[@Blueskin][@POOHEAD189][@Andreyich][@Drinky][@Dusty]


It was fortunate, mostly for his own sanity, that Severo was quite used to having himself rushed by entire rooms of mercenaries and cut-throats at the same time, all clamouring for employment and the opportunity to earn some coin. In this case it was not an entire room – thanks the Gods – but there were enough that he was forced to listen to each of them as they separately approached before he could even get a word in edgeways.

“Perhaps you did not all hear me?” He questioned in an authoritative tone that belied his otherwise haggard appearance, “I said [b]one at a time[/b].” There as a short snort, a flourishing sweep of his cloak, and he adjusted his seating before fixing the young Breton with an expert eye; a poor adventurer he may have prove to be, but he was an excellent judge of character.

“Bretonnian...” came the start of his mutterings, his quill scratching against parchment, although who knew what he was writing? Perhaps something of import, or perhaps nothing interesting at all!

“Calls himself  'Sir' Francois Vou Bluspereaux...nineteen, no, twenty or so years of age, clearly noble born and both tall and clean of limb...chain and plate and sword...”

After scribbling for moments, glancing back and forth between man and scroll, he gave a satisfactory nod and spoke directly to Frans Vou, “welcome to the Guild, Breton. Sign your name or make your mark on the line at the bottom of the scroll...and don't worry, I shall make sure you get only the best employment.”

A spare quill was extended and the ink fountain pushed forward on the table.

The scroll was a simple piece of documentation, recording the applicants name and anything of interest – obvious armament, marks, and so forth – before moving onto a long piece of legal jargon that more-or-less stated that the signatory agreed to membership of the Guild (including giving a percentage of any loot to the Guild), and that death was altogether plausible in pursuit of whatever duty they were assigned.

"My name is Waldemar Vetroff, I would like to go into your employ. I think I have valuable skills that would earn you a pretty penny... with me getting an obvious piece of the penny course."

Another dipping of the quill, another long sigh.

“Kislevite, probably Gospodar...tall...middle twenty years...apparently an Ice mage to boot.”

If Waldemar believed he was going to get any sort of reaction from the Estalian then he would be most disappointed, for Severo had seen almost all there was to see in terms of skill and such, and some young man dipping his hand into water did nothing to impress him.

“Sign here and wait with the Breton,” he grunted, jabbing a thumb at Frans, “welcome to the Guild.”

It would have become obvious by now that the Guild was not fussy about who they hired, even to the point that no questions about pursuing families, jilted lovers and so on were asked. This was because they weren't, not even close. If you could hold a sword and voluntarily joined, well, then the Guild would take you.

[color=orange]"Good day to yeh, name's Balgrim Steelpick. I seek to join the guild and earn my keep. Been a ranger for years and ave' skills in tracking and scouting and could pin any greenskin to a tree with me axes."[/color]

“Dwarf, Balgrim, Steelpick clan. Good clothing, roughly three feet and...eleven inches...ranger...tracking and scouting...simple beard and [i]short[/i] hair.”

“Sign here, Master Steelpick, and welcome to the Guild.”

“Severo, you garlic-eating cyclops!” Meinhardt said boldly. “What is it this time? A caravan to Nuln? Guarding some dignitary to a Count? Either way you know I’m in. Same contract as usual, I suspect?”

As much as Meinhardt annoyed Severo, their little verbal duels provided a bit of humour in his employ, and he could give as good as he got!

“Sergeant Volker, what an unethspected pleasure! I would have thought you would be dead by now, what with being so very old and past your prime? Non, here you are before me, for what number of time I cannot even recall.” Wetting his lips and allowing a grin to play over his face, he rummaged through his satchel and pulled a specific piece of parchment – nay, three pieces – from it; upon those pieces were Meinhardts 'record of service' with the Guild, every single time he had signed up and every contact given and completed.

“Just for you!” Severo exclaimed, patting the ink-pasted scroll, “special scroll for those who should retire, but are too stupid to do so. You know what to do.”

"Pay me a fair wage, I'll kill what ye want and march where ye want, provided it doesn't dishonor me hearth and home." Rumbled a long-bearded Dwarf, then glanced to the side to the White Lion. "If the Elgi comes along, that's extra." His voice sounded like rocks grating against one another. "If ye have no more gold, as ye look too scrawny to be a man of means, just see he keeps his distance."

“Dwarf...[b]old[/b]...arrogant...well equipped and likely experienced...dislike of Elves...”

Giving the ink a quick drying blow, he waited until Drimbold had returned to his seat before holding it up in the air and yelling across the room, “my apologies Master Dwarf, but I require your name or rune or mark on this scroll. It is Guild policy I am afraid.” He would not bother to give the parchment to anyone else, but waited, as stony faced as Drimbold himself, for the Dwarf to either come back over and learn some humility or stay where he was an miss out.