Everyone knew Pilot. He was the short, fat-nosed young man who made a job of running between the town’s businesses carrying news and employment opportunities to whoever was interested. In fact, Roland had heard of almost all of his past jobs from Pilot. So this morning, when Pilot waved him down, red in the face and at a loss for breath, Roland quickly became just as excited as the runner; he felt his expression twist into a toothy grin.

Hhhuh, Pilot gasped and gestured for Roland to wait a second; he clutched at his knees and bent over. It took a few seconds for him to catch his breath, but when he did, he matched Roland’s grin with his own. Roland was trustworthy, always paid what was due Pilot without any arguments, and was never sour about it, either. Pilot liked that. A lot of seasonals? They hated paying Pilot his cut and tried to cheat him. He did not like that and he didn’t like having to break their fingers, either. He hated that.

“Foreign money!” He shouted suddenly, stopped, rolled his eyes, and began again: “New job down at Fran’s,” he said, “and the guy? Paying foreign money, Dufort. Foreign. Gold coins. Good everywhere, worth more than,” he made an exaggerated gesture with his hands, “the Emperor’s pennies. Hell, worth more than the silver you‘d usually get from a job like this.”

Having his excitement justified made Roland even more excited, but he knew something was up, there was always a catch or something, and he almost never had luck enough to get one of these jobs.

“Where’s he from?” He asked, but Pilot just shook his head.
“Don’t know, I’ve heard the accent before, but . . .”
This time Roland shook his head, “it’s alright. What’s the catch? Gold, seriously?”
“Gold,” Pilot’s grin grew larger, almost unsettling so. “No catch, sort of. Honestly, you’re the only one qualified... Militia aren’t allowed to accept side-jobs, and you’re gonna need a weapon to take this job. And, uh . . . ”
“What?” Roland asked.
“The guy wants two people. Won’t accept less than that, actually. He‘s willing to stay-”
“Not a problem,” Roland cut him off, “They, uh, they’ve taught Henri, too.”

-And that went about as well as Roland thought it would have. Pilot nearly buckled, laughing and holding his stomach in such an exaggerated fashion that even Roland felt insulted by it. After a good minute, however, they bargained and negotiated, settled on a cut for Pilot, and said farewell to each other. Where Pilot ran off to peddle another job, Roland headed off towards the ocean, down a beaten path that eventually lead to a split, and from there to the light house, where he would beat on the door for as long as it took his friend to get his ass up and dressed.

Henri was sort of a nocturnal creature that could very rarely be seen out of bed before the hours of two or three in the afternoon. If he was a creature being documented on a nature channel he'd be something along the lines of a night owl or bat. He didn't even get to crawl into bed until the break of dawn. That's why when an early bird like Roland came calling on him this early, there was bound to be some friction. He'd be waiting for awhile. His friend could probably sleep through an earthquake.

Luckily for Roland he'd only have to wait a couple of minutes (anyone else wouldn
't get ANY kind of answer) since years and years of this routine had conditioned Henri's brain to have a sort of, Roland filter that weeded his knocks out of the "knocks and calls to be slept right through" list. When he finally did answer, it would be the same, sad pathetic morning greeting Roland would be accustomed to since Henri got the job at the lighthouse.

"God....fucking...daaaammmniiiiit."

A series of whingeing curses would signify that Henri had finally awoken. There would be no shuffling or scrambling for clothes, since there would be no need for formalities or proper dressing if it was Roland at the door. He'd get the usual. When the door finally creeked open an exhausted, barely dressed Henri wrapped in nothing but a blanket would be standing there, red in the eyes and with some pretty hilarious bedhead. It stood up on the side of his head like a wing or horn or something.

"The town better be like...on fire or something. Hhhyyeaarrmmmm..." Henri yawned and walked back inside, but didn't close the door behind him,which meant Roland should follow him in.

"I dunno," Roland said as he followed Henri inside. "Do you consider money to be 'or something'? Like, good money? Gold," he trailed off at that. . . He expected a reaction from Henri; after all, it wasn't a handful of copper jolts Roland was talking about here, but, instead, cold hard world currency. Henri had a good thing here, the light house was important, but Roland didn't intend to do odd jobs, good, honest work though they were, for the rest of his life. This would put him a good foot forwards.

Unconsciously, shifting in the entry way of Henri’s ‘new’ home, Roland rested a hand atop his sword’s pommel, a habit he had built from nearly always having it on him in some way or another. It was kind of expected of him, he found out soon after receiving it, some mark of adulthood or something, but he couldn’t say he hated having it near him. His dad was surprisingly chill about it, too . . .

“You’ll need your whatchamahcallit - the dagger, krikwhatever, and you need to get dressed. Hurry up,” he ordered. Another habit he had built up recently, Colonel Dasari didn’t do things half-hearted, after all, and when they were too worn out for weapon's training, he educated them in other fields, and Roland had taken a bit of a shine to it; he just sometimes slipped into that frame of mind.

"Ugh.."

Henri shuffled his way towards his mattress. The lighthouse looked more like a house than before. Somehow Henri managed to fit a kitchen, and bathroom necessities into the house, yet didn't even bother to take down the cushion pillow man that hung from the ceiling since the last party. He thought it was kind of funny. More importantly, for some reason Henri had another mattress across the room from his own. At the foot of his own bed were a messy pile of clothes, he walked up towards them, and without warning, dropped the blanket and began getting changed.


"Gold? Really!?" Henri pulled on a pair of boxers and then sat down on the floor, digging through the pile to find his socks. He was definitely excited. Roland could use the extra money, maybe he could even have a steady reliable source of income instead of living from paycheck to paycheck. There were some details missing though, like, what the job was. The fact that he needed his boomerang knife thing raised some red flags. He slid his socks on (they were always a bit blood stained around the toes) grabbed a pair of pants, and stood up and kept on getting dressed. "The knife? What kind of job is this? Did Pilot say?"

It didn't matter what kind of job it was because there was no way he'd let Roland do it alone, the whole thing seemed kind of fishy. All he knew was that it paid in gold? Or was that all they wanted to tell him?

"Y'know, I honestly didn't think to ask and no, Pilot didn't tell me, either. Maybe he forgot or didn't know, I guess; it's probably just a merchant lookin' for some bodyguards."

At least, that was what made most sense to Roland. Merchants looking to establish new trade routes in such a remote area weren’t common, really, but it happened, especially if they thought the area was likely to grow. And River’s End was due some major growth, given the recent discovery . . . That was what the mayor thought, though. Roland couldn’t say for sure.

“Oh well, doesn’t matter--we have weapons, we sort of know what we’re doing with them, and that’s what the guy seems to want, and that’s what we’re going to give him.”

Even if it took a bit of embellishment and exaggeration, they were going to do this job . . . This merchant or whatever he was probably couldn’t tell a soldier form a sailor. Who was to say that Roland and Henri weren’t the best damn students Dasari had ever seen, anyways? They totally had this.

"Anyways," Roland said as he came out of his thoughts, "the guy's at Fran's joint and has been lookin' for people for a bit now, and that's all Pilot told me, really."

"Probably just a merchant looking for some bodyguards."

"Oh."

You know, mulling over it while he buttoned up his shirt,yeah, that actually DID make sense. River's End had some pretty busy docks and was right on the water, primary spot for trades coming in and out, merchants, it all made sense. What didn't make sense was why they would want -them- to be bodyguards but not Dasari, but then again Dasari was a pretty busy guy and had better things to do than guard somebody's stash of beads and animal skins or whatever this guy was selling.

He'd been so caught up in his mysterious voices, statues, and brain washing mermaid aliens out for blood that he forgot he was still in River's End, and life outside his crazy fantasies still carried on as usual, it was no reason to be suspicious. He should also note he was the only one experiencing these happenings and that he should probably lay off the bottle for awhile, voices or not. So for now, he was sold on the merchant thing. Mostly.

"Alright well then, sounds good to me!" For emphasis, Henri dramatically clipped his suspenders, snapped them, and then reached for his hairbrush. "Is there breakfast involved in this somewhere?"

Busy really didn't begin to explain Dasari's position but, disregarding that, there was also the fact that they were a military coterie--kind of presumptuous for a foreign merchant to even attempt to hire the Emperor's soldiers, wasn't it?

“Well, . . .” Roland thought about it for a second, a good patron would’ve offered them something to eat, but there was no guaranteed and he knew, he just knew that Henri would hold it against the guy if he was promised breakfast now and then found out it wasn’t going to happen, and Roland really didn’t want to hear any of that noise.

“Probably not,” he admitted, “but,” he reached into one of his front pockets and removed a small bag, its mouth tied with a piece of string, and then tossed it at Henri, “here’s some dried meat, if that helps. Venison, last month’s own. That good enough? Otherwise, if you’ve money for it, we could split a platter at Fran’s.”

Henri's childish whiny pouty face became effective immediately as soon as the words probably not came from Roland's mouth. Working two jobs, no sleep and no food? He had to be kidding.Luckily Roland made a quick save with his bag of dried meat. For once Henri actually caught it, and in doing so foolishly let go of his hairbrush. It struck straight and true, landing on his toes.

"AH! FACK! SSSS!"

He withdrew his foot back and pain and made that hissing noise kids make when they scrape their knee for a bit, wiggling his foot around as if it would shake the pain away.

"Geezes...anyway." Now that the hairbrush was on the ground, he was actually too lazy to retrieve it, he pretended it was a sign from God or whoever that his hair was brushed enough. He tied it back and grabbed his belt and kukri, which he kept in a respectable spot haphazardly tossed on the ground with his laundry.

"Sounds gooood...." There was a pause while he strapped the belt on his waist and fiddled with it uncomfortably. Things just didn't belong on his waist, it felt weird. "We can go to Fran's OR if you we can do some grocery shopping and make dinner or whatever here, since I, kindofneedtogoshoppinganyway. Either is fine with me, 'sup to you." He shrugged his shoulders, in no way doing any hinting. It was actually up to Roland.

"Ha," Roland laughed, "but then we'd have to leave the dude who might hire us and pay us far more money than we're worth hangin', and then he might find someone better qualified . . .," he said, "because, y'know, like I said before, he's at Fran's."

Oh well, Roland turned around and re-opened the door, "whatever though, let's get going. I wanna know what this guy's got in mind for us - and remember, we've got huge amounts of experience doin' this stuff. We're, like, seasoned pros or something."

Stepping outside, Roland waited a moment for Henri to follow suit, and then started on his way towards Fran’s, to where their potential employer awaited. The trip would be a quiet one, at least for Roland, who would only speak when Henri spoke to him, but otherwise remain silent; he went over everything Colonel Dasari had taught him, his stance and demeanor, and how he spoke, even. He was pretty sure he could pass off at least being somewhat soldier-y. Maybe.

Fran’s was an impressively large establishment strategically placed so that it was near as many places of business as it possibly could be, and that was, most likely, the reason why Fran had such a strong claim on River’s End’s tavern scene. There were even rumors of her running the few who dared to try and give her a bit of competition out of business . . .

The outside of the tavern was the usual brick and wood dominant in Mercoran architecture; it had a majority of brick with some wood trim, and all the windows were large, thoughtfully placed planes to get the most out of the sun during daylight, and there were a good handful of wrought-iron lamps, not yet lit, of course, embedded near the walkway, the entrance, and a few at a balcony above the front of the tavern. Inside, however, was where Fran’s truly awed visitors. As was popular in the big cities, it had an all wood interior that spoke of constant dedicated work, every night and morning without fail; it was all polished to a gleam, too. The floors were made of a dark, rich wood that nobody in the town had ever seen before, and it filled the building with an odd, enticing aroma reminiscent of spice. The tables, screwed onto the floor at their base, were of a contrasting wood, not quite white, but much lighter, and the chairs, too, matched. The tavern was separated into two levels, the ground-floor was where customers drink and ate, played music, sing, and, unfortunately, fought; however, there was another level, a second-floor, which had rooms to be rented out, but only a very small, very elite group of people could ever really hope to afford them. Personally, Roland had only ever seen a single person rent one of the rooms. If their employer was, in fact, staying at Fran’s, then that meant, at the very least, the money was real.

Given the time, it was definitely going to be easy to find the guy they were looking for, but, figuring it couldn't hurt, Roland lead the way to the bar, where a large man, filling a mug with a frothy beverage, stood; he perked up when he saw Roland and Henri, but it was short-lived.

"What do y'all want?" He asked.

A young man sat in Fran's, solitary and isolated to a side table by a westward window. With his chin in his hand and elbow upon the table, he stared out idly, took in every color and detail there was to see. He'd been asked numerous times if he wanted anything to eat, anything to drink, anything at all, but he politely declined each time. Always said he wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty, that all he needed was a room for a night or two and then he'd be out of their--Fran's--hair.

It was easy to spot him, even from across the tavern. He had bushy black hair, a tall and lithe frame, if not a bit physically awkward with his lanky long arms and legs, and frighteningly pale skin. Deathly pale. He wore what looked like a dark jumpsuit of some sort, button up and form fitting, with a black jacket overtop. His expression didn't befit someone who was bored, though, despite how he sat with his chin in his hand. He looked interested in the outside, in all the colors, but wasn't moving or acting on interest. Passive interest. Idle intrigue.

He was the most outlandish man at River's End. The type of man that might be going places. Might need to seek something out.

Might need an escort.

"I meant like after the job, but you know what..." There was one final article of clothing, the bandana, also on the floor. He wasn't particularly vain or one for accessories, but it was more like his blanky or stuffed teddy bear, it was entirely a comfort thing, and it hid the scars on his neck he was so self conscious about. "I don't wanna wait that long anyway. We'll get the platter."

Henri followed Roland to the door, quickly putting on his boots, his toque and his father's tent of an oversized jacket. In the end, he looked like a young child who tried to dress himself entirely out of oversized hand me downs. "Ya man, hardened badasses." He flashed his badass face, it was just, indescribable.

As for only speaking when he was spoken to, it was a lost cause with his friend yammering like a small dog and asking him lots of questions, mostly about how his day was, or if he was excited, or what he thought would happen, completely oblivious to his whole trying to look soldiery. They weren't there yet, so Henri didn't quite see the need to and thus didn't catch on.

When they got to Fran's Henri shadowed Roland, following his every move, staying quiet as Roland was staying quiet. He'd been here before, as a customer mostly, sometimes for meals and mostly for drinks and socializing. This time he was here for business, soldiery type business. When the large man asked what they wanted, he shrunk away, (in the most manly tough way he could) and tried to become invisible. He didn't know what they wanted, this was Roland's job, he knew at least a bit of the details, Henri was just his shadow, let him do the talking.

"Food," Roland answered before tossing a couple of pennies onto the bar. With visible glee, the man ducked away, vanishing out of sight as he went into the kitchen portion of the tavern, and Roland, turning around and leaning against the bar, supported by his arms, peered out across the tavern. Though a large building, with the thin crowd, it didn't take Roland long to find the outlander, the foreigner, but, disappointingly, he didn’t look very much like a merchant. Still, merchant or not, work was work, and Roland needed the money.

“That’d be him, I bet,” he pointed the man out to Henri with a gesture of his head. The guy looked pretty bored, Roland decided. They had better go introduce themselves. “Let’s go say hi, yeah?”

"Hrm?"

Henri quickly chanced a glance at the person they were talking about, and his uneasiness began creeping back. This man was clearly a foreigner. He wasn't exactly as exotic as the Esconians, but he was definitely different. Like an Esconians polar opposite almost, it was the paleness of his skin and darkness of his hair that made him stand out the most, and he also didn't look like a merchant, like what Roland and him thought.

So if they weren't protecting this wares, why did this man need protecting? He bet it was some sticky business. Henri hardly spoke a word, maybe adding to the hardened soldier image Roland was trying to portray, but he was only ever this quiet when he was nervous about something.

"Uh, I guess it couldn't hurt." The worst that could happen was that it was the wrong guy, right? May as well give it a shot but, Roland would have to approach him first.

Henri was right, even if they were wrong, what was the worst that could happen? Other than this guy being a serial killer and deciding that he quite liked the way Henri's ears looked or the curve of his jaw-yeah, that could have probably been bad. Fortunately, this guy wasn’t a serial killer. Probably.

Looking the guy over once more, Roland nodded to himself, stood upright from the bar, and headed over towards him, fully expecting Henri to follow; he tapped on the table once he was close enough and waited for the man to re-direct his attention.

“You the one lookin’ to hire?” Roland asked in his best impersonation of the Colonel’s voice; he already spoke in a natural baritone but Dasari’s was different somehow, it gave off a gnarlier feel. Not wanting to make too bad a first impression, Roland didn’t take a seat at the table, he’d wait until the foreigner asked him to, then he’d gladly oblige, but, otherwise, he’d remain standing. He had learned some people thought it was a tad bit too bold.

Tap, tap.

"Hnn?" The young man's tone was remarkably energetic for how tired he looked.

He turned his attention to Roland, then to Henri, then back to Roland again, a brow lifted and an expression of curiosity across his face.

"Huh?" he blinked, "I . . . huh. Wow. Word really spread about that fast, didn't it?"

A rhetorical question, but still a curious thought. He only put it out there earlier today that he was looking for someone to help him out.

"Are you, um, big tough guys?" he asked, his tone very hesitant. Anxious, but in a way a person was when put on the spot. Like he'd never done this before. And obviously, only one of the two men were actually tough guys, but he couldn't entirely be sure about these things!