Rook gazed levelly at the massive walls before him, taking a characteristically long swig from his flask as he did so. The walls of Starkvale were, of course, an impressive sight to the gent rapidly approaching them, his shorter stature offset by long, brisk strides that seemed to propel him as though some unseen wind carried him forth. A plethora of smells assailed Rook’s nose as his increasingly agitated pace brought him nearer to the cobbled together village below Starkvale’s walls. The scents of sausages, stews, eggs, potatoes, and all manner of food in various states of doneness wafted straight to Rook from the cook fires scattered about the town, as if directly challenging the conspicuously empty state of his own stomach; The last of Rook’s rations had dwindled to naught the morning of the previous day, when he decided to prioritize reaching Starkvale over foraging for an extra meal. 

What Rook could only hope, was that he would be able to find work with one of the guilds that he knew existed on the other side of those tall, looming walls. While Carver’s Bastion wasn’t entirely cut off from the world, the travelers Rook encountered whilst heading north had reported the formation of a new guild when inquired upon, shedding new light on Rook’s likely outdated information on the city. This new guild, which was as of yet unnamed, as far as he could tell, seemed as good a place to start as any. So, when Rook at least reached the gates beyond the infernal maze of breakfast before them, that’s exactly what he explained to the sergeant that would be his ticket into the city.

The sergeant, to his credit, made no indication beyond his genetically predisposed hatred of mercenaries that Rook appeared to be yet another drop in the endless tide of sellswords seeking access to Starkvale. “Work,” The man began slowly, as if tasting the word, before finally spitting it out harshly. Clearly he tasted something he found unsavory. “You’re a sellsword. Sellsword don’t work. Sellswords are government sanctioned criminals that don’t belong inside this city. However-”

“You’re going to let me in anyways?” Rook peered up at the ill-tempered sergeant, an eyebrow raised in boredom. “I didn’t come here to swap philosophies until we’re both blue in the face. I want to get into your fucking city so I can start calling it my fucking city. So where the hell’s my escort?” The sergeant’s eyes narrowed down at Rook as his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Welcome to Starkvale, now get the hell out of my sight!” 

Once the pair of guardsmen and the “government sanctioned criminal” they were assigned to escort arrived at the guild hall, the former peeled away, likely to return to their posts at the gate. The latter, however, had other plans. Striding past the confused drabarian mucking about in the street, Rook approached the three figures standing just within the confines of the hall. He nodded respectfully at all three, a shorter woman beside what Rook considered to be a hulking man, and a bejeweled chap. Flitting his gaze easily between them as he spoke, Rook introduced himself. “Rook Lassa, new to Starkvale. I’m also new to mercenary work, but not to combat.”