A wide smile formed over the beautiful woman's full, pale lips. Wretha Thorne laughed, and Mordrag felt a balloon of pride and excitement rise up into his chest.

[i]I'm a regular bloody charmer I am![/i]

The large Gothi watched the remainder fights with perverse pleasure. The wicked grin on his face grew with each fight, and by the time Rask stood up to address the victors, Mordrag was almost giddy with excitement. Though he hadn't thought much of the majority of the fighters before the bouts began, he was certainly satisfied with those that would be his future traveling companions. The greater the strength of arms at your side, the bolder you could be. The less careful you had to be.

[i]The drunker you could be.[/i] He chuckled to himself.

Mordrag smiled and waved farewell to the losers nearly falling over each other as they fled the basement and the sadistic psychopaths in the victors stands. He hadn't ever heard of the cursed treasure of the Sayamir Pass, but he absolutely recognized the sound of the name. They would be venturing into the highlands, through tribes of brutes akin to himself.

[i]No worries there. I'm the greatest bruiser in the history of everything! And those funny little men we'll be bringing along just bested a legitimate Gothi shield maiden and a barbarian smaller, but seems like just as strong as me! We got quite the legendary band here.[/i] Mordrag beamed with overconfidence. Lost in his haughty planning, the big brute forgot to continue listening to his new leader's monologue.

...something about execution... [i]That's right, nothing but execution for anyone who stands in our way[/i] ...fifteen percent... [i]a solid cut there![/i] ...a horse for every man... N[i]ow wait a minute there...[/i] A few more beads of sweat – on top of the virtual rivers already there from exertion and heat – formed on his head. Partly because of his size and partly because of his lack of resources, Mordrag had never learned to ride a horse. The only time he had ever even mounted one was decades ago when a large, adolescent Mordrag had been bucked off of a wily stallion within seconds of his mounting. The broken arm had kept him away from any equestrian activities for a year and the memories of the incident for the rest of his life. Not one to admit his weaknesses, however, this was a problem the big man would deal with later and as discretely as he could manage. Perhaps he would use the horse as a pack animal and simply sprint alongside the others on his own two legs. No... something else would have to give.

A medium sized purse bounced off of his chest and into his lap. The sweet, familiar clinking sound of a small fortune. Eyes wide, and ears perked, Mordrag tuned back in to Rask's orders. "You got five hundred gold for each of you. A signing on bonus so to speak. Make sure you have some warm clothes and a week's rations for the trip. Anything left is pocket money. Enjoy."

And enjoy he would.

____________________________________________________________________________

Sitting on his comfortable bed, piled high with furs – for the ladies of course – Mordrag looked over the supplies he had gathered in the past few hours. His collection of obscure trifles and trinkets was all stowed away. Thanks to the ever-generous Arbo Horst, the two large bottles of triple distilled whiskey and four sizable bags of lamb jerky had only knocked eighty gold pieces off of his budget. His buddy Jonas Ollen was convinced to part with his oversized – so just right for Mordrag – black bear pelt cloak for just another one hundred. Mordrag was no stranger to the cold temperatures of the highlands. He knew that, no matter how warm the whiskey in your belly made you, the winter wind could take a finger or toe overnight. Jarren Bisevak the furrier specialized in sable furs, so Mordrag had known he wouldn't be cheap; a pair of fitted gloves and boots deducted another hundred out of his purse – but for good reason. Sable was known as the golden fleece of furs, being almost weightless, silky, lustrous, and beautiful without sacrificing any warmth or durability. When he packed his fur sheets and blankets later that night, he would be fully confident in keeping himself warmed.

That still left him with over two hundred gold pieces to, as Rask had instructed, enjoy! He snatched up the now half-empty purse, stomped down the stairs and began making his way out of The Golden Spring. Before he could make it halfway to the door, he was stopped by a reprimanding voice he had become all too accustomed to.

“Oh no ya don't, ya big bloody fool. I already taked a peak at yer packings and ya didn't get any medicine. Not to mention the fact that yell not be drinkin nothin but whiskey the whole trip!” Horst was like the nagging mother Mordrag never knew. “Yer gonna take these bandagings and whatnot and at least two jugs of water.” Mordrag looked skeptical, but started reaching for his purse. “Nah, nah. I'll not spoil your last night of fun for practicality, ye child. Yell pay me back double with yer spoils from adventurin no doubt. For now, get yer freeloadin arse out of my tavern.”

Mordrag smiled and punched Arbo in his shoulder. [i]Love you too mate.[/i]

____________________________________________________________________________

Now for the remainder of his purse. The big barbarian wasn't one for keeping around excess money. He strolled along the memorized path, past The Sailor's Beans and Barrel, left before the Bisevak fur shop. It was an absurdly colorful, three story building, well maintained compared with the rest of the run down establishments in the Hollows. Mordrag walked up the pink steps and through the turquoise doors. There he was greeted by the respected purveyor of her fine luxuries, Madame Merida. The two exchanged pleasantries, already well-acquainted with each other, before Merida took him by the arm and led him to the main lobby where half a dozen patrons were already drinking and flirting.

Two women in Madame Merida's Comfort Parlour were famed both for their powerful allure and for their outrageous prices: Jenessa, a fair-skinned blonde beauty, and Isolde, a red headed minx. Mordrag had approached both numerous times during his stay in Gothic-Maxima, only to be redirected to women more within his budget. The two were sitting alone at a table in the corner of the room, chittering and giggling, waiting for the next lordling or exceptionally successful merchant to enter their nest. Mordrag didn't quite fit that mould.

Jenessa and Isolde ignored the boisterous man as they usually did, but the big Gothi pulled a chair from a nearby table and dropped his girth down next to the ladies, ending their dainty tittering. Though he was met with disapproving scowls, Mordrag would not be deterred; “Seeing as I'm going on an adventure tomorrow ladies, tonight might be our last chance at love.”

“You've not got the coin for lavish magnificence like me or the sumptuous splendor of my companion, Brute.” Jenessa spoke with the posh, pompous cadence of one who has purchased their class and wants everyone to be aware of their sophistication. The notably quieter Isolde merely smirked, teasing Mordrag with a seductive stretch. When Mordrag spilled two hundred and seventy gold coins – the remnants of his signing bonus and all of the gold he had leftover from his bouncing at The Golden Spring – onto the table, two pairs of eyes caked with makeup shot wide open in incredulity. Immediately, the ladies changed their tone. The gold disappeared somewhere in the folds of their dresses, and the huge man was escorted upstairs, one woman hanging on either arm. The trio made haste, only stopping long enough for Isolde to grab a bottle of fine wine  – complementary for the big spender, of course.