Cyrdic doubted many of his old lads would have taken much from the conversation other than the words 'countess' and 'gold' which granted, was all Cyrdic needed to hear to consider the prospect. The lands of Araby brought to him visions of a place he had never seen before, nor imagined was truly real to his sensibilities. The old quartermaster had told him stories of the place, a land of naught but sand dunes, with islands of city states filled with magic and gold. 

Despite himself, he felt a bit of trepidation. If he was being truthful, he'd rather face a bloody skirmish with Norscans than be involved with anything mysterious south of the Old World. But they were in need of money, and Camilla trusted this man. He supposed making dealings with shady contacts in a Marienburg tavern wasn't too far fetched for traveling sellswords like them. 

"I'm in," he said bluntly, taking his flagon and draining it with a large swig. His cup 'clapped' onto the table. He didn't realize that Ricardo had been looking more at Cyrdic than Camilla when he offered, as if he expected the woman to be on board. 

"Excellent," the Tilean said, his smile wide and almost predatory, showing his teeth. "Remember my friend, this will require a certain subtlety, however..." His accent sounded very much smoother than Cyrdic's rough speech. It was odd to hear a male speaking with such an accent. Ricardo looked to Camilla, to see if she'd vouche for Cyrdic's abilities. 

Behind them, an uproarious amount of laughter and hoots came from a few Middenlanders at the bar, and one held his hands up in mock victory as if to rally his fellows to greater heights of revelry. 
[@Penny]