[h2][color=Maroon]Krasimir[/color][/h2]
* [@TokyoPewPew] [@Dyelli Beybi]

The group were presently joined by another though not perhaps the man they'd been expecting, nonetheless Krasimir - The Cripple - as they called him. His face marked by dark lines and old scars, and he listened silently and surveyed the room from beneath a furrowed brow as the others spoke as he searched for a chair.

Krasmir was a known commodity. Word was he'd been an Owned Man at one point, respected enough among those who remembered the name but of no particular rank. The story was he'd served in the line, until one day they'd been felling timber to fill a rut in a road when the tree bounced off another, and rolled over - a branch crushing his leg. Unable to march, his officer had sold him to the mines. From there he'd found his way to becoming Skotinodasos' right hand man.

As an Owned Man, born and raised, Krasimir was also a bit easier to understand than some of the other filthy rabble from Skotinodasos' party, with their barely understandable commoner dialects and strange oaths.

The grizzled man looked tired. Both Krasimir's worn breastplate and the red cloth bands of cloth he wore tied around the muddled brown material that clothed the man were all caked in dirt. He sat, groaning as he fell heavily into the seat. "We second that. Skotinodasos and I, the others with us, we talked it out. Getting bogged down in a siege. Looking for another big fight. We just don't see the advantage in it; it doesn't play to our strengths." Krasimir's voice was low and gravelly as he nodded towards Szaalm. He leaned back in the chair, and removed his sword with its dented and beaten looking and set it across his lap. He shifted around in the seat, looking for a comfortable position for his leg before finally settling in.