Aver Brand
Mercicle
A pair of boots made a small noise as the feet bearing them touched the ground, crushing dirt beneath the metal heel. Dirt that may very well have been cracked and burned if the negotiations all those months ago hadn't gone so… smoothly.
The owner of the boots smiled as she dusted off the heavy coat draped over her shoulders. The expression, like so many times before, was obscured and unnoticed by the world, courtesy of the darkened glasteel serving as the visor of her helmet. Normally there was a skull's grin plastered over the black surface, but today the woman had opted for a modicum of subtletly. Looking nothing more than the well-armed mercenary she was these days, the woman ran an absent hand along the wither of the imposing animal at her side as she consulted the datalogger on her wrist for directions.
Admittedly, she was used to landing smack dab in the middle of wherever she needed to be, unheeding of the inhabitants' complaints. It was one of the privileges she'd come to miss the most, because travel was so very time-wasting that it nearly drove her mad. In the end she took up learning a few new languages while in transit, and that seemed to be enough for the time being.
"Come on," she urged the beast on her right, departing for the Irontown Market district with her usual expediency.
The hustle and bustle she discovered there was hardly surprising, but annoying nonetheless; finding a particular individual in the throng of milling people was proving to be as frustrating as it was futile. At least Lying Hound at her side made sure that her passage through the crowd was unimpeded by the masses, as people left and right scrambled out of their way.
Her posture had been reduced to a veritable hunched prowl by the time an hour had ticked by, and all the traces of her morning smile were gone.
"Let's grab something to eat," she ground out to the beast and made for the group of stalls where fresh game was being sold and cooked, much to the delight of the carnivorous pair. They had a practically identical diet, Aver had found, with the minor difference of alive and squirming in the hound's case. Grudgingly, the armored woman stepped at the end of the line, scouring the row in front of her for potential gaps where she could insert herself with clever usage of metal-clad elbows.
Such plans were quickly forgotten, however, when she noticed the face she'd spent her whole morning looking for.
Gotcha.
Icy eyes settled on the sharp profile of one Lord Volden, standing off to the side tapping his foot as he glared pointedly at a snot-nosed whelp who'd just jumped line in the exact manner Aver had been planning.
"You," she called out to the thin man as she approached, two long strides closing the gap between them. "I need to speak to your Queen."
"Now."
The owner of the boots smiled as she dusted off the heavy coat draped over her shoulders. The expression, like so many times before, was obscured and unnoticed by the world, courtesy of the darkened glasteel serving as the visor of her helmet. Normally there was a skull's grin plastered over the black surface, but today the woman had opted for a modicum of subtletly. Looking nothing more than the well-armed mercenary she was these days, the woman ran an absent hand along the wither of the imposing animal at her side as she consulted the datalogger on her wrist for directions.
Admittedly, she was used to landing smack dab in the middle of wherever she needed to be, unheeding of the inhabitants' complaints. It was one of the privileges she'd come to miss the most, because travel was so very time-wasting that it nearly drove her mad. In the end she took up learning a few new languages while in transit, and that seemed to be enough for the time being.
"Come on," she urged the beast on her right, departing for the Irontown Market district with her usual expediency.
The hustle and bustle she discovered there was hardly surprising, but annoying nonetheless; finding a particular individual in the throng of milling people was proving to be as frustrating as it was futile. At least Lying Hound at her side made sure that her passage through the crowd was unimpeded by the masses, as people left and right scrambled out of their way.
Her posture had been reduced to a veritable hunched prowl by the time an hour had ticked by, and all the traces of her morning smile were gone.
"Let's grab something to eat," she ground out to the beast and made for the group of stalls where fresh game was being sold and cooked, much to the delight of the carnivorous pair. They had a practically identical diet, Aver had found, with the minor difference of alive and squirming in the hound's case. Grudgingly, the armored woman stepped at the end of the line, scouring the row in front of her for potential gaps where she could insert herself with clever usage of metal-clad elbows.
Such plans were quickly forgotten, however, when she noticed the face she'd spent her whole morning looking for.
Gotcha.
Icy eyes settled on the sharp profile of one Lord Volden, standing off to the side tapping his foot as he glared pointedly at a snot-nosed whelp who'd just jumped line in the exact manner Aver had been planning.
"You," she called out to the thin man as she approached, two long strides closing the gap between them. "I need to speak to your Queen."
"Now."
[member="Quietus"]