Esme sat on the bench of her wagon and considered the handbill for a long time. Bounty hunting seemed very brigand-adjacent indeed. She was a healer, not a killer (except for that one time in the woods, approximately twelve hours into her mercenary career.) Byrne would look at her with those sad blue eyes of his and, perhaps, be a little disappointed. For all that he was spending an inordinate amount of time teaching her to kill men with the crossbow.
Those were all … Reasons not to do it. Maybe not good ones, that last one especially. But she was hungry — and alchemical reagents were expensive. Sighing, she stuffed the notice into her cloak pocket and gathered up what she thought she might need. A couple potions and her weapons. A handful of experimental new bolts with blunt round heads on them. They wouldn’t fly as far but they needed testing all the same.
Esme made her way to the Tasty Tankard, doubting that name by the smell of the place. The contact was waiting. He looked like someone plucked from a novel about this sort of thing — broad and scarred, muscular in a functional sort of way that wasn’t much to look at. Old for this kind of thing. Whoever heard of old bounty hunters?
She thrust the crumpled handbill at him.
“Uhm– Hello, ser. Is the bounty job still open?” Looking around, it didn’t seem as though anyone else was vying for his attention. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It’d be a moral relief to be told to go home, even if she needed the coin.
Those were all … Reasons not to do it. Maybe not good ones, that last one especially. But she was hungry — and alchemical reagents were expensive. Sighing, she stuffed the notice into her cloak pocket and gathered up what she thought she might need. A couple potions and her weapons. A handful of experimental new bolts with blunt round heads on them. They wouldn’t fly as far but they needed testing all the same.
Esme made her way to the Tasty Tankard, doubting that name by the smell of the place. The contact was waiting. He looked like someone plucked from a novel about this sort of thing — broad and scarred, muscular in a functional sort of way that wasn’t much to look at. Old for this kind of thing. Whoever heard of old bounty hunters?
She thrust the crumpled handbill at him.
“Uhm– Hello, ser. Is the bounty job still open?” Looking around, it didn’t seem as though anyone else was vying for his attention. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It’d be a moral relief to be told to go home, even if she needed the coin.
04-28-2024, 08:56 PM
