Frans Vou reined in his horse, regarding the twilit establishment before him. Removing a crumpled piece of parchment the young knight confirmed with a few quick sweeps of his eyes that he had indeed arrived at the proper destination after riding on the road for the better part of a week, traveling the highways between Bretonnia and the Empire through both mountain pass and thick woodland. It’d been an easy trip, thankfully void of inclement weather or any other issues to waylay a traveler. Shaking the dust of the road from his cloak and tunic Frans Vou dismounted his sturdy black steed bidding his page Adrian to take the reins, and providing both coin and instructions to ensure the proud beast was well cared for in the tavern’s stables. The stallion was his father’s favorite horse, taken specifically to spite his father Vincent, the honored patriarch of Bluspereaux family house. Indeed the animal had been of such immense value Frans Vou’s father had sent a company of ten yeomen to retrieve it, but their efforts were for naught when Frans Vou drew steel and invited them to take the horse out from under him. They’d trailed him for the next two nights until he passed into Imperial lands where they were forced to split off, for they were an unwelcome cohort to enter the province, armed and bearing colors as they were. Presumably they’d were being lambasted back at the Bluspereaux manor at this very moment, and the thought of his father’s angry face, beet red as he screamed obscenities upon the unsuccessful yeomen brought fresh energy to Frans Vou’s sore riding legs.

	Straightening his sword and belt the young, bold Bretonnian strode through the foreign tavern’s door in high confidence, expecting to be a sight to be beheld amongst the presumed crowd of country folk and ragged sellswords. After all he’d stayed at three other Imperial taverns before the Limping Nag, and had no reason to expect this one to be any different. And oh folly by the Lady’s blessing was he mistaken.

	The first sight to see, that any man entering should spot immediately upon entering, was the man dressed in a white lion’s pelt and fine armor. Upon closer inspection came the realization that it wasn’t a man at all but an elf. Frans Vou, in all his wildest dreams would never had expected one such as an elfish to be welcome in the company of rugged mercenaries. Granted his own life decisions having led one such as himself to ride with them, but that was one thing, the elf was another. Then Frans Vou's astonished blue eyes were drawn to the greatsword mounted proudly behind the bar, and following that was the amusing sight of an ancient Dawi warrior seated upon a stool. Releasing a low whistle Frans Vou swept his blonde hair from his face, suddenly unsure of whom to request an audience with. He’d expected that the toughest, richest, oldest and boldest man would be the one to speak with, but as it turned out that would be a much more difficult distinction to make than he’d originally thought.

	After casting about the crowd for a good while Frans Vou spotted a worthy candidate to presume governance and strode over, sitting across from Meinhardt Volker by mere chance. “Monsieur, ye appear as a man of experience, if I may intrude for a moment of ou’s time?” Frans Vou opened the conversation, his thick High Bretonnian accent giving away his noble stature far better than his road dusted fine clothing or golden spurs ever could. “I am Francois Vou Bluspereaux, but please disregard such frivolous titling. I prefer Frans Vou. And I am in search zee Guild of Esteemed Sellswords. I ‘ave been made aware zey congregate wiven zis establishment on occasion. I speak to ou, for ye ‘ave zee look of ah, zat type of person, zat is whom is involved wee mercenaries. No?”