Member
The mead was one of quality, one such that the giant ill had the luxury to partake upon regularly. His mind had wavered from what was once a unpleasant exchange to the sonorous rustle of voices that engulfed the tavern's lodgings. Trailing on thoughts of the earnings he would get, and what to do with them. He missed the forge, he privy'd a good anvil and chisel. But such needed to wait, the tremble of his fingers had vanished almost entirely. He could still sense the ache of the tendons with each long interval he didn't exercise them by clutching momentarily into a fist. His drink was finished, and he didn't feel too inclined to order a second as they weren't particularly inexpensive. Still, he sat there at his lonesome ruminating on the journey and what had transpired. His was at his forge, and these three soldiers had procured his presence for the sake of maintenance, he agreed as would any smithy would. Just a couple of swords, some needed refinement others needed a simple whetstone. But Hafrbjǫrn body and blood was made for the forge, so this was to like playing is to a child. In the midst of it all, the man known as Garrett had spoken to him of a proposal, something of great value. Hafrbjǫrn was skeptical at first, but what was paid upfront was enough to warrant his intrigue. Of course, the slyness which protruded from the Serim also reached him, coil at his throat like serpent clutching its pray. But Hafrbjǫrn decided to honor the binding, and travel once more to the unknown. Many have died at his behest, many had died at his carelessness. Much sacrifice was needed, and much energy too. That these Irregulars had any sense of weariness not protrude from their essence was indeed something that peak the giant's curiosity.
His fingers tightened around the bridge of his nose, pressing as if to ward whatever headache would arise at the mere thought of this summary. Garrett was not one that seemed to be full of tricks, he seems like a fool who's a bit too good at charisma, however. His silver tongue had lead them astray for instances which could've been avoided. But... He witnesses the small wealth he has, if it could even be called that. A lot was sent to his family, to a sister and to the parents. Their poverty was too, the giants concern. The first half should be enough to keep them stable for a good amount, with the rest he could give his ex-wife enough to rebuild the home. A sigh escaped him, maybe he should actually ask for another. A voice broke off his trance, it was none other than the guild head. His abrasive nature had already rubbed the giant the wrong way. His eyes trained on his and without much to retort, the giant heard the proposal that headed his way. The guild master seemed to wait for an answer, but one never came. The giant was torn between lifting the table and smacking him upside the head with it, or pushing him down the stairs. But regardless, he took restraint. It took real gumption to do what this man was doing right now, and more over to sully his honor in such a way. He did not see pass what was the warrior, he saw only the pawn which he could utilize on his game of chess. He had no front-liners? If persuasion was a needed factor for leadership, this man ha sunk its ship long before he tried to set sail upon it. Hafrbjǫrn's point seemed to have cemented itself within the guild master, and taking his silence as a means to an answer he stood an left the giant once again at his lonesome.
Or so he thought... a noise caught his attention, head turning it was one of the Irregulars. The victor of the spoils, and one that the witch doctor seemed particularly fond of. She was small, but to Hafrbjǫrn many were small. Her jet-black hair swayed across her features, delicately adorning a visage of tranquility. Perhaps she has found a moments rest, finally. Yet throughout the journey, she wore another facet which the giant found particularly strange. During battle, he couldn't discern her methods either, it as if she had strength of quickness, but not such of resilience. She did not seems meek in the slightest, yet... Somehow... He turned once again, drinking what's left of his mead and pondering some more.
What was her name again? His emerald eyes trained themselves on the ice which still were present on his jug. Before he opened his mouth and spoke to the girl "Octavia, correct?" He didn't turn, yet continue to speak. "You wear calmness in your mien, finally. I thought I sensed a tinge of worry during our travels. Is there something that is amiss, perhaps?"
