BaklavaOliver did his best to open the tavern door as sheepishly as possible, hoping to avoid attracting too much attention as he arrived last to the meeting. Unfortunately, the world had other plans for our hero; just as the young knight errant had begun to slowly and carefully turn the handle, a wayward gust of wind arose from seemingly nowhere and threw the door open with such force that it slammed against the adjacent wall with a startling BANG. This left Oliver in an unenviable position, as it appeared to all who were present in the tavern that this unassuming young man (trying desperately to avoid eye contact) had made the bold decision to kick the door in and then proceed stand awkwardly in the doorway, royal blue cape flapping in the breeze behind him.
That's okay! This is okay! You meant to do that. Own this. It's the only way forward now.
The barkeep immediately returned a very unenthused look; the ex-thief's unintentional theatrics would not be tolerated here, apparently, especially not when they ran the risk of damaging both the door and the wall. Oliver quickly moved to shut the door, muttering a meek apology, but in his haste he neglected to notice that the frayed edges of his trademark cape had been caught between the door and the doorframe. When he turned his attention back to the room and started to make his way over to the group's table, he barely made it a few steps before he realized his mistake and the fabric of the cape pulled taut and then ripped, loudly, as Oliver continued to move towards the group. He cringed openly, but knew in his heart of hearts that the cost of making his already tattered cape a little more tattered was minuscule compared to the shame he would have endured from having to rectify the problem.
Well, it's not so bad. You're only a minute late to the meeting and so far, I'd say you've only mostly ruined your chances of appearing respectable to these people. So you're doing pretty alright.
At this point Oliver figured ordering any sort of drink from the bartender wasn't even worth it, both on account of the spectacle he'd caused and his tardiness. A bit of a shame, too; on the way over he'd engaged in a protracted internal debate over what kind of manly drink to order loudly in front of his new colleagues to impress them. Ultimately he'd settled on "your strongest ale, in a dirty glass" but alas, he'd have to save that bit of false prestige for another day. Eyeing the old antique clock above the bar, he surmised that he was actually a whopping two minutes late to the meeting, and as such thought it wise to delay no further with his delightfully endearing foibles and approach the table.
"Pardon my lateness, sirs, madam, and..." he began, although when his gaze settled on the North-man, he found himself at a loss for words. "...erm, other sir," he continued, avoiding Bakk's gaze. The group of hired hands gathered at this particular table seemed to be fairly disenchanted with the idea of "fucking around", and in light of his lateness, he decided to shorten his introductory monologue to the abridged version for everyone's sake.
"Sir Oliver Fortesque IV, fourth son of Sir Daniel Fortesque II, first sword of Gallowmere, at your service," he recited, with a cordial bow. "You may refer to me as Sir Oliver for our purposes. I am pleased to be working with you all. By all means, proceed," he finished, with a dismissive wave of his hand as he took his seat to the left of Haljon. As Eolas continued, Oliver's left hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and he began to fiddle with the chain and amulet attached to the pommel, as he always did when he was nervous. He was glad to finally have the attention off of himself, but the tone of this meeting concerned him, especially when Eolas led them out of the tavern for the sake of privacy. Oliver openly frowned when the Vrentian scholar even suggested it, if only because the true nature of this job was now gradually becoming apparent to him.
There you go getting your hopes up again, Oliver. What grand and benevolent quest is too shady to discuss in the privacy of a tavern? They'll probably just have you stealing jewels or beating up hapless merchants, like always.
Throwing another glance at his new colleagues, it wouldn't surprise him if this was just another run of the mill shady mercenary contract. He'd seen their type before, and given what Oliver was usually paid to do, it wasn't like he was really in a position to look down on them. However, Sir Oliver Fortesque IV stuck out like a sore thumb in this bunch and he could feel it. Perhaps it was just their seriousness, but Oliver couldn't help but feel an aura of thick and pronounced disapproval emanating from each of them. Was it already that obvious that he didn't belong?
By the time Oliver had stepped into the boat he was fully mired in his own sea of self doubt, so much so that he seemed barely even present when he received the coin purse from Eolas. He perked right up upon checking inside the small pouch to discover three ℘ragons inside. Few things could coax out a more warm and genuine smile from Oliver than money he didn't even have to work for. As the Ventus went on to offer his warning, Oliver was barely even listening. He seemed far more content to closely inspect the dragon coins, legitimately wondering if they were counterfeit. For some reason all the moral compunctions he'd been mulling over lost their clout when obscene amounts of money were on the table. Very strange, I know.
"We're going to steal the Eye of Yvazgrul."
Oliver let out a bit of a chuckle on instinct, but upon recognizing that Eolas was gravely serious, he openly frowned, tightening the drawstring on the coin purse as he pocketed it nonchalantly. Suddenly the option of swimming back to shore with his coins and forgetting all about this handful of goons seemed very appealing.
"Don't be ridiculous. Even if we set aside the fact that stealing is morally reprehensible," he scoffed, failing to notice the potent irony of that statement. "Do you see any thieves among us? Subtlety is most certainly not our strong point. I doubt the lot of us could steal a loaf of bread if we tried, let alone the Eye of Yvazgrul." Oliver shook his head, turning to look back in the direction of the docks they'd set off from. "I must say I'm a bit insulted. Petty thievery is far beneath my station. Send for a knight of Gallowmere if you need to slay a wyvern or rescue maidens fair. I'm sure there are plenty of licentious cutpurses willing to throw their lives away on this fool's errand, but as it stands, it'll take more than shiny coins to sway me."
Proud that he'd stood his ground and done the reasonable thing, Oliver leaned back in his bench seat on the boat and began fiddling with the sword's amulet again. He wasn't about to actually jump out and swim back to shore, though. Trying to get this tabard dry was such a bitch.
That's okay! This is okay! You meant to do that. Own this. It's the only way forward now.
The barkeep immediately returned a very unenthused look; the ex-thief's unintentional theatrics would not be tolerated here, apparently, especially not when they ran the risk of damaging both the door and the wall. Oliver quickly moved to shut the door, muttering a meek apology, but in his haste he neglected to notice that the frayed edges of his trademark cape had been caught between the door and the doorframe. When he turned his attention back to the room and started to make his way over to the group's table, he barely made it a few steps before he realized his mistake and the fabric of the cape pulled taut and then ripped, loudly, as Oliver continued to move towards the group. He cringed openly, but knew in his heart of hearts that the cost of making his already tattered cape a little more tattered was minuscule compared to the shame he would have endured from having to rectify the problem.
Well, it's not so bad. You're only a minute late to the meeting and so far, I'd say you've only mostly ruined your chances of appearing respectable to these people. So you're doing pretty alright.
At this point Oliver figured ordering any sort of drink from the bartender wasn't even worth it, both on account of the spectacle he'd caused and his tardiness. A bit of a shame, too; on the way over he'd engaged in a protracted internal debate over what kind of manly drink to order loudly in front of his new colleagues to impress them. Ultimately he'd settled on "your strongest ale, in a dirty glass" but alas, he'd have to save that bit of false prestige for another day. Eyeing the old antique clock above the bar, he surmised that he was actually a whopping two minutes late to the meeting, and as such thought it wise to delay no further with his delightfully endearing foibles and approach the table.
"Pardon my lateness, sirs, madam, and..." he began, although when his gaze settled on the North-man, he found himself at a loss for words. "...erm, other sir," he continued, avoiding Bakk's gaze. The group of hired hands gathered at this particular table seemed to be fairly disenchanted with the idea of "fucking around", and in light of his lateness, he decided to shorten his introductory monologue to the abridged version for everyone's sake.
"Sir Oliver Fortesque IV, fourth son of Sir Daniel Fortesque II, first sword of Gallowmere, at your service," he recited, with a cordial bow. "You may refer to me as Sir Oliver for our purposes. I am pleased to be working with you all. By all means, proceed," he finished, with a dismissive wave of his hand as he took his seat to the left of Haljon. As Eolas continued, Oliver's left hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and he began to fiddle with the chain and amulet attached to the pommel, as he always did when he was nervous. He was glad to finally have the attention off of himself, but the tone of this meeting concerned him, especially when Eolas led them out of the tavern for the sake of privacy. Oliver openly frowned when the Vrentian scholar even suggested it, if only because the true nature of this job was now gradually becoming apparent to him.
There you go getting your hopes up again, Oliver. What grand and benevolent quest is too shady to discuss in the privacy of a tavern? They'll probably just have you stealing jewels or beating up hapless merchants, like always.
Throwing another glance at his new colleagues, it wouldn't surprise him if this was just another run of the mill shady mercenary contract. He'd seen their type before, and given what Oliver was usually paid to do, it wasn't like he was really in a position to look down on them. However, Sir Oliver Fortesque IV stuck out like a sore thumb in this bunch and he could feel it. Perhaps it was just their seriousness, but Oliver couldn't help but feel an aura of thick and pronounced disapproval emanating from each of them. Was it already that obvious that he didn't belong?
By the time Oliver had stepped into the boat he was fully mired in his own sea of self doubt, so much so that he seemed barely even present when he received the coin purse from Eolas. He perked right up upon checking inside the small pouch to discover three ℘ragons inside. Few things could coax out a more warm and genuine smile from Oliver than money he didn't even have to work for. As the Ventus went on to offer his warning, Oliver was barely even listening. He seemed far more content to closely inspect the dragon coins, legitimately wondering if they were counterfeit. For some reason all the moral compunctions he'd been mulling over lost their clout when obscene amounts of money were on the table. Very strange, I know.
Oliver received the coin purse!
A small cloth pouch with a black drawstring, one of six identical coin purses distributed to each member of the group by Eolas. Contains three dragons, none of which appear to be counterfeit according to Oliver's analysis. It kind of smells like the inside of Eolas' bag.
A small cloth pouch with a black drawstring, one of six identical coin purses distributed to each member of the group by Eolas. Contains three dragons, none of which appear to be counterfeit according to Oliver's analysis. It kind of smells like the inside of Eolas' bag.
"We're going to steal the Eye of Yvazgrul."
Oliver let out a bit of a chuckle on instinct, but upon recognizing that Eolas was gravely serious, he openly frowned, tightening the drawstring on the coin purse as he pocketed it nonchalantly. Suddenly the option of swimming back to shore with his coins and forgetting all about this handful of goons seemed very appealing.
"Don't be ridiculous. Even if we set aside the fact that stealing is morally reprehensible," he scoffed, failing to notice the potent irony of that statement. "Do you see any thieves among us? Subtlety is most certainly not our strong point. I doubt the lot of us could steal a loaf of bread if we tried, let alone the Eye of Yvazgrul." Oliver shook his head, turning to look back in the direction of the docks they'd set off from. "I must say I'm a bit insulted. Petty thievery is far beneath my station. Send for a knight of Gallowmere if you need to slay a wyvern or rescue maidens fair. I'm sure there are plenty of licentious cutpurses willing to throw their lives away on this fool's errand, but as it stands, it'll take more than shiny coins to sway me."
Proud that he'd stood his ground and done the reasonable thing, Oliver leaned back in his bench seat on the boat and began fiddling with the sword's amulet again. He wasn't about to actually jump out and swim back to shore, though. Trying to get this tabard dry was such a bitch.
