The inside of the room was taken up mostly by a reasonably sized round table, made of some sturdy wood. Another longer table sat against the wall, with two firkins of beer, a large decanter of wine, two bottles of some liquor, and a platter of light food arrayed on it. The walls were draped with velvet to muffle sound, and were without windows, but oil lamps provided plenty of light. A wooden rack with pegs had a number of cloaks hung on it, one with an ermine lining, but Doriyn elected to keep his jacket on for the time being. Four men and a woman were already here, some sitting around the table, and some standing around the drink table. All eyes went to Doriyn at the sound of the door opening, and all conversation stopped at his approach. The young man swallowed inwardly, but tried to project confidence as he walked towards the round table.
“Which of you gentlemen is Casias Wilheim?” One of the men who was sitting stood up with the aid of a thin cane topped with a brass knob cast in the shape of a lion’s head.
“That would be me, stranger. Who might you be?” The older man walked over to Doriyn. The man was a bit older than the others here, and he walked with a limp, but he was clearly hale as an oak, and the grip with which he shook Doriyn’s hand was firm. Wilheim’s iron-gray hair and beard were short and styled with beargrease, his clothes dark and well made, and his eyes a nondescript brown. Doriyn told Wilheim his name, and handed the man the letter. After reading it to himself, Wilheim flicked his eyes from the page back to Doriyn. “So you’re the one Eldred told me to expect? How is the old man? Still running his alehouse up by the Gap?” Doriyn frowned as the man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly.
“I’m…not sure how long it’s been since you saw Eldred, sir, but he has a farm and estate at the edge of the sea north of Hearthead City. Though, I suppose, if he ever did run an alehouse his would be the best.” Wilheim laughed and swept his hand over to indicate the trestle table and the drinks.
“Simply a test my boy. Had to make sure you were really the one Eldred sent my way. More infiltration these days than ever by other contractors…” the main trailed off idly. “But that’s my problem, not yours. Welcome lad. Get yourself a drink and take a seat. You’re not the last I was waiting for, but you cut it damn close, so it shouldn’t be long now.” Wilheim moved back to his seat at the table, and began to set out a map and some instruments onto the table, and one of the men moved to converse with him. Doriyn walked over to an empty seat that looked to be away from other claimed spots, and set his bag down on top of it. Then, he headed for the drink table and filled a pewter tankard to the brim with a dark red beer.
One of the other men strode to Doriyn’s side, and refilled his own mug with the same beer. “Reven Red,” the man said, staring down at Doriyn, and the young man was unsure whether the statement was the name of the man or the beer. The giant was almost a full foot taller than Doriyn, and the sides of his head were shaved almost bare before they grew into a full and plaited beard. There was no mistaking his heritage: the flashing aquamarine eyes spoke to anyone of the Thulr blood that ran in this man’s veins. The man’s accent confirmed it. “You can’t find better anywhere. Old Wilheim knows how to treat his men, yes?” Doriyn raised the tankard to his lips, and had to agree.
“Delightful. Doriyn Brynach,” he said, extending a hand to the giant.
“My name is Kohol,” the man replied, engulfing Doriyn’s hand in his own. “Good grip for an Imp,” he said simply, grinning. “Soldier’s grip.”
Doriyn did not take great offense at Kohol’s words: “Imp” was shortspeak for “Imperial,” which anyone outside of the Empire called those who made it their home. Instead, he smiled and extracted his hand from Kohol’s paw. “Apparently everyone can tell my old business at first impression. What makes it so obvious?” Before Kohol could reply, a new voice, dry and humorless broke in from the table.
“Near every man your age after leaving an army tries to break into mercenary work. Add to that your hair, the mailshirt under your jacket, the infantry dagger in your boot…well, even Kohol could make an educated guess.” Doriyn turned without humor himself towards the voice, and this time faced a man shorter than himself. This man’s quick eyes were gray, with a spark in them that told of a wasp-sharp temper, and his hair was darker than Doriyn’s own dark brown. He carried a rondel dagger, and what looked like a throwing knife at the back of his belt. Before Doriyn could respond, Kohol laughed at the man, and slapped him on the back causing the smaller man to grunt.
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“Take his hand in your own, Farko, and see if this one is worth baiting,” Kohol said before walking off and draining half his beer. The smaller man, Farko, ran his eyes up and down Doriyn’s frame, took a liquor bottle from the table, and did not extend a hand towards Doriyn.
“I can tell as well as Kohol what a man’s made of,” he grunted to Doriyn, and poured himself a tall glass of the golden liquid. “Can you?” he continued cryptically, and stalked off. Doriyn was unsure of what just transpired, but he watched Farko go and sit next to the massive Kohol. Doriyn had seen enough unlikely friendships in his own army that he was not surprised that two so different men made a mercenary pair.
Doriyn inspected the last two people who sat at the table. One was a woman with pale skin and a thin cloth tied over her eyes, who sat drinking a steaming cup of…was that coffee? A luxury not often seen in the Empire. The woman’s ponytail was ashen blonde, though tinged with gray at the temples and roots, and her dark leather jacket was reinforced with steel at the shoulders and elbows. Her head turned and nodded at Doriyn as he came to sit down with his tankard, and he could see her dark eyes beneath their veil take him in at a glance. “Ash” was all she said, in a voice that, though soft, carried as though she had shouted.
“Doriyn” he responded politely, and glanced at the last man across the table, who was conversing with Wilheim in a low voice. This man was tall and slim, and had a noble look and bearing about him, accentuated by the goblet of wine that he held between slender fingers. His long black hair was styled fashionably, his rich clothes were embroidered with gold, and a large ring flashed on his hand in the candlelight. An inelegant longsword hung from his belt; one that did not match with the rest of this man’s appearance. Only nobles and knights were allowed to carry weapons bigger than knives into taverns, and this man did not have the white belt to signify knighthood, so Doriyn surmised that he must be the former. Presumably, his was also the ermine cloak that hung on the peg by the door. Doriyn looked for the only friendly face thus far, and found Kohol a few seats away.
“Kohol; who is…” Doriyn began, but the giant cut him off.
“That be Maurice Greywich if you’re asking about the rich lad over there. Not sure if he’s the one funding this thing, but he’s got a hand in the affair no mistake.” Kohol continued conspiratorially, “Farko and I think that this whole thing has to do with his lands being taken after the war… you know, the big one.” Doriyn did. Many nobles had lost their lands and more for being on the wrong side of conflict that split the Empire in two. Heirs to those lands were often angry, seeing themselves as suffering for the sins of their fathers, and some few had managed to reclaim their old titles. By and large, however, most had to be content with a noble name and little else. Perhaps Greywich was one of these.
Pondering this, Doriyn heard the door open again behind him, and turned with the rest to see a man clasping hands with the doorward. A broad, bearded man with a mudspattered red poncho strode into the room, and immediately embraced Greywich. Despite the mud, Maurice grinned and returned the embrace. Doriyn heard the name “Aron” from Maurice, and then again from Wilheim when the two grasped hands, and then Aron ambled over to the drink table to seize his own tankard of Reven Red. Doriyn stood to introduce himself as Aron sat down a few chairs away, but then heard a sharp intake of breath from Farko, and a spluttering cough from Kohol. Wilheim smiled graciously, Aron looked surprised, Ash did not react in the slightest, and Maurice did an excellent job of maintaining a calm demeanor. Doriyn turned to see who had entered the room.
The woman surely hailed from further south than New Reven, but not southward enough to be a Southron proper. Darkly dyed leather armor covered her from boots to shoulders, form-fitting enough that Doriyn could not help himself from tracing the few curving lines as she walked. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a series of intricate braids, intermingled with threads of turquoise and silver, and a scarf of the same colors was knotted loosely about her neck. A light wool cloak was tossed easily over her shoulders, clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of a doe, and she pulled gloves without fingers off of her hands as she approached Doriyn. She smiled and patted Doriyn’s chest with the palm of her hand twice, and looked up into his bright green eyes. Her own deep amber ones sparkled as she walked past him to the drink table.
“No need to stand, dear; I’m only Hélène.”