Jobe Robson, son of Rob, walked the cobbled road with an air of one completely oblivious to his surroundings. Fortunately, such a terrible habit on the roads had yet to cost him, as bandits were rarely seen on the King’s road and those that were about had obviously deemed him unworthy of their time. He looked every inch the peasant he was, with the fair hair and tanned skin of a western farmer, with a noticeably bulky build, and a bag over one shoulder and a lumber-axe resting on the other. Inside his mind bubbled with excitement at his chance to go on an adventure and escape his boring existence, but it was mingled with an ever-growing thorn of fear. Like any thorn it caused discomfort when he moved too fast, so he forced himself to slow down, until he was hardly moving at all.

His incredibly slow steps were drawing some ire from a carriage driver behind him, but he ignored the man’s yells as he plodded up a slight incline. As he drew close to the top an immense sight greeted his weary and travel-stained body, causing his mouth to drop open in amazement.

Highmont, and within the great castle of Dragonstead, the scale of which he could never have even imagined coming from his small farming town west of the Truesh peaks. The carriage driver had skirted around him now, taking the time to throw something that missed him by some distance, and trundled down the hill towards the city. Jobe ignored him again, because honestly he couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

The Guard stood before the castle gates looked up at Jobe in irritation, obviously weighing up his own stature against that of the farm-boy. The Guard had found himself lacking, and was clearly compensating for it, though Jobe just assumed being rude was the norm around those parts.

“Look, shove off peasant be’fore I cut you.” The Guard warned finally, resorting to petty threats to dissuade Jobe, who had requested entrance under the Sounding. Eventually a particularly tired and bored looking individual interjected with a wave of his hand, gesturing Jobe through. He looked at the man, deciding he looked exactly what he expected a mage should look like which was immensely re-assuring for the farm-hand, and then he walked on in.

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There were perhaps six assorted individuals in the dining room when Jobe arrived, his axe taken from him at the entrance with promise of return. He looked around nervously, his past position making him incredibly uncomfortable in the presence of anything but locals. Everything to do with this quest was starting to feel like a very bad idea to him right there, with no guidance and only his own scant wits to lead himself. After a nervous moment chewing bread in the corner of the room he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for battle, and walked over to the larger group.

Introductions were flying around left right and centre, and until everyone arrived he doubted it would be all that useful for everyone to say their names. Still, it would have been impolite not to throw his into the mix, at least he thought so.

“Name’s Jobe.” He mumbled a little as a result of his trying for nonchalance and cool confidence, then repeated himself to ensure everyone had heard him, coughing awkwardly. No one was paying much attention, then again, with his thick country accent it was altogether possible they also couldn’t understand him.

He took a seat with a space in between himself and a larger woman and began eating earnestly, like a peasant, because he had built up quite an appetite on the road. 

[i]That was awkward, he thought to himself.[/i]