Lucian

What Are You Listening To?

Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world!

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.

Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world!

Galadred's eye wandered to Volker's table in boredom. When there was any trouble, it usually came from there. Tests of strength always seemed to bring out the worst in men. Though The Lion's face was blank, expressionless, he inwardly pleaded for Meinhardt to draw a rowdy challenger. He found himself thinking anything to break the monotony. However, as was often the case for him, he found himself regretting the thought almost instantaneously as the tavern door opened, and in trotted a dwarf. The smell hit his keen, elven nostrils instantly. This dwarf was old, and had either been on the road a long while, or preferred not to wash. The new arrival looked about the Nag, then his deep-set eyes, sunken into his leathery face, settled on Galadred. There was a brief moment of tension, the longbearded dwarf's jaw tensed, and though Galadred managed to hold on to his expressionless stoicism, he felt a tingle of excitement at the base of his spine, and his hands clenched tightly around the haft of his axe beneath the lion-pelt cloak. Give me a reason. The elf thought.

The moment passed, and the dwarf turned and walked toward the bar, but the elf remained charged, electrified, eager. None of the tension had left him. Several minutes of silent vigil eventually eased him down to a simmer, and in came another newcomer. While it wasn't so strange to have multiple arrivals in one day, this man was not the usual sort. Galadred had had met many a member of the Bretonian royalty whilst escorting diplomats from Ulthuan for the occasional meeting. Though this was rare, Galadred had learned to spot their particular styles. This man was, unmistakably Bretonian. He looked around the room, seemingly unsure of who to approach, yet despite his lack of direction, his bearing exuded confidence and self-assuredness. He looked over Galadred briefly, and the elf gave him the slightest of nods, then the noble man strolled confidently to Volker's table. Galadred raised an eyebrow. Surely this Bretonian hadn't come this far east simply to challenge a man to an arm wrestle? He watched with barely disguised interest, straining his elven ears to hear the conversation as the man sat down across from Meinhardt.

The Lion's focus was so absolute that he didn't notice the man with the heavy Kislevite accent until he offered a round of vodka for all. This distracted the elf slightly, but he wasn't much of a drinker. After one has tasted the wines of the Asur, not much else can compare. Besides, he was on duty. He shrugged off the distraction, focusing in on Volker and the Bretonian again, currently the only table which had the potential to produce an interesting turn of events, and a reason for him to flex his muscles. He was dimly aware of another patron entering, but paid little heed. That is, until the brazen little dwarf walked straight up to him. Galadred didn't register what he said at first, but turned to look at the dwarf just in time to see the stubby fingers flick his ithilmar armour near the waist. The silvery reverberation, like the tinkle of an expertly crafted bell, gave the elf a sudden vision of home, but it was broken before it could fully materialize by the dwarf's gruff voice.

"I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns." The dwarf bellowed.

Galadred was momentarily taken aback. The forwardness of the lesser races often had this effect on him, even to this day. However, nearly twenty years in the old world had helped him to grow accustomed to the banter and boasting, to a degree. Another dwarf, who Galadred knew as Vargni (another current resident of the Nag) had approached. Though Galadred and Vargni had interacted a bare minimum, the elf didn't mind the slayer. Smelly and unhygienic though he was, he rendered an important service in the surrounding area, and Galadred had to respect anyone of such short stature who would actively seek out monsters in the wilds.

"Careful now," Vargni grumbled, still apparently slightly inebriated, "Or he'll wear your ruddy face alongside that house-cat on his shoulder."

"Hmmm..." Galadred hummed as he raised an eyebrow, then put one hand to his chin in mock thought, conveniently allowing his cloak to slip open and reveal Argent Roar, his mighty enchanted axe. "I think not. A face like that would only dampen the luster of my ensemble, no?"

Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world!

Just inside and to the right of the the entryway door to The Limping Nag a tall, imposing figure leaned against the wall. Even in the warm dimness of the Tavern's interior, the tall figure's armour glinted with a bright silvery sheen in places where it was not covered by the massive ivory lion pelt cloak which hung from the figure's broad shoulders. On the figure's left shoulder, the one nearest the entryway door, the huge lion-head pauldron roaring in silent defiance at anyone who entered the tavern. This was intentional, as the tall figure was currently tasked with keeping the peace in the tavern, and so wanted all who entered to get a good glimpse of the symbol of his conquest. This would hopefully deter any would-be troublemakers who wandered in from the Reikland countryside. If it did not, the figure would part his cloak to reveal his massive greataxe. That almost always did the trick.

The figure's name was Galadred, though nearly everyone around these parts called him The Lion, or simply Lion if conversation was lighthearted. Due to his heavy (for his people) build, and his short hair, it was not immediately obvious that Galadred was an elf. The truth of his heritage was further disguised by the scar which marred his would-be handsome face, though it did not make him truly ugly by any means. His ears were sharp and pointed, however, and anyone who had been lucky enough to visit the city of Lothern on Ulthuan would likely recognize his armour as being made of Ithilmar, a metal which only came from that enchanting island nation. These things gave him away, but in the company of the Guild it mattered little what race one was. What truly mattered was one's goals, and one's capability to fulfill them.

Currently, however, Galadred found himself to be somewhat rudderless, and without much in the way of purpose. He had taken up the responsibility of keeping safe the Limping Nag, a service that allowed him room and board thanks to an arrangement with the innkeep Ludolf, who had apparently (impressively) recognized Galadred as a former White Lion of Chrace, and realized that he would make an excellent guard and muscleman should the need arise. Without anything on his plate in the way of mercenary work, Galadred had accepted gladly. That had been three months ago. Three months of intimidating peasants out of bar-brawls and guarding a door. Galadred sighed deeply at the thought, allowing himself a moment to think back to the sprawling palaces and grand vistas he had once defended. That trail of thought lead inevitably to wounds that he would rather not re-open, however, and so he forced the thought from his mind, scanning the room for any persons of potential interest. There were certainly a few interesting characters about nowadays.

He found himself thinking that what he really needed was an adventure. To travel, perhaps. He needed to see if there was anything in this world truly rivaling the beauty of Ulthuan. He doubted he would find any such majesty, but his heart ached for it nonetheless. He hoped seemingly beyond hope that some stranger from a far off land would enter the tavern in search of capable warriors for some errand. He had hoped for some such event for the better part of the last three months, to no avail.

Word association Game!

Damage

Ban the Person above you

<Snipped quote by Lucian>

Banned for thinking. Don't need you for that, homie.

@Ruby

Banned for thinking that post required any thought.

EDIT: Homie

Ban the Person above you

Banned for thinking there are rules to this.

Word association Game!

Sith

Word association Game!

Rebellion

Word association Game!

Lucian