good."

It was then that he noticed the faint coils of smoke rising from the clearing ahead, the place where the local 'witch' made her home in a simple hovel, usually protected by troops hired by the local village headman.

Not so today.

"I need four volunteers to come with me, the rest of you must bide and protect the supplies, but be quick about it."

Like the others the Kislevite mounted his horse, not bothering to ask for the same supplies the others received. He then looked to the Dwarfs and giggled faintly at the prospect of one of them riding a horse, before he rode onward.

During the journey he wouldn't speak much, dignifying questions with a nod or a shake of the head if he could. He would sleep outside despite any cold of the nights and wear little clothing to defend him from the elements, only undressing if he felt hot.

He began to be more cheery as the cold blew in, and the he felt the winds of magic grow stronger over the days. He experimentally pointed a finger at a blade of grass to see it turn an ashy white as it froze instantly before snapping in half. Smiling at the result, the ice mage continued on his path.

Their destination was close by, before the Estalian remarked that not all was planned. The northerner dismounted at this and strolled over to his employer. He gave a casual wave of his hand through the air before grasping at something invisible. Once more, he turned to his boss and colleagues. "The winds of magic are strong today." Vlad stated in a matter of fact tone. "I volunteer. I'm not Balthazar Gelt but I think I have some insight into the workings of the supernatural." Quickly he walked back to his horse to take his shorter sword, put it upon his waist and then returned, awaiting the other volunteers.

Was the Brettonian Manling making a joke? Drimbold hoped Valya and Grungni that he was, or there would be a reckoning that he would see paid in blood. The elder Dawi gave him a baleful look, his pipe idly rummaging within his bearded lips as he glared. "I only do not strike you, fer yer folk are known for their honor and their titles, as we Dawi are. But do not mock us, or you'll find the bad end of me axe, understand?"

The warning was clear. How could anyone think that Dwarfs weren't fit for travel? They traveled further than Elgi or Manlings due to their rugged physique and sheer stubborn nature. Sure, they were not as fast, but they often made better time than others simply because they did not stop until they made it to their destination.

And Drimbold proved it as they moved. He did not stop or rest unless all others did so, though he could not take all of the credit. He didn't want any of these beardlings or the blasted Elgi to show him up. Not that he needn't have worried though. It was not too long of a walk, all things considered. A few days was a trifle. Back in his day, he traveled across the breadth of the Karaz Ankor and made it to Kislev in little under a month, nearly unheard of by horse much less the Dawi's stout legs.

Ah, those were the days. Still, once they halted very near to their destination, he still had a bit of the youngster's curiosity in him. Once their so called 'leader' asked for volunteers, Drimbold stood up proudly. He spat a bit of jerky into the dirt and picked up his axe and shield.

"Aye, I'm coming. Ye need a clear head and a fine axe if it gets messy."

Apparently they were prepared to run the entire way. Frans Vou held up his hands in an attempt to placate the nain’s perception of his insulting notion. Recalling Meinhardt’s warning from the previous night he decided to beat a hasty retreat on such matters. After all his question would soon answer itself in good time once they migrated to the road. “No, no monsieur nain, a mistake, I understand in full. I meant no disrespect and apologize for my ignorance of your attributes and customs. Zey were not highly taught to moi, nor amongst my kin.” This explained Frans Vou mounted his horse and fell into their traveling column.

Indeed the Dawi demonstrated themselves to be determined folk, trudging along without complaint for miles on end. Though not even close to as swift as the study-footed mules or the proud warhorse they did not slow the overall party down by much and by the time they reached their destination Frans Vou found himself deeply respectful of their tenacity and spirit. Even though the weather proved tumultuous at times they, and everyone else pressed on, even Frans Vou did not express his dissatisfaction of their living conditions aloud. After all he perhaps had the most comfortable arrangements with servants to cook and clean and erect a tent for him each night. The Breton remained jealously selfish with his page and loyal manservant, allowing no others to order them about without his express permission, which was not often forthcoming. Still, Frans Vou was distinctly out of his element in this particular life style, but kept his thoughts and words to himself, unwilling to have anybody else deem him weak or soft.

When at last they drew close to their first mission Frans Vou dismounted breathing in the soft air, the scent of wet pine and elder sharp in his nostrils. Yet, besides the coils of wood smoke rising slowly above the treetops Frans Vou recognized none of the warning signs Severo mentioned. Perhaps the lack of guardsmen was obvious, but Frans Vou could neither deny nor confirm their presence was expected, and could implement no further expertise on the matter. Instead the bold knight surrendered his lance and horse’s reins to Adrian and stepped up beside Drimbold and Wademar. “Oui, count moi in monsieur Servero. I am curious to see zis sorcière we’ve traveled here for.”