The Office of the Mercenary General
[Comfortable]
Narrow shuttered windows mark the east wall, standing opposite a wide
fireplace flanked by heavy bookcases. The ceiling is lined with dark,
rosette-ornamented moulding. In pleasing contrast, a fading cream-colored
fabric panels the walls, bearing a feathery floral design. It matches the
threadbare couch facing a monstrous desk that crowds one corner of the
room. A squatty bronze spittoon sits beside a well-used liquor cart and a
leaning, overloaded file cabinet.
[ Exits: -north- south ]
A simple, leather water-skin sealed with a tightly fit cork is here. (southern edge)
A rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face arrives from the south with a languid, cat-like nonchalance.
A rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face slows to a halt.
> look rangy
This man's most notable feature is the single scar that races in a
straight, diagonal line from his left eye to his right cheek, crossing the
bridge of his nose; it stands out thin and milky white against his already
fair complexion, like a crack in winter ice. The puckered flesh mars what
would otherwise be a pretty, boyish face: cool, slate-grey eyes above a
sculpted nose, coupled with prominent cheek bones and thick, pale-pink
lips. His shiny black hair provides stark contrast to his pale skin, worn
long and tousled, such that his bangs spill down in front of his eyes like
runnels of wet ink. Overall, there is a subdued, somber cast to his
countenance, perhaps due to his scar, his washed-out colors, or the vaguely
sunken quality of his eyes.
There is nothing intimidating about his tall, reedy frame, at least on
first glance. However, a careful observer might note the stringy sinew
that wraps his long arms and legs, or the rangy, animal nature of his
movements.
He is taller than you by two and a half hands.
A rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face is using:
<used as a light> a nickle box lantern with side panels of reflective mica(off)
<worn on head> a flamboyant winged helm of brushed steel, dented with use
<worn around neck> a boiled leather collar studded with smoky steel
<worn over shoulder> an oiled canvas haversack stitched with a Crow emblem
<worn on arms> boiled leather vambraces reinforced with steel splints
<worn on hands> rugged buckskin duelling gloves with cut-away fingertips
<wielded, right> a sword (strapped to his back)
<wielded, left> a compact axe made of heavy steel, balanced for throwing (hanging from the hip)
<worn on torso> a polished breastplate with pauldrons of feathered steel
<worn about body> a heavy, oiled sealskin cloak, embroidered with a Bloodcrow
<worn about waist> an oiled rawhide belt with a steel buckle
<worn on legs> a fitted pair of buckskin breeches, dyed a charcoal grey
<worn on feet> a pair of sturdy cavalry boots affixed with steel buckles
Tipping back a simple leather flask embroidered with a design of Vandago, you eyes the ink-penned contracts in her hand. There's a sharply knit line furrowing through her brow, and she wipes at her mouth with a half-gloved hand after taking that hearty swallow. When a rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face's shadow darkens the door, she looks curtly upward from her couch.
"General," the impact of a rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face's boots is muffled somewhat by the dingy-but-plush carpeting in the room. He pauses at the threshold, his sooty eyes seeking out and meeting yours gaze-for-gaze. The only expression he offers is blankness, his face schooled to a mask of almost condescending politeness. "I suppose your Officers have told of your new Commander?"
A breath of seconds pass before a rangy, grey-eyed young man with a scarred face raises a hand to his chest in the subtlest of salutes, the delay itself speaking volumes.
Sigrid's dark eyes narrow up. She wipes a brisk hand over the front of her mouth, running her tongue over her teeth as the papers are settled to the burnet color of a hose-clad knee. "Reckon I know what goes on under the roof of my own house," levels back, the words delivered in a coarse and gritty voice, somewhat low in tone for a woman. Her upper lip peels back, making a show of pointed teeth. "Step in, why don't you?" invites with a loose gesture.
Sigrid touches a few fingers off her own brow, passing a look over the front of Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander's person.
The invitation is accepted with a slippery grin as Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander slides into the office with an unhurried leisure of motion. Without hesitating, he plops himself down on the couch before the desk, the rest of the room feeling his disinterest as his eyes never really leave yours. "I suppose you do," he says softly, his crisp tenor light and erudite. "And what a house it is, eh?" Humor adds grit to his voice.
Where Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander's speech is smooth, yours is as distinctively crass and common. "We make do, eh?" Retaining her slouch, she gives the ribbon-festooned boots balanced on the rickety cabinet a small jostled adjustment and scours her gaze over the man with a guarded interest. A delayed, "Have a drink?" extends the proportions of her hospitality, her thumb jerking toward the liquor cart.
"Oh, I couldn't, but thank you all the same -- I've already sampled your collection. And an impressive one at that, let me tell you," Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander reclines further on the couch, looking more-or-less comfortable, except for the almost imperceptible tightness in the skin around his eyes. "I suppose this is the part where we talk business. I've taken the liberty of evaluating your organization." Silence follows, and he seems to be testing the flavor of those words, his grin faint-but-present.
Working her mouth, you lets the silence a hang a minute before the boots remove themselves from the furniture, making a clump to the thin carpet that partially breaks it. Leaning her shoulders, she spews a bit of something into the spittoon not too far distant from her favored seat. An ill-concealed scowl is wiped away with another sweep of her hand. "Take full advantage of your liberties, aye? And, eh, what's your assessment?"
"You do admirable work on the battlefield," Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander comments casually, apparently switching subjects; your movement brings him to stir as well, and he leans forward slightly in his seat. "The Daravi Horde, turned back at the pass... and you, at the helm." He sustains his grin for a few moments more, before letting it fall from his face. "All very impressive." The airy effect of his voice is broken as he, too, lets spit fly into the bronze dish. His voice is a bit rougher when he speaks again. "But this operation is total shit. The state of the all-mighty Mercenaries Guild is much like this House: old, dirty, peeling at the edges... overused, if you will. Even your victories on the field are not enough to revive your badly-trodden reputation. And though I fully expect this fool war has enough fire in it to burn on unchecked for years yet, the Guild cannot suckle on the tit of this one contract forever."
Sigrid covers her mouth again, partially shielding a harsh cough that hacks up from her lungs. "Fucking bastard," mutters in Tubori with a foul twitching of her left eye. Remark in the Queen's tongue waits until she's found a grip on her flask again and another thick swallow has run its way down her throat. "Well, I reckon we're agreed then," she bloats in Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander's direction, teeth setting shut as an arm is thrown to encompass the room in its imprecise gesture. "Fine mess that damned Gandridge left us in, isn't it."
"I think the time for bemoaning our predecessors has come and passed," Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander snorts, letting his hand flop loosely at the wrist in a gesture of dismissal. "I don't know about you, General Latago, but I intend to correct the course. There's a reason my Bloodcrows have, 'til now, snubbed the Guild's attempts to bring us in line. I wouldn't let my men be drawn in by your sloppy ways then, and I won't let them be subject to them now."
Sigrid's nostrils flare, the unmistakable blear of alcoholic effect glistening over her acrid gaze. "You're a commander, Crowe," fizzes a low hiss. "I'm still the Arien-damned head of this fucking lot." From the couch she rises, eyes pointed down at Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander's seated figure. "I'm thinkin' we'll spare our discussions 'til you're in a more amicable mood."
"You are the Arien-damned head of this fucking lot," Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander agrees with an overly pleased grin, looking for all the world like a cat that's caught its mouse. "However, I'm a generous man. I'm willing to overlook that fact, and not hold you personally responsible for this mess." He rises to his feet with an energetic grace, boots scuffing along the carpet. "I am the Commander, your subordinate officer, General Latago... at least for now. I am just making sure we are clear on my terms of service: I am not some upstart come sliding in to nibble at the largess of the war. Nor am I some blood-stained ruffian with little sense aside from the proper placement of my sword. I am Liam Crowe, and I -will- see things done." A ripple of fire crosses his grey eyes, the storm-glow of passion lighting their murky depths. "Pleasant day, General."
Though the hard noise of her teeth grating can't be heard more than a few feet from where you stands, the glowering stare of her surly brown eyes can certainly be felt a mile distant. A few of her fingers make a reflexive claw at the air aside her waist before she reigns them into coerced settlement at her hip's leather belt. "You rest easy tonight," spills a short and scornful adieu, knuckles going white against the leather of her short-gloves.
Dipping his head, Liam Crowe, Mercenary Commander winks at you before turning in an easy about-face, his loose stride carrying him out the door... that is, before he stops, glancing back over his shoulder. "...I just remembered, General: I am negotiating a contract with the Lord Justiciar. Our guildsmen will likely begin conducting Guard patrols before the month is out. Just thought you should know." And then he's gone, the swish of his cloak against the polished metal of his armor lingering in the air behind him.
"…Measled upstart." you licks at dry lips, boring a glare into the empty doorframe for a good long minute before she eventually succumbs to the siren call of another taste of liquor and plods her way over to kick at the desk.
In the General's Office
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