[h1]Varian Sigmund - Dalenham, Ethora[/h1]

Varian walked casually through the streets of Dalenham. For the most part, the people of the city paid him no heed. It was not so unusual to see a Highmen in Ethora. Travelers from Miraheim, Falke, Ethora, and even Miracia was a customary sight. For the most part, many did not care either way, and those who did were usually in no position to do anything about it. 

But Varian cared only about receiving the reward promised to himself and his group for the job they had just completed up in Sabamin. He carried a sack in his hands, which inside was the head of the recently slain orc bandit leader, the bounty the group needed for payment. Varian had only recently begun travel with the group, as before it had been just himself. It was the first time in a while that he actually worked together with so many people without them... well, dying. It was a promising sight, but Varian still didn’t quite know what the future held for himself and this new mercenary company. He turned right on the corner, exiting from the Market Street and heading down a smaller, shabby street. The buildings which stood here were even less impressive than those on the main street. Most were old and looked like they stood upon their last inch of life. Horse manure was all across the pathway, and no one bothered to clean it up. Varian walked into the second door from the left into an old, wooden tavern. The inside reflected much of the outside: old, filthy, and for the most part vacant, except for a few men on the second level, drinking, and the tender of the tavern, who stood behind a wooden table and wiped it. Varian noted at the odd paradox of this, seeing as it was painfully obvious the place had not been cleaned since... well, ever.

The man at the bar was a short one, at least to Varian, probably not coming up to his shoulders. He had long, black hair he kept in a ponytail and an untrimmed beard. His face was covered with grime and dirt, to such an extent that Varian could not tell his true skin color. His clothes were modest for the area he occupied. The man’s supposed name was Edward, but Varian was certain that was an alias. But Varian didn’t care. To him, he was his contractor, a middleman between the client and the sellsword. The contractor would hear the requests of folk for certain jobs that needed to be done, and the client would deposit the gold with them. Mercenaries would then seek out these contractors for potential jobs, and if fulfilled to the client’s demands, the gold would be given. Varian always preferred receiving his money from a contractor rather than the actual client. With a contractor, it’s a simple checklist to see if every task assigned is complete, and the exchange commences. When handling an actual client, it becomes more personal. Jobs wouldn’t be about rescuing a man or a woman, but rather rescuing ‘my brother’, or ‘my betrothed’. You feel that you’re not working to get paid, but to help someone. And while that might sit well with others, it gives Varian a feeling of added responsibility which he doesn’t want placed on his shoulders. Making sure his men (or in this case women) are paid and alive is dependability enough for him.

Edward looked up from his cleaning job and acknowledged Varian’s entrance with a wave of his hand. “Ah, Varian! Back so soon. Is the job complete?”

Varian nodded as he lifted up the sack he was carrying around and dumped the contents of it on the table. It was the head of the chieftan of the orcs, the ringleader in the attacks. The head rolled out of the sack and landed facing Edward. Edward made an aggravated face back at the head and sighed. 

“Gods, I hate it.” Edward said, shaking his head. Varian looked up at him, wondering what he meant. “I hate it when they look at you when they die. Makes sleep much harder.” 

“It’s just an orc.” Varian replied casually.

“That does not make him any less alive. It doesn’t make his eyes’ last sight of he who killed him any less damning.” Edward retorted, placing his hands on the table as he continued to gaze at the head.

“If you are so worried about the damned eyes of every creature I fell, the next time I bring one in, I’ll pluck them out before entering.” Varian retorted, a hint of impatience able to be detected from his tone. To this, Edward snapped into a smile and removed the orc head from the table, placing it into the sack and putting it below. 

“Right, the money. The money. It’s always about the money...” He said, searching for a particular bag below. Varian noticed he marked every one of them with something different. He assumed each one applied to a different job. “How fares the village?”

“Sabamin still stands.” Varian said, crossing his arms as he waited for him to bring out his bag.

“And your company?” Edward said as he brought a bag with an ‘S’ labeled on it. Edward dropped the bag onto the table, with the sound of coin being heard when it impacted the table.

“No casualties.” Varian said as he opened the sack and dumped the silver onto the table. Edward sighed and rolled his eyes in response.

“Must you always do this?” He inquired, clearly irritated by the act. Varian began counting the silver, now lifting his eyes from his task as he monotonously answered back.

“Thrice before have you tried to swindle me.” 

“Those were innocent jests!” He said. Giving up, he threw his arms up in the air and leaned back on a table behind him, crossing his arms as he watched Varian count. “Bah... do what you want.”

For about a minute, the two remained silent, Varian busy counting the gold while Edward wordlessly observed. Of course, Varian had just cause to do this. He had known for some time that Edward had some ties to the Shadowfox Guild in Ethora, and Varian knew as such their reputation as thieves. Eventually, Varian concluded the count and separated each stack into equal portions, fitting them all into separate sacks he carried on him.

“All in order, then?” Edward asked, to which Varian nodded, turning around and heading for the exit. “Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you. Pass on my regards to the rest of your motley band, eh?”

Varian waved a hand back as he exited the tavern and went back to the street. He turned the corner once more, and proceeded down the Market Street, people still walking down, busy tending to their own affairs. Varian stayed his course as well, heading into the “Broken Keg” tavern. He scanned the room, seeing the different men and women who occupied it and confirmed his group had not yet arrived. He scoured for an empty table, finding one closer to the front of the room, and turned and whistled at the bartender, a stout man with a rather thick mustache.

“Orbrigg Ale!” Varian yelled at him. The bartender went to fetch the drink, groaning as he went. “Highman Brew, Raelus Ale, Falkan Wine! Makara help me because I'll never understand! Why is it that every foreigner that passes through Ethora never orders a drink that was actually [i]made[/i] in Ethora?!”

“The good folk of Aerion will buy goods from Ethora the day Ethora makes something worth buying.” Varian replied calmly and coldly. The response was an eruption of laughter across the tavern. The bartender flicked his arm in Varian’s direction and continued to prepare the drink. Varian eased into his seat, awaiting the arrival of the others of his group.