Arc 1: Leaving the Nest

[Bjorn]

It's been a bad month.

Klaus Bergholm had the sort of fame you get by being so good at your job that only the best have heard of you.  He was one of the first mercenaries when the Free Companies started up, and the toughest captains of the best Companies are proud to boast of earning their blood -- learning everything they knew, in fact -- with grizzled ol' Bergie.  Too bad, they'd say and shake their heads.  Too bad he couldn't keep away from the drink.  Too bad that when he drank he couldn't keep his opinion about the hobs quiet.  Never made too much of himself as a result.  Most of the boys he trained up left quietly to found their own Companies, or take a job with a more reserved captain, using skills earned under Klaus in politically safer places.   The rest of the fools stayed, learned too much from him, and found out exactly how much sympathy the Empire had for men with less talent than Bergie and mouths just as big.

Which is why he had space in the Free Company -- the very outfit that gave the rest their name -- for you.  Captain Bergholm (which is all you were allowed to call him) didn't care about your background, or your race, or if you were social misfits, or even if you could fight.  That, as far as he was concerned, you didn't know anything about, and he was going to teach you.   And that he did.  You hadn't been in the company long, but he'd taken you quickly from raw recruit to a seasoned mercenary that anyone would have been happy to take.

Then, on a milk-run bandit-shoot, on the fifth day of Firstmonth, 2064 DM, he took an arrow in the eye.  St. Celestine soothe him and take him to his rest.

Now, six weeks later, you're starting to notice an unpleasant trend in the talk.  Klaus Bergholm wasn't the sort of man to be felled by some brass-penny outlaw, the Companies mutter, and you've gone from being "the soldiers who were with Bergie when he fell" to being "the youngsters who saw Captain Bergholm die."  You know how rumour works, and there's a feeling that it isn't far to go until you reach "the rookies who got Klaus Bergholm killed."  Those tentative not-quite-offers of better positions in other companies have faded like mist, and when you enter the taverns the other mercenaries seem to leave not long after.  The message is clear: you're bad luck.

Luckily for you, though, the Free Company was the last Company with the old-style charter.  Captain Bergholm might be gone, but the Company lives on, and with it you've got a chance to prove yourselves again.  All you have to do is get a broker to give you a job.

Which is why you find yourselves making your way through the narrow streets of Brindisi, padding over rounded cobblestones while making your way through the early morning fog (always look for work in the mornings, taught Klaus: mercenaries might be late-night drinkers, but brokers are businessmen.  Get in early and you'll have first pick of the jobs, and the brokers will respect you and treat you proper).  You're on the way to the office of Markus Ditchdigger, right off Southgate Stalls.  Ditchdigger's name was on the top of the list of brokers you found while clearing out Klaus' room in place of his non-existent family, and you remember that a fair number of the contracts you've worked on came from him.  Captain Bergholm didn't have anything nice to say about anyone, but he had less to say about Ditchdigger.  It seems like the best place to start on your new life as the Free Company.

OOC: Please give a quick description of your character in your first post.  Anytime mechanics become relevant, please post the relevant stats at the bottom of your post.

[Brian]

Gwythyr Vaughan was a dark, stormy character long before bad things began happening to the company.  Bergie's death hasn't affected him as much as might be expected, but then, what's one man in the face of a nation?  A few plucked strings here, a note in a longer song ... but no ballad.  Not that yet.

In fact, the stocky, tired-looking dwarf seems much the same now as when he joined, wearing an almost aimless expression as his dark eyes scan the streets warily.  His hair is black, but kept beneath the hood of his cloak -- no reason to sell all your secrets up front.  The cloak is decent quality, but doesn't scream wealth.  Dark brown, instead of the rich black a wealthy man might choose to express his own moodiness.  Boots, clean, sturdy ... but not expensive.  Still, the quiet jingling of chain beneath the cloak hints that for all of his aloofness ... Gwythyr learned a few things from Ol' Bergie.

[Ebiris]

As the the group works their way through the early morning streets, Rudi's tiny clawed feet scamper to keep up with his taller companions, scratching softly against the stonework below. A muddy black cloak is draped over his shoulders, its bottom trim notably wet simply from picking up dampness from the cobbles as it trails behind the diminutive kobold, the hood pulled up to obscure most of his head, although the crocodile-like snout filled with jagged sharp teeth still juts out some distance past the edge of the fabric.

Beneath his cloak can be seen a well-oiled chain shirt covering Rudi's chest, while the blade of a small and somewhat jagged hatchet is visible with every other step, tucked loosely into his belt.

Occassionally the kobold looks up at his companions, as if to verify that they're all still present, but he eschews conversation, instead simply scurrying along towards their goal with silence only broken by the rhythmic scraping of claws upon cobbles.

[Dracos]

Walking alongside the dwarf, Mesina ab'Sidir is a cheerful presence, bright and energetic in the morning and every bit a businesswoman herself.  This can't be seen so much under her silken white veil, but is clear in her manner and the slight tune she's carrying while she walks.  With a white silk wrapping protecting her red hair, she's eying up the roads as they walk with a sharp perceptive gaze.  Hidden within her voluminious white dress was dozens of pockets, straps holding various bags and satchels, all kept carefully within reach.  Even her dear pet Shiva came along, carefully riding along her shoulder with practiced ease.  Despite all of these knicknacks, her motion made hardly a sound, her brown boots both soft and thick, protective yet obviously soft soled from how little noise they seemed to make.

At a glance, she would seem as any normal merchant, perhaps accompanied by a crew of protectors.  A deeper look would notice a small bow carefully tied against her back.  A sword might even find her little secret, a treasure passed down from her parents made from trading deals long since forgotten: A carefully maintained mithril shirt that molded quietly to her form, allowing her the protection of fine armor without any obvious signs of wearing such.  Slipped into one of those many pockets was the list on Bergholm's contacts.  They'd likely need it later.  If she stayed in the business anyhow.  It did pay better than merchanting though, right now.

"I think we're almost there," she suggested.

[Bjorn]

Mesina's comment proves an understatement, as you step out into Southgate Stalls even as she speaks.

Brindisi is a worm-eaten block of wood, with narrow twisting alleys cutting their way through dense looming stone edifices, suddenly giving way to the one of the multitude of sprawling open-air markets that are its foundation.  In better days, before the War, they say that the markets would have been even more impenetrable than the crowded streets, packed with stalls, tents, carts and pack animals, merchants and even more customers.  No more.  Southgate Stalls, sitting before the gate to the road to Fars Ia, has been hardest hit, and it is now an echoing, empty courtyard, with weeds and even the occasional sapling pushing their way up between the catspaw paving stones.

Ditchdigger's office is just off the Stalls on Low Road, which comes off the eastern edge of the market.  You've entered from the north, off Booker's Lane.  It'll take about four or five minutes to get to the office from where you are.

[Merc]

Marcelo rolls his eyes, obviously mocking what seems to him an inane statement from the halfling as he strides behind the others, a condescending smirk currently showing on his lips where the others could not see.

It was just common sense to not antagonize the people your life could depend on (Bergie's corpse taught him that, though to be fair it's not like he'd have wasted money on a scroll for protection from arrows even if he'd liked the old codger), and besides, he could amuse himself seeing his height tower over the much shorter beings that his companions were if he stuck to the back.

True, it was the sort of thing that made him a more viable target in the heat of battle just as much as his desire to be in the thick of it, but here and now, it was just a source of small amusement, and what was life without those little pleasures? It was all they had in the world since the hobs took over, after all.

Those thoughts in mind, the man simply trails behind the others with a slow leisurely gait, dressed in brown earthy colors with dabs of muted red and black here and there to keep the clothing from being too boring while still remaining practical.

That was how he liked his clothing, really.

Practical.

His loose-fitting outfit was obviously designed for ease of a wide range of movements, with hints of the shiny chain shirt armor showing through the neck of his coat. Some scars were also visible, predominant amongst them is one along the side of his neck, creeping upward towards just under his left ear. Probably there is quite a story to tell there, but not one this human would be likely to share, even with close friends, assuming he was ever to consider someone among this group such a thing.

Still, that one scar was perhaps the most visually defining feature on Marcelo, in spite of the number of other smaller scars across the lenght of his body, most on his arms and hands, as was normal of an experienced swordsman. Indeed, a scabbard hung across his back, a large sword's hilt jutting out just behind his head, occassionally slapping against the bridge his bandaged fingers made while pressed against somewhat cropped black hair, messy strands of the locks falling all over the place.

His hazel eyes once more fall upon his companions, observing them for the thousandth time perhaps, and he restrains a rough laugh of amusement as always. Well, they were all damaged goods with the codger dead, including himself, and nobody to rely on but each other. Having no interest in going back to his former bandit ways at this time, the plan the others concocted of just trying to strike out on their own certainly interested him for now. If nothing else, he couldn't wait to see what mayhem there was to cause without ol' Bergie trying to control their every step.

[Bjorn]

It's a bit of a relief to leave the Stalls and get onto Low Road.  Even with the market empty, Low Road is still busy.  Stallside of Low is the financial district, and the avenue is already beginning to teem with early morning life. 

It takes a bit of elbowing to get to Ditchdigger's office.  His is a discreet oaken door marked only with a small brass plaque, set back in a tiny alcove beside the office of an usurer.  As it's Firstday, there's already a line out the moneylender's door, mostly of people cap-in-hand to ask for extensions, you expect. 

The door is open, and leads up a tight spiralling staircase to the broker's office on the first floor.  The entry of the office itself is a small room, barely large enough for two chairs, a desk, and the drawn, prim-looking woman sitting behind it.  For all of its tiny size and lack of ostentation, the room is well-furnished, with the floor (oak again, you note) well polished, the desk finely crafted, and the chairs well upholstered.  There is a door just behind the desk, presumably to the office of Ditchdigger himself.

There is no door at the top of the staircase, but judging by the echoing as you climbed the stairs, the sounds of the street when you opened the front door likely carried right up to the reception.  Regardless, the secretary is already looking up as you enter the room.  "Welcome," she says briskly, in a surprisingly low voice.  "May I help you?"

[Ebiris]

OOC: Forgot to mention, Rudi casts Undetectable Alignment on himself every morning (it lasts 24 hours), leaving him with 6 first level spells available to cast. Just in case it becomes relevant.

"We're looking for work," the kobold in the group replies, his atonal voice shifting oddly in speech like a human child's does during puberty, and terminating abruptly with the merest hint of a growl that's then cut off with a faint high pitched... beep, for lack of a better term.

Pulling back his hood, Rudi exposes a long and scale-covered head, his flesh mostly brown but mottled with black here and there. Darker brown eyes with not a trace of white surrounding them protrude outwards above his toothy snout, both of them fixed upon the secretary. "We're the Free Company," he then adds, a hint of a reptilian chuckle heard behind his warbling speech.

[Bjorn]

The secretary looks you over carefully.  "One second, please," she says, and those inclined to notice such things register that her voice has become, if anything, more neutral.   Rising, she slips through the door so smoothly you cannot catch a glimpse within.

[Dracos]

Mesina waited, a frown not allowed to reach her face.  Hopefully this would turn out.

[Merc]

Marcelo gives a slow yawn while the secretary goes fetch Ditchdigger...or maybe some muscle to show them the way out? It'd be funny if she tried that, just because she'd heard those rumors about ol' Bergie's group. Not to mention a good opportunity to show off that the old codger wasn't needed for them to be a useful mercenary force right on their own.

[Bjorn]

It's only a few brief seconds before the secretary returns, and this time she holds the door open.  "Master Ditchdigger will see you now," she announces a bit stiffly before returning to her desk.  And so, obligingly, you all file in.

Ditchdigger's office is no larger than the reception.  It is, in fact, identical in layout, except that the walls here are lined with cabinets.  Sitting behind the twin of the secretary's desk is Markus Ditchdigger, who looks up briefly and nods a quick acknowledgement, managing to convey with his eyebrows that he will be be with you as soon as he finishes scribbling down his current thought.  They're impressive eyebrows, too, sweeping black bristling things that seem to have taken it a challenge to compensate for his bald pate.

He does not leave you waiting, and quickly puts the quill down.  "Yes?" he inquires.  His voice is rough, but the tone polite.

[Dracos]

"Hello, Mr. Ditchdigger," Mesina stepped a bit to the side so she wasn't fighting with looking over the desk.  "We seek a contract for our company, the Free Company."

She didn't bring up their former commander, knowing he would've heard the news and not desiring to start defending rumors demeaning them until she was sure that they'd been told. 

[Bjorn]

There is a long silence, as Ditchdigger looks the lot of you carefully over.  When it becomes clear that you aren't about to be the first to break, his eyebrows begin an impressive rise up his gleaming forehead, and he leans forward on the desk, steepling his hands in front of his face.  He's an enormous man, with the soft bulk that comes from great strength gone to seed.  Dressed in the respectable green of the business elite, it's an impressive sight.

"And?"  He asks.

[Ebiris]

"And we felt that you would be the best person to see for such a contract," Rudi speaks up with a faint hissing in his tone, standing far enough back from the desk that Ditchdigger should be able to see him easily enough in his current forward leaning posture.

"Mister Bergholm may have handled the business end of things previously, but we've worked for you before often enough, and I believe it must have been satisfactory since the jobs kept coming." He pauses a moment and flexes his tiny clawed hands together, a faint scraping heard as the claws slide over his scales while inhuman eyes regard the broker. "Mister Bergholm may have passed on, but the Free Company will outlive him. There is no reason we cannot come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."