In the dim light of a tavern on the outskirts of Ansburg, the air was thick with the scent of spiced ale and the murmur of hushed conversations. Colton lounged in the corner, a toothpick idly rolling between his lips as he watched the flicker of candlelight dance across the wooden beams overhead. The tavern had seen its share of characters, but tonight’s assembly was particularly motley.
Colt’s presence wasn’t surprising; he was the reliable one, content to keep to the back of the group, his hands deftly checking his collection of lockpicks, ensuring their edges were sharp and ready. He had never been one for the spotlight, preferring the shadows where he could plan his next move without notice. Locks were a particular skill set, master locksmiths, even rarer and the Coterie reaped in the benefits of his craft digits. Only one figure had remained a constant in this ragtag group – Jock, the man who had orchestrated the whole operation and one of Colt’s old mentors.
Two others had come and gone, their jobs done after the dwarf, with his stout frame and the ever-present axe slung over his back, had joined them a few minutes later. Colt had pegged him as the muscle, reliable for when things needed a bit of a brawl, but he’d no idea of the one sitting across from him. They'd been quieter than Chantry mice since sitting.
Colt leaned against the chair’s back, eyes closing for a moment as his mind drifted. His attire was plain, designed to blend into the darkness – black leather with hidden pockets and blades sewn in discreetly. At the waist, a belt carried a few pouches and twin daggers, their scabbards strapped securely to his thighs, ready for any close encounters.
He rocked his chair back and forth, eyeing Jock, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
He wasn’t about to get tangled up in anything that would see him dangling at the end of a rope. Like the last shitshow he’d bailed on. Stupid fuckers had picked a foolish target in the Chantry Tithe house. Mercifully, Jock wasn’t so eager to lose a hand… or worse for that matter.
"That's Abe and he'll do fine," Jock muttered, moving to stand. "One more round and we'll go, the lad guarding the stables will be switched out by the time we sink the last pint."
@Abelen
Colt’s presence wasn’t surprising; he was the reliable one, content to keep to the back of the group, his hands deftly checking his collection of lockpicks, ensuring their edges were sharp and ready. He had never been one for the spotlight, preferring the shadows where he could plan his next move without notice. Locks were a particular skill set, master locksmiths, even rarer and the Coterie reaped in the benefits of his craft digits. Only one figure had remained a constant in this ragtag group – Jock, the man who had orchestrated the whole operation and one of Colt’s old mentors.
Two others had come and gone, their jobs done after the dwarf, with his stout frame and the ever-present axe slung over his back, had joined them a few minutes later. Colt had pegged him as the muscle, reliable for when things needed a bit of a brawl, but he’d no idea of the one sitting across from him. They'd been quieter than Chantry mice since sitting.
Colt leaned against the chair’s back, eyes closing for a moment as his mind drifted. His attire was plain, designed to blend into the darkness – black leather with hidden pockets and blades sewn in discreetly. At the waist, a belt carried a few pouches and twin daggers, their scabbards strapped securely to his thighs, ready for any close encounters.
He rocked his chair back and forth, eyeing Jock, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
We need another?he asked casually, raising an eyebrow.
We’ve got Smithy here, and I’m handy enough if things get hairy.
He wasn’t about to get tangled up in anything that would see him dangling at the end of a rope. Like the last shitshow he’d bailed on. Stupid fuckers had picked a foolish target in the Chantry Tithe house. Mercifully, Jock wasn’t so eager to lose a hand… or worse for that matter.
"That's Abe and he'll do fine," Jock muttered, moving to stand. "One more round and we'll go, the lad guarding the stables will be switched out by the time we sink the last pint."
@Abelen
08-02-2024, 07:08 AM
