[center][b]Derrix “Nightbane” Herchiv[/b][/center]
 
	Derrix kept it to himself, but he found the entire idea of this mismatched group a disaster at best. In truth he wouldn’t ever even think about joining them on their quest, not even for double the reward. Derrix didn’t share much interest in the quest either, as much as he realized how dire the situation was, and how important it was to collect and save regal figures of politics, he just didn’t really feel for this mission, or at least not how it was being planned out. Missions of retrieval weren’t alien to the poet however, and his one glowing thought among the ashes of doubt forced his mind and body to accept the fact that he was in fact, going on this quest.

	He trailed behind the group as they made their way to the stalls. Upon exiting the tavern he shielded his sensitive writers eyes against the blaring midday sun until the adjusted to the new light. With surprisingly soft footfalls, the lean muscled man of great height marched behind the group, deviating slightly towards his own rented stall while the others clambered for their goods and possessions. 

	In front of his was his horse, a breed alien to these lands, and a breed that towered over the rest. It was white with soft speckles on its rump, and it stood tall and powerful, but was built like the coveted war destrier. Derrix smiled at his old friend and put a hand on it’s nose, “Charroux, where is your groom?”

	A puff of hay erupted behind the large horse that blocked the view. A honey haired woman quickly stumbled from the explosion of golden straw and stood upright, with pokes of hay jutting from her tight trouser pockets and loose white shirt. She looked young, perhaps just reaching her twenties, and her light blue eyes sparkled with the eagerness of youth. Her face was soft and pretty, and her figure was slim and almost boyish yet still boasted the gentle curves of a woman. 

	“Sorry, Missure, I was..” she began.

	“Napping in the hay once again,” Derrix finished her sentence with his accusation, crossing his arms, “if this is too much work for you, Jasmin-”

	“No!” Jasmin interjected, “sorry for stopping you Missure Herchiv, but I need this job.”

	Derrix unfolded his arms and nodded his head with a soft smile, “you’re safe, don’t worry. Charroux would be angry with me should I remove his favorite woman from employment. However I am to be going on a quest.”

	“A quest? But missure!” Jasmin seemed shocked, not knowing how that would affect her career. The poet raised a hand, and spoke as if reciting his word, “it will be dangerous, but it is my cultures custom to permit you to follow if you wish at your age, or to pay you for your leave for all the services you have gracefully applied.”

	“I want to come,” Jasmin energetically said with little thought, or hesitation. Derrix knew her to be slightly rash, always diving head first into situations, or hay; although he did have to give her credit, she always did get the job done.

	“Very well, “Derrix said in his commander's voice, “pack my chest and things on the Sumpter, I’ll take Charroux.”

	After mere moments and a flurry of excited questions from Jasmin, the two were packed and ready. Derrix sat atop his large foreign steed in the clothes of a poet, while Jasmin mounted a not as large pull horse breed for carrying. A small covered carriage was pulled by the Sumpter horse, large enough for one or maybe two people and some belongings and supplies. Rucksacks and bed rolls were tied to the brown sumpter’s rump and sides. 

With a loud snort and the creak of wheels the pair quickly trotted and tugged their way back to the group.