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Roark

The guild master seems to take an immediate disliking to you. Standing up, above the crowd, on his little patio, he is quite literally looking down his nose at the rough-and-tumble nord below him. Too him, and to anyone else really, that Roark is a nord, through and through.

"[i]That's Thomas Ivorybane to you, Nord.[/i]" The Ivorybane is said with a soft "o", sounding more like Ivrybane. He wrinkles his long nose. He'd been a guildmaster long enough to learn to deal with the "undesirables" that often came his way, calling him things like "old man". What ever happened to a good old-fashioned sir?

"[i]And, yes, I suppose I do.[/i]" Ivorybane says. "[i]My merchants need protection from bandits on the road to Curaw. The bandits are calling themselves the Snow Wolfs.[/i]" Wolfs was said just like that. Wolf, with an S. "[i]No, the White Wolfs. Not Snow Wolfs. And, not Wolves either. They call themselves the Wolfs. Grammar seems to have escaped their low blood. The White Wolfs. That's what they are called..."

 Anyway, I'm sending out a pack of horses filled with fine Rhodok silk to Curaw, and could use an extra hand.[/i]" He looks you over, one more time, thinking before his next statement. "[i]245 copper coins, solid denars, to you if you ride along side my caravan. Should be quick, easy, no trouble. But if those Wolfs come after you, we expect you to do your part. You'll have your money once you arrive back here with my caravan.[/i]"

"[i]I'll have your name, too.[/i]"


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