[h2][color=Green][center]"Hello there, my name is Pox of the Apothecaries.  
And I'm here to keep you nice and alive.  
The Fires bless this meeting."[/center][/color][/h2]

Such hustle and bustle this week.  From the information he could gather from the spoken word of the outside bars and cafes was yet another push into the Protectorate.  Upon hearing the news, he quickly concluded that this wasn't news at all.  It was like clockwork really.  Every few months, go to the capitol.  There's work there.  A nice little war that brings a plethora of need for someone of his skills.  He puffed rolling his eyes from behind his resin lens.  He could never quite understand these royal types.  Always got to be fighting about something.  The Crow King was the worst offender.  The youngish Apothecary saw what the king's 'decrees' often meant for thousands of people.  [i]May the Fires illuminate the way.[/i]  A short prayer he commonly stated when he had to deal with the flaws of others.  Maybe if they actually were a bit more studied, a bit more diplomatic, maybe the Apothecary wouldn't have so many wounds to mend and alot more sparklers and fireworks to construct.  It was less profitable sure but smiles are worth more than the occasional marinated duck.  He ends up sharing them anyway.

So in this instance, he went through the usual routine, making his way to the arena to offer his services to those who actively sought to get hurt.  He always took this way from the inn and his favorite eating parlors where he could meet with clients before making his house calls.  He stood out in the crowd, a black bird amongst a sea of tittering pingeons and sparrows.  A walking outsider among them.  He wondered to himself when the word would reach him directly.  He played this little song and dance twice before.  He knew that there was a few officials whom begrudgingly owed him a favor for saving their lives.  In fact they'd be eager to be the one to share this with him, offering him maybe a special contract with a general or politician fearing assassins.  And Pox would just smile and nod and say...

"Message for you."  Came a rather skiddish looking child.  He could see it in the boys eyes.  He shoke.  He knew, probably was intentionally scared by it.  Those [i]Vultures[/i]  they are riddled with the plagues that fell a hundred kingdoms.  Don't touch them or you'll surely die.  It was a rumor that didn't make any sense when you thought about it.  Pox was much more entertained by the word that he takes badly behaved children to his basement of horrors and raises them as they grisly undead or pulping the poor child into his red tinctures.  It was quite a hoot, if a little sad.  He held out a shaking scroll held tightly with the wax seal of some nobleman.

[color=green]"Thank you my lad."[/color]  he said happily.  [color=Green]"Please, some coins for your fine work."[/color]  The boy quickly rejected and fled.  Pox just rolled his eyes.  [color=green]"HAVE A GREAT DAY!"[/color]  He called after him.

Pox cracked the wax and opened the scroll, skimming through it before reading aloud.  

[color=green]"Your presence is requested for a matter of great importance.  The nation needs the skills of all capable hands for honor, glory, and gold.  This is a call to all knights, guildsmen..."[/color]  He suddenly feigned a gasp.  [color=green]"Hey I'm a member of a guild!" [/color]  He shouted in a happy commemoration to himself.  As a person constantly starved for intelligent conversation, Pox continually gave into this peculiar habit.  Invitation in hand, he turned from the arena and headed to the street of criers at the edge of the city, no doubt the lines are forming for would be adventures whom will be given a helmet and spear and sent out to the forts for practical training.  If anything the Kingdom was at least orderly.

He approached the makeshift tents of officials, the crowds forming as people clammered to be registered.  There was public men, yelling the importance of this call to arms and promising a bag of silver to every one who signs up.  They put on quite a show, making war sound as a thing of glory, of heroic deeds, and that coming home makes you a warrior worthy of legend.  It was not Pox's place to shatter this illusion.  Even a lie can make someone brave and just.

As pox approached, his backpack almost as big as he was, his form clanking and tinking with glass vials and and various buckles he hummed as he just walked forward.  Then something rather mystifying happened.  With a sudden urp and jolt, the crowd parted before him.  Scared eyes gave a glance and then quickly made themselves scarce along his path.  Indeed, he just walked, the sea of people giving him a berth of atleast three yards on all sides.  Countless eyes stalked him as he passed by.  He tried to ignore the repugnation, but again, this was just all part of the process.  He even dined to turn his beak a little, giving soft waves in the faces that held looks of fear, of hate.  Several people spit in his path.  He didn't break his stride.

"NEXT!"  Came the voice followed by the sound one makes if they just stepped on a cat.  There was a second of uneasy pause as the sun was blotted out by his darkened form, the green of his lenses staring back at him.  

Pox held out the unfastened scroll to the official, showing his reasons.  [color=green]"Good day.  I'm here to enlist."[/color]