[Duncan] Men of Avarice

7th of Saun 716

The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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Alistair
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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7th of Saun, Arc 716

It was a wet, muddy, rainy day. The rain had calmed down a bit from the prior days of torrential misery, but still the man's cloak felt damp from the days before. Alistair was a busy man - he was a surgeon here in the city as well as back at home, and a professor of contemporary surgery and anatomy. Top that off with aspiring fabled Necromancer and future Duke of Venora, and you had someone who didn't rest much better than a mistreated slave. As a result, this process of clamping down on the earth with mounds of skypiss and the amounts of mud that came as a result didn't suit his interests. He preferred the dry, basic temperatures or even the cold ones. Venora tended to have weather he found far more suitable than the bloody capital, and he was sure that the soil back at home was richened rather than turned into piles of brown gunk like here.

Even so, he trekked through the city of Andaris in the district that encompassed his home. There were some who recognized him in the capital, mainly Venorans who had come to work here or former patients of his. Many of the working men and women had come out today to continue their duties, as the rain had begun to die down more notably. Alistair too was out to accomplish some tasks for Saun, especially as his mobility would be quite limited due to the oncoming war. So - here was his goal for the morning; find some patients to gather some coinage for the coming of the next cycle, research the limitations of his minions and their physical capabilities, then find a nice scenic restaurant to lay patronage to as he would read the Lamentations of the Physical Form by Ser Robert Buxley of Burhan.

There was no better time for a doctor to find patients than amidst a war. Men who were dying, men who were afraid of dying, and men who merely wanted to ensure that their bladder would tolerate the stress of a siege. The only question was where to gather this list of patrons. Unlike in Sabaissant, he would not merely have a fellow or lady drop off at his feet by carriage, nor would he receive a fancy letter smelling of lilacs. The people of Andaris were far more practical. Alistair looked for any individual who didn't seem quite busy, and then spotted a young man who seemed to be staring at him from a short distance away. "Ser Alistair," the man called to him. The Venoran drew closer and asked, "Yes?" as he stared him up and down. Likely of a lower economic class, perhaps ex-slave based on the rancid scent of his breath. He could gather that from the breathing alone.

"I know ye, milord. Ye be a surgeon, eh? I'd like ti ask ya a favor." The man could already begin to feel the doom. He only wished he could charge these street urchins for wasting his time. "Me back's get a crick in it, like this sah," he said and began to crack his back. It was an uncomfortable sort of 'crunch' sound, one that Alistair had encountered before. "Could ye help me?" He asked. The man narrowed his eyes, and looked at him. "Perhaps. Could you do me a favor?" The boy nodded his head. "I'm looking for a place to find . . . contracts of sorts, or requests for some. I'm looking for more patients to operate on in response to the coming war - sure to be lots of military men that want to top off their health. You catch my drift?" The urchin smiled and nodded his head.

"Aye, a wonderful idea, milord! You richly types 'ave always been good at the whole money-makin' thing!" He paused for a moment, then quickly responded to the question. "Well, there be a notice board by a tavern over yonder, few streets forward or whatever. I could show ya to it if you'd like," he offered. Alistair rubbed his chin. "Sure," he said. He knew the young man was just trying to butter him up to get a discounted or free surgery, but he would follow along anyhow. He didn't wish to waste time searching for the board if he could be led directly to it by one of the native peasants.

And so they went, and within a few short minutes they were there, in front of a large board with a variety of sections and requests to be filled within all of them. The poor individual looked to the nobleman, and nodded. "So, ye be willin' to help me out in exchange?" He asked. Indeed, he wanted it free. How cute of him, Alistair thought. "No. Begone, peasant." He waved his hand and ordered the man away, to which he replied with a shocked look and a face that screamed swelling anger. But he said nothing, and left. After all, Alistair was a lord. His word was to be followed.

The Venora read up on the contracts, propositions, requests for patronage, advertisements and notices. A lot of these sections were very interesting. The list of those who wished for a doctor's assistance was indeed large, especially as this was a big city, certainly surpassing Sabaissant in people and industry. A lot of these requests were really irritating to read, though. Certainly the literacy here wasn't quite how it was in Sabaissant.

Lukin for aed

Doctur riqested. Pls send help. Me mum is droawnin in her own piss

Lindsay Foxtrout. find me at da bookers house in lorton. i giv yu 12sn for yur aed


He quite actually laughed at that one, which was probably something that only happened in Alistair's life once per season. He'd have to use that from now on, spelling and all. Me mum is droawnin in her own piss! he'd write. As for the contract itself, he'd turn it down. Twelve silver nels was just not enough - some of his surgeries were a whole of a hundred gold nels, even more for the most extreme of them. It was a waste of time to perform what had to be a kidney related surgery for so little.

LORD DOCTOR

I AM REQUESTING ASSISTANCE AT THE BEHEST OF LADY KYLE BRADLEY OF FOLTEST.

SHE WISHES ONE TO UNCOVER THE SOURCE OF HER UNGODLY YEARNING FOR THE FLESH OF MEN. SUSPECTED NECROMANTIC CURSE AT HAND. WILL PAY REGARDLESS FOR YOUR TIME.

- MALCOM TARLEY, 1138 SELVORA LANE


"Oh god, I can't!" He laughed again. Perhaps this wasn't merely a seasonal thing. Her ungodly yearning for the flesh of men? If he had a quill, he'd write: perhaps she's just loose. - Doctor Venora; he'd even slap on the bloody family seal. And as a Necromancer, the assertion that they had curses to make one consistently aroused was just odd. Probably? Maybe? God, he didn't even know. He'd have to ask Damien that one. He gave up on the silly patient requests for now, deciding he needed to calm his laughter before he continued. He looked at other sections of the large board, and his eye glanced upon something that intrigued him.

Mercenary/Personal Bodyguard for Hire. Willing to discuss terms of agreement upon meeting.

I'll be in the tavern this board neighbors. - Duncan Oisin, Mercenary


Mercenary, he repeated in his head. He actually quite needed one to properly operate his business considering the whole laborious process of dealing with the incoming war, siege and dismantling of the current monarchy. Not to mention he'd always liked the name Duncan. Arbitrary characteristics didn't often sell a man for Alistair, but he was bored and the man was close-by. He figured he could give it a shot, so to speak. The man walked to the front of the tavern, all prim and proper with his noble attire and a doctor's kit in his left hand. A few of the men immediately gave him an interesting look, and he merely smiled in return. The pin on his suit was that of the symbol of Venora, but gold, meaning he was evidently one of exceptionally high birth. People immediately looked away, while some bowed their heads for the formality. Alistair waved back.

He looked for this mercenary with his eyes, scouting out the room. Many of the men looked strong and hardy, here, so that only narrowed it down quite a tiny amount. Some of them had professional equipment for the sake of, well, soldiering. That narrowed it down to three. A dark skinned man with brown, curly hair, sort of similar in appearance to his undead minion Alaric. An exceptionally pale man with black hair and green eyes. Then, a man with dirty blond hair and a more rugged look to him, of moderate but light skin. He didn't know who to ask first, so he merely said quite notably, "Do we have a Duncan here? Lord Venora requests him for a conversation."
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Last edited by Alistair on Thu Aug 18, 2016 7:25 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1532
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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Duncan's day had been slow - but he supposed unemployment would do that - and Duncan had spent most of the day in the one spot, waiting and hoping for some interested in his services, or perhaps even word from Madame Alessa that she was in need of a worker for the night. He wasn't a particularly picky man, he liked being a mercenary, but bar-tending and whoring was just as good, especially when he was in need of the coin.

He had made himself comfortable at the small wooden table, reclined comfortably with his feet propped up on the chair across from him, his mug in one hand and the other hand resting comfortably against his belly. The tavern was busy enough, the majority of it's table's occupied and the bartender rushing from one side of the bar to the other. The occupants of the tavern were varied, with large gruff men boxed in next to small groups of attractive courtesans and whore's, they're low cut bodices and fluttering lashes snatching Duncan's attention in each spare moment. Duncan found the juxtaposition rather entertaining and oddly satisfying to look at.

He tried his best, however, to keep his gaze from lingering on any one person for too long, lest he cause some trouble. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown out of the tavern- he had few other options when it came to where he could spend his time. His camp was an option, but the prospect of sitting in the dirt surrounded by nothing but the wilderness wasn't something Duncan would prefer. The House of Roses was always a nice option, but he found himself spending too much coin whenever he visited. There was little Duncan could to to deny a pretty face, and the whore's knew that and took advantage of that fact as they should.

Duncan's people-watching was interrupted, When a man towards the front of the tavern called out over the chatter. Duncan glanced up at the mention of his name and stood, tall and confident as his right hand fell to rest comfortably on the pommel of his Gladius. "That would be me." He called across the room to the other man, and he raised his eyebrow questioningly as he gestured to the chair across from him. "Why don't you join me, Lord?" He continued, all but biting his tongue to hold back any sarcastic remarks about the man's status. He wasn't a particular fan of the aristocracy, though he did his best to keep his opinions to himself. He wasn't enough of an ass to limit his clientele because of some stereotypes.

Once the Venoran had gotten close enough, Duncan retook his seat, leaning back to study the other man, eye's sharp and assessing. He looked of a similar height as himself, though not quite as broad across the shoulders. He seemed fit enough, and attractive, not as meticulously primped as other aristocrats Duncan had met. "No need to introduce myself I suppose. I assume you're interested in hiring my services?" Duncan questioned, holding out a hand for the other man to shake. "Good to meet you all the same, I'm flattered to be of interest to the gentry." Duncan paused, not sure what would be deemed rude or polite, and lent a moment to decide if he really cared about his own manner. He was a mercenary, not a etiquette teacher, and surely this man wouldn't expect much. "Can I get you a drink?" Duncan questioned finally, smiling suavely as he reclined comfortably.
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Last edited by Duncan Oisin on Thu Aug 18, 2016 10:30 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 610
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"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,
and when you move fall like a thunderbolt"
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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It was to be the blond one, then. The look of the man was indeed rugged, as he'd expected. He was however relatively proper in how he spoke, even referring to Alistair as 'Lord' which seemed uncommon of his ilk. House Venora had hired mercenaries before, of course. Many of them were from Krome if he'd recalled, and many more within them were highly rude and improper. That wasn't to say Alistair obsessed with noble pleasantries, but he did expect formality on his first meeting with someone, especially if they were of a lower social class than him. That wasn't to say he looked down on them, but he couldn't have his reputation smeared by being seen as someone who allows unknown peasantry to speak with him on a first name basis, for example. The Gazette was harsh on Alistair already, even despite the fact that his brother was the editor.

"Join you I shall," he replied. The man took a seat across from Duncan, his hands locked together and laying against his lap as the man stared into the mercenary's eyes. He seemed . . . decent. Perhaps he sensed awkwardness. Was the man comfortable speaking to nobility? Many were not. Many feared that Alistair would call upon their beheading merely for the insult of their presence. Such power over the commoners was something they no longer directly held, except for those who engaged in treasonous activities. Even so, the divide between the wealthiest of Rynmere and the most basic of citizens was strong. Alistair saw it everywhere, and in every conversation. Even the peasant he'd only just spoken to was afraid of him. He sensed it immediately.

But Duncan was not . . . afraid, per say. He could tell. Perhaps the other man, too, was merely judging the situation. "No need to introduce yourself," the man responded. He broke his constant stare. "You are Duncan Oisin, as you answered to that name. I am Alistair Venora, first son of Willow Venora and heir to the Duchy of Roses. I would waste no time with dalliances and the buying of undesired drinks, nor the tense silence of a conversation between strangers. You are a mercenary, I am a Lord. Let us move straight to negotiations." The man would perhaps be surprised by Alistair's intolerance of side conversation. It was not always that he was so straightforward, but this current environment was one that he could not properly feel comfortable in. Alaric and Grayson were not here to protect him, and he was a Great Lord isolated in a dwelling of poverty, and during a war nonetheless. The last thing he would do would be to allow himself to become inebriated.

"It is the seventh of Saun. The season lives on for an additional thirty three days. Veljorn Burhan marches through the capital at a time estimated to be shortly after the twentieth, and through my homeland on the fifteenth. I would employ you for the remainder of Saun to stand as my guard during this tumultuous period. Additionally I will allow you lodging in one of the guest rooms of Sabaissant du Cristel, the Palace of Venora, when we are not in Andaris. The daily wage you may ask for is negotiable, and depends on your resume. So, instead of unrelated information about yourself," he made sure to emphasize, "tell me a story - and not the fictional sort - of a feat that you have performed in the service of another, or of a display of your great skill. I want to know the competence of the man I'm hiring. That is a requirement."

Always the harsh and broody sort, he was. And it was the Venoran custom to inquire of a soldier's great deeds and triumphs before taking them on. It was a part of their theatric culture, one could suppose, and Alistair thought nothing of it. "This is worthy enough of your evident desire for socialization, yes? I'll even throw in a story about myself in response." He smirked, faintly. The pretenses of this conversation had been shifted to what he wanted them to be, and Duncan would have to impress him to get the gold. Alistair had a funny way of doing business, one that the mercenary could appreciate or despise; the results would be the same, indeed.
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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Duncan listened, an eyebrow raised as the other man listed off his bloodline and titles in short succession, his tone clipped and cold. The mercenary paid close attention however, to the points that were brought up and the efficient description of exactly what the lord was after. Duncan appreciated the bluntness, and listened with satisfaction as the man before him laid out exactly what he wanted, not bothering with any embellishments or frills. While the promise of pay was usually the only enticement Duncan needed, for anything really, the prospect of sleeping in a palace instead of the cold hard ground, was a great encouragement.

Duncan hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arm's comfortably over his chest. He'd never had a client ask for proof of his experiences as a mercenary, so for a moment Duncan was stumped as to what his answer might be. The majority of his stories were rather bland and straight forward, usually nothing more that throwing about drunks and finishing off pickpockets and would be attackers. He'd worked for the nobility more than once, and while his presence mostly worked as a deterrent, there had been times when he'd had to dirty his blade. None of those instances seemed particularly interesting to him, and were mostly the run of the mill situations one encountered in a city as large as Andaris.

He raked his mind for any possible story to tell, taking a long draw of ale before a possibility occurred to him. As a child Duncan had never learned to read or write, and once he'd began his first work as a prostitute, the former owner of the House of Roses had demanded he learn. The only method available to him had been the bawdy erotic novellas the House provided for their patrons. Funnily enough, the novella he'd chosen had been the one to set him on his path as a mercenary, and was now going to help him in that profession again.

"Well," He drawled slowly, his smile lopsided and playful as he ignored the nobles request for none fictional story. What the lordling didn't know wouldn't hurt him, after all. "There was this one time, when I was hired to escort a young maiden from Krom to Andaris so that she could be married to some fat old noble. We were travelling by carriage of course, when on the fifth day we were attacked by bandits. Three or four, armed to the teeth and in search of any valuables we might have. They'd dug a ditch in the road, and the carriage had snapped a axle. The maiden and her maids stayed inside of course, myself, the driver and a private guard going to inspect the damage."

Duncan paused to take another drink of ale, using the moment to decide where his story would go. "They ambushed us, two of the bandits making straight for the caravan, the other two making for us men. Between myself and the guard we dealt with them easily." He flapped his hand for emphasis, shoulders drawing up and back down in a shrug. "Though they did take out the driver. Then we turned our attention to the carriage. The hand maidens had been slaughtered, and one of the bandits was wrestling with the maiden. They probably planned to take her for ransom, at least, I would have in their shoes. Anyway, the other bandit rushed us and took the guard by surprise, plunging a dagger into his neck. I cut him down before he got the chance to turn on me." Duncan drummed his fingers against the wooden table, setting down his now empty cup to pin his gaze fully on Alistair, his smile slowly growing wider the deeper into the story he got. "The bandit had overpowered the maiden by then, and held his knife to her neck. For a moment we faced off, sussing each other out."

"Then!" He exclaimed, gripping the pommel of his gladius for emphasis, his eye's gleaming with delight, really getting into his story. "I raised my trusty gladius and took a step closer. The bandits eyes bulged, and the blade pressed even deeper into the maidens throat, drawing a slow trickle of blood. It was then that I knew I'd never get close enough to save her, not without him acting first. So I raised my arm, gladius held steady, and with an almighty swing, I threw my sword." Leaning forward once more, Duncan propped his elbows on the small wooden table, his eyebrows arching and his smile sly. "It sailed through the air, and with the greatest accuracy I've ever witnessed in my life, the gladius pierced the bandit through the brow, a fountain of blood spraying forth." Duncan smirked, the scene he was painting in his head was rather entertaining, if only for the fact that he doubted if it was at all possible. "I believe Raskalarn guided my sword that day, it's only a matter of time before she blesses me." He added, a small part of him flinching and hoping the immortal wouldn't take offence at his fib.

"Cutting the rest short, I drew the pretty maiden up onto a horse and rode the rest of the way to Andaris, and needless to say she was very grateful, which she showed accordingly." He finished, drawing his story to an end with a satisfied sigh. He cast his gaze over Alistair once more, attempting to gauge his reaction, though finding it almost impossible. "Well, what do you think? Is that a great enough display of skill for you?" He leant even closer, smile lopsided and barely restraining a wink. The ale was starting to work it's magic, though he usually needed no help when it came to inappropriate flirting. It was something Alistair would have to learn to deal with, should he decide Duncan was indeed skilled enough. "And what of your story, Lord? I'm very interested."
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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The whole story was interesting. Duncan guarding the fair maiden to Andaris - though she was from Krome so probably not so fair - and battling several bandits who wished to claim her for ransom. The oddity was in the fact that he so easily admitted that basically everyone but himself and the target died on the journey, but in Alistair's mind - one which was limited in its grasp of martial combat - this only made the story more authentic.

So, the man saved the maiden's life by launching his gladius directly into the skull of her would-be murderer? That was a grand display of skill, he had to confess. Such accuracy was something Alistair had only seen in Venora's tourneys in Sabaissant, of the sharpshooters that came to compete. But they guided arrows from a shaft, not launching blades from fingertips in such daring attempts. After all, if he'd missed, Duncan right now would likely be dead as well as his likely boorish maid of Krome.

The Necromancer was immediately interested, he had to confess. "Interesting," he replied. "My favorite part was where everyone else died and the maiden nearly did as well," he said teasingly. He understood that no situation was perfect, and even legends of the battlefield could fail to defend their objective. The fact was he succeeded in defending his mark, and he acted with bravery and precision. That was all Alistair required. After all, Duncan would not be his only source of protection anyhow; there was still Alaric, Grayson, Damien. All three of them undead of course and one of them the sentient sort - a Lich - but either way, the man would very possibly be a fine addition to the crew. The nobleman couldn't help but acknowledge his story as adequate, if not excellent compared to the storytelling abilities of your average citizen of Andaris.

"That is sufficient - very heroic," the Necromancer said almost coyly in response to Duncan's lopsided smile and uncomfortably suave tone. He couldn't tell if he was just the jovial sort or if he was rather awkwardly flirting, though Alistair thought little of it regardless. He was far too awkward and sexually repressed to think much of flirtation, and he'd moved far past the phase of being terrified and flustered every time an attractive man glanced at him too keenly. He merely said nothing, giving him a forced lopsided smile in return, as if teasing him.

"As promised, here is a story of my own."

He honestly did not really have one properly prepared, as Duncan's story of conflict and valor was far too interesting and Alistair had become lost within it. However, something very interesting had happened only this Ashan, and so he supposed he could share it with the young mercenary in exchange.

And this story was very factual, with Alistair very much sweating the details. "In Ashan, in the Andaris Library, I was reading tongue-twisters on the second floor and having a crass conversation with one of the functionally illiterate gentlemen of the city. He was reading a children's book or something and kept implying my lack of intelligence. As this unfortunate exchange had begun to go truly sour, a group of screaming men busted into the library and began wailing about how a man had been stabbed and was dying. There was blood, there was commotion. A large stab wound in his chest." He supposed both of them dealt with their fair share of carnage, though Alistair was rather the healer of it than the one inflicting it. But regardless, they were merely two sides of the same coin, and the Venora would gladly be the one enacting this violence if it was to defend his own prerogatives.

The man pointed at his head, and bit his lower lip. "The man's stab wound was not the depth of the issue. By now dozens had gathered, and I had the burly ones hold him down and apply pressure to his stab wound by using a leather brace. They stopped the flow of blood and reduced his blood-loss, while others held down his head which I realized had several blunt trauma wounds. Now, this is where the story gets interesting: I was sure that the reason for his unconsciousness was not the blood loss, but rather the extreme blunt trauma evident on his skull. So... I literally drilled into his skull with one of my tools and discovered shards of his damaged skull threatening to puncture his brain." It was a grim thought, and a grim reality. Alistair laid his elbows against the table and sighed.

"It was terrible. Half the crowd was crying, covering their mouths, praying to Moseke. Everyone was sure he would die. But I knew I could save him. I broke into his head very cautiously and plucked out all of the fragments of his shattered skull from his brain. The operation took hours, and by the end he was in critical condition. A large hospice crew came to assist me by the end, and together we managed to save the man's life. This was a surgery I had performed with almost no experience in skull surgery, and apparently it was one that had only been done successfully by a handful of skilled doctors in Rynmere. I was given a large sum by the library and the man himself, who obtained his wound due to the rage of another who he had beaten decisively in gambling."

Alistair was proud of himself, mostly because the story was actually true. That day was a pretty grand day to be Ali Venora, and no man could say otherwise. He felt like the local messianic figure after that whole ordeal, and he'd gotten at least thirty tearful observers demanding hugs of him and kisses to his cheeks and forehead. Awkward for someone who was so afraid of intimacy, but he made an exception for the adoring crowd.

He could only digress, trying not to divert this conversation to a story about his clutch medical skills. He had failed too many operations to be that proud of his successful ones. "Anyhow," he moved the conversation. "I can tell you are very nonchalant about the distinctive separation in our social class. That is fine by me, Duncan. I merely hope that you can respect that as your employer, I am more than just a pompous nobleman requiring praise and glory. I earn it. I save lives, and work for a living. I do not ask for your services so that I may feel safe hiding behind my castle walls, but rather so that I can operate indiscreetly as a doctor and scientist without fear of criminals seeking to damage my enterprise. Can you tolerate such a man - the prodigal son of the bourgeois class working in the dumps of Andaris to treat toe infections?" He looked to the mercenary with a smirk, and leaned back into his chair. He could smell inebriation everywhere. Despite this, he actually found the current conversation to be one that was quite... pleasant.
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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"I was only paid to guard the lass." Duncan grunted defensively, though he kept his tone light. Alistair seemed to have eased up, and he wasn't interested in causing him to close off any further. "And besides, she made it to her fiance with nothing but a scratch." Duncan added, a light laugh escaping him as he realized he was being defensive of a made up story. He was pleased to hear that Alistair believed and approved of his story, and Duncan sat a little straighter, donning a satisfied smirk, his attention fixed intently on Alistair as he began his own tale.

The story, though rather short and matter of fact, did much to illustrate the rather large differences between the two men. Duncan for one, could count on one hand the amount of times he had even stepped foot inside a library. More than that however, was the rather large difference in vocabulary and education. Though Duncan understood quite well what was being said, there was still a handful of words that he had never heard uttered in his life. Instead of causing him frustration, or to loose interest however, Duncan instead listened intently, filing each word and it's assumed meaning, away for later though. Or, more accurate, to ask Alessa when he saw her next. For now though, the last thing Duncan wanted was for his potential employer to think him stupid, so he kept his questions to himself.

He listened, entranced as the lord told his story, his mouth opening in awe as the other man detailed drilling into the skull of another. Never had he ever heard of such a thing being done, and the pure fact that it was even possible to do such a thing and then have the patient survive was blowing Duncan's mind. The tale was so incredible that for a moment Duncan wondered if the Lord had used his imagination as much as he had. It only took a moment of consideration before the mercenary dismissed that thought; Alistair was clearly an extremely well educated man, and Duncan didn't doubt that he was capable of such an act.

"Amazing. I never even imagined such a thing was possible." Duncan replied once Alistair was finished. "And he truly survived? And was normal as well?" He questioned. Duncan had heard of people, mostly other mercenaries, who had gone a bit funny after a good blow to the head. Perhaps it will do me well to know such a man. He thought to himself. At least I'll know a good doctor to go to if I should ever need aid. "A shame I missed out on the show, it sounds like an event that will go down in the history books."

Duncan returned his attention to the matter at hand as Alistair changed the subject. He was happy to hear that the noble was against the sycophantic behaviors others seemed to adore, and Duncan was beginning to get the feeling that the two would get on well enough. Certainly, Alistair seemed a bit odd, and a tad more socially stiff than what Duncan was used to, but it was easily preferable to some simpering old man that wanted protection for no other reason than he was rich and paranoid. Besides, the longer the conversation lasted, the more enjoyable Alistair's company became. Duncan assumed the same would happen as they spent more time in each other's company. "If I couldn't tolerate you, Lord Venora, I would have left quite a while ago." Duncan returned.

Leaning his weight comfortably on the armrest of his chair, he added playfully, "Since you're more than a pompous nobleman, must I refer to you as 'Lord'?" Duncan knew he'd start to find the honorific tiring given a while. He didn't need to constantly be sprouting 'Lord' this and 'Lord' that to know there was a difference between the two. That was shown clearly from the way they spoke, how they dressed and the manner in which they act. "If it make's you more comfortable, I'm more than happy to go with 'Boss', rather than your actual name." Duncan added with a cheeky smile.

Happy with how things were playing out, Duncan straightened in his seat and pushed his empty mug to the side. "Well, since this seems to be going along well, I'll let you know my rate's. For each day of service I charge 2gn. Any injuries I gain while guarding you are to be paid for by yourself as well, but since you're a doctor I doubt that's of much concern." Duncan added with a shrug. If he was going to put his health on the line for anyone, it was a good bonus that that person was likely able to save his life in return.
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"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,
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Alistair
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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"He survived indeed," the man responded. And was he normal? A good question. The doctor hadn't really investigated further after the case, so he could only assume yes considering he'd heard nothing more on the matter. Additionally, he was given a tithe by the individual, so surely he had some sapience remaining. Alistair nodded, despite being quite unsure.

As for Duncan's comment about his continued presence here being evidence of tolerance for the Lord, the Venora could only faintly smile. Duncan was very . . . autonomous in nature. Your typical noble wouldn't have been a fan of him, surely. But Alistair was quite atypical, especially when it came to his behavior and his beliefs. And so he agreed upon it - fine - he began. "I'll allow you to call me... boss," he grinned. Boss. That had a sweet ring to it. Much more 'street' than My Lord and all that. In a way, it felt like progress. Not all that stigma attached to it.

Alistair noticed, that people were growing tired of the nobility. The greater educated they became, the more technology at their disposal, the more they would begin to detach themselves from authoritative rule. So while the peasants who couldn't summate a proper moment of wit often hailed and worshiped him, those distinctive from their foolish peers didn't often enjoy his presence. This wasn't the first time he'd been asked if he could skip the whole 'Lord' title and just be treated as any other. It wouldn't be the last.

But it was the first time he would accept, and say yes. Because there was something about Duncan that he had a good feeling about. Perhaps it was the ridiculousness of his coy smiles or his cheeky grins. Even thinking this now felt like absurdity, but he acknowledged his charm. And he charged a very decent rate, as well! Two gold nels a day was very approachable. The nobleman accepted.

"Indeed," he replied. "Two a day. Eventually more if you prove yourself, and if I have use for you after the war has ended."

The man stood up. Now that negotiations had been made, there was no longer any reason to dangle about. He flicked two gold nels onto the table in front of Duncan, his pay for the day. "Alright. We will get to work immediately then. I have a client in the northwestern area of the city who has called upon my expertise. Well, not them directly, but their doctor. Someone needing an individual with talent in surgery." He gestured for Duncan to follow, and began to make his way immediately to the location. He would be late for this appointment without due haste.

- - -

Half a break past, the two men arrived at the home of the individual he'd been called upon to assist. Alistair looked very jovial with his bodyguard attached and looking all official behind him, with the man shining his golden Venora pin more obviously now that the chance of random street mugging had been decreased by the evident armed assistant. The man knocked on the burly wooden door, marveling at the white painted walls of the sophisticated villa. It sat on a tiny little hill no taller than a man, but still it overlooked a large area around it. There was a fountain in the front yard that shimmered beneath the light, with a stone statue of the Immortal Zanik playing a lute in the center. Charming. This estate looked like one you'd find in Venora.

After a brief wait, the door was answered. An old woman opened the door, but only slightly. She looked very raggedy considering the location, which was a bit odd, but the doctor said nothing. He smiled fakely as she opened, and began to speak.
"Greetings," he started, "I am Doctor Venora." The woman immediately raised a brow. "Venora? Are you Lord Alistair?" To which he nodded. "Hm . . ." she pondered. "Never told me I'd be getting a fuckin' Lord . . ." she muttered to herself. He could barely make out the words, but heard her nonetheless. Again, surprisingly common considering the wealth of her home.

"Are you a servant?" He asked her, bluntly. "Ah, yes," she replied. "I am indeed. Of a Lord in his own right." Alistair nodded. That made a lot more sense. The woman invited the two men inside, giving Duncan a strange look as he would pass her by, followed by a brief touch on the shoulder. "It's not worth it," she would whisper to the Mercenary as he followed behind Alistair. "You should go."

As the surgeon entered the primary lobby of the building, he saw his patient sprawled out on a table. He was wearing armor, and had what looked like a gash on his left arm. The Necromancer quirked an eyebrow. "How did he come upon this wound? And why lay down like that if it's merely a gash?" He asked the woman. She lowered her head and replied, "it's gotten dearly infected," she said. "Man can hardly stay awake these days. I dunno what I should do, milord. So please, just give him a looksie, alright?" She moved to the doorway and stared at the doctor from afar. Alistair leaned over to investigate the wound, and he placed his palm near the gash to feel the temperature around it. He felt very . . . normal. He was warm. In fact, his breathing patterns were normal too.

"Duncan, I-" as the man turned his head slightly to presumably ask the Mercenary for aid, the man on the table sprung up and punched Alistair against the head. The man reeled back, his back thudding against the wall as blood ran from his nose. He coughed. The 'injured' fellow grabbed a scimitar from his scabbard, pointing his sword at Duncan. Meanwhile the old woman seemed to practically morph right in front of him - her facade disappeared, and in fact she was a young and brutish looking woman with a multitude of scars covering her face. "Ser Axton sends his regards!" She screamed.

Axton?

She pulled out a dagger and went for Alistair, while the man - who was lean and wearing light armor - spoke quietly to Duncan. "The doctor's the mark. No need to interfere."
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Duncan Oisin
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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The house was impressive, and situated in a part of the city that Duncan generally had little need to be in, and so the mercenary eyed the garden with appreciation and curiosity as they made their was to the door. The fountain of Zanik caught his eye, and Duncan smiled, half wanting to slip a coin as offering into the water, but he refrained, not wanting the owners to gain from him anymore money than they already had. Duncan leaned around Alistair to watch as the door opened. The lords jovial manner surprised him, and Duncan raised a brow as he watched him speak with the woman. They have enough money for a home like this. Duncan thought. Surely they could afford staff that didn't look like they'd been scraped off the gutter.

Duncan eyed the old woman, his brow furrowed at her words. An odd thing to say, and words that made no sense to him, especially coming from someone he'd never even set eyes on in his life. He twisted away from her touch, sparing her a last, confused glance before making his way after Alistair. As the lord stopped by the table, Duncan made his way around to room to stand across from him, looking down at the injured man. A feeling of unease was twisting in Duncan's gut, and his gaze darted between the old woman at the door, the man on the table, and then to Alistair, as his new employer felt about the man's injured arm.

Then, without warning, the table all but exploded with movement, Alistair being knocked back and the injured man shooting up, drawing his sword and facing Duncan. His unease proven accurate, Duncan darted back from the table, wasting no time in drawing his gladius and setting his feet wide. "Back off, or I'll beat you into the ground." Duncan snarled in return, a fierce smile splitting his face as he studied the other man. The short blade of the gladius was well suited to such close range and had advantage over the scimitar, a sword designed for wide, slashing blows. On the down side, the man had the added protection of armour, while Duncan wore only his clothes. The man only frowned at him however, rolling his shoulders and brandishing the scimitar. Duncan wasn't about to waste time arguing with the man, and instead cast a subtle eye around himself, searching for a distraction.

Sparing a last glance in Alistair's direction, Duncan snatched up a nearby stool, flinging it at the man with a yell. Without waiting to see the reaction, Duncan rushed forward - the man raising his arm over his face to knock the stout chair back - and jabbed his gladius forward in a smooth, well practised motion. The scimitar was raised it return, the attacker getting it up just in time to block Duncan's blow, the two blades catching together. Duncan pressed forward, until he had the man backed into the table he had previously been laying on. The two struggled for a moment, swords sliding against one another for a bit before the other mans defence gave, Duncan taking immediate advantage of the momentary weakness. He drew the gladius up and slashed it down again in quick succession, the blade biting into the flesh of the other mans bicep. He cried out, and Duncan pressed on, drawing his arm back for another blow, but was stopped as the man lashed out, landing a kick to Duncan's knee. Grunting, the mercenary fell back a step, guard rising automatically and elbows pulled in tight, ready to block an incoming blow. His attacker however, had switched hands, facing him with blood running down his right arm and face pinched in pain.

After a tense moment, the other swords man finally moved, scimitar swinging in a low arc. His strength and coordination was clearly affected by the clumsiness of his non-dominant hand, and Duncan deflected the blow with relative ease, returning it with a sharp chopping motion to the mans hip. The blow landed with a satisfying thump, the blade slicing into his unprotected side with ease. He roared in pain again, his knees buckling, then slumping to his knees as Duncan withdrew the gladius with a sharp tug. Not wanting to waste any more time with the man, Duncan seized him by the hair and slammed him face first into the corner of the table with as much force as he could muster. He dropped the man and turned, ignoring the groan of pain as he crumpled into a bleeding heap on the stone floor.

Turning, Duncan fixed his attention on Alistair and the woman, gaze sharp as he tried to figure out what had happened in the short moments he'd been occupied. Gladius in hand he rushed around the table, ready for the next fight.
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Alistair
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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While Duncan engaged in an epic battle with the hired blade, Alistair was far too occupied to notice. The woman came bolting at him with a dagger in hand, and she lunged straight for his neck. The man grabbed it - barely - with the blade cutting into his palm and digging in. He grabbed it tightly, despite the damage being done to his hand. He groaned. It was painful, but he had to hold, or she could slip through and stab him through the jugular.

Adrenaline rushed through him, inspired by the pain and the fear of death. He punched the woman in the face with his dominant hand, loosening her grip on the dagger enough for him to wrestle it away from her. But his hand could barely hold it now; he dropped it immediately, cursing under his breath. The woman balled her fist and it landed hard against his cheek. It was almost dizzying. The man wiped blood from his nose. His vision blurred for a moment, and when he regained sight, she was rushing at him again, the two of them entangling arms and wrestling one another. He had to use it - magic. He was going to die otherwise. Duncan wasn't going to save him fast enough.

The man spat on her face as they wrestled, his saliva launching into her left eye. She groaned and growled angrily, though her grip on him weakened momentarily. Alistair used that brief period of time to swat away her arm and press his palm against her face. She reached for his neck in return, but as her arm began to extend, the Necromancer had begun channeling energy into his palm. A heat - like a corrosive acid - began to swarm her face and melt away at her flesh. She screamed in anguish, swatting at him wildly as he pressed her against the floor and melted her eyes into her skull. Her face began to completely corrode. The screaming intensified.

"Help me, Breljor!" She screamed. Evidently the name of the other mercenary, or whatever these people were. Bandits. Assassins. Didn't matter. Alistair glanced over and watched as Duncan secured the final blow. He rose from the ground and ceased his corrosion, beginning to stomp hard against her skull. Sounds of bashing, cracking and bludgeoning resonated in the place of screams, and blood poured out from her head and wet the floors. Alistair's palm returned to normal, the energy receding to his body. Blood from his palm trickled onto her bludgeoned complexion. The necromancer winced in pain.

"Shit," he groaned. "What in Syroa's twat was that?" They didn't tell Alistair anything. Not a single hint, not a villainous monologue before they began their work. Lord Axton sends his regards or whatever. Not good enough. He held up his palm to his face. Painful, but numbing. His body was trying to shut it out. The man stared at his wound and examined it as quickly as he could. Luckily he brought his medical tools with him. He quickly set down his kit, sat on his knees, and began bandaging his hand. It was difficult with only one free, but he did what he could, biting one side to keep it steady as he weaved with the other; Alistair would use his damn toes if he had to.

When the bandage was secured around his palm, he cut it and kept it from loosening with a tight wrap. It would coagulate his blood via the pressure, and he could disinfect it later. Later, because it couldn't be now. Now, he was dizzy, and weak. Fading. And he'd lost a lot more blood than one would like. The onset of exhaustion was coming on. He could feel fatigue consuming him now - he was becoming weak. Fragile. "Duncan," he quietly called for the man who was to be his bodyguard. His face lit up with a ridiculous smile.

"Good thing I hired you," he said, weakly laughing. "Could you help me? I can't rightly feel one of my hands, and the other feels like it's shaking. I can't focus. She did me good." He hoped the man wouldn't notice what happened to the woman's face. He did his best to cover it up by bashing her skull in with his boots, but unfortunately she still looked quite... melted. There was nothing he could do to conceal that. "I'll pay you extra for the wildness of today. I'm sorry. I didn't expect to have to put you to work so soon." He had to say, that was probably the first time someone had tried to assassinate him with the pretext of a surgical operation. At least it was a learning experience.
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Duncan Oisin
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[Duncan] Men of Avarice

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Duncan skidded to a halt, panting slightly as he watched Alistair finish off the woman. He wasn't quite sure whether to be impressed or intimidated, and settled on a bit of both. A sliver of guilt joined the mix as Alistair raised his hand, blood trickling thickly down his wrist. It was Duncan's job to guard the noble from harm, and not even a trial had passed before Alistair had hired him before he'd been injured. Brow furrowed, Duncan watched silently as Alistair bandaged his hand, realizing after a moment that he still stood with his gladius drawn. Sighing, Duncan moved past Alistair to wipe the blade clean on the dead woman's pants, resolutely avoiding looking at the mess that was her head.

Alistair called, and Duncan sheathed his sword, moving to his side. Despite everything, the two dead bodies, the blood smeared across his face, the other man was smiling, and Duncan couldn't help but smile in return. "You okay Boss?" He asked quietly, hand dropping to Alistair's shoulder. "Your nose is bleeding." He said, reaching out to wipe his fingers across Alistair's chin, holding his hand up so that the noble could see. Dropping his hand he wiped it on the leg of his pants. "You handled her well." He replied, with a squeeze to Alistair's shoulder, before crouching to help him up, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other at his bicep. "You sure you need me at all?" He joked half-heartedly, moving around to stand by the nobles side, one arm going around his back as he moved them both towards the door.

Duncan shook his head, frown deepening. "You owe me nothing extra. I only did my job, and barely at that." He replied gruffly. Reaching out, Duncan swung the door open, glancing out to the street before moving forward with Alistair. "Can you walk?" He asked quietly, taking in the lords pale face and the slight tremble in his hands. "I can carry you, just tell me where to go."
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Last edited by Duncan Oisin on Mon Aug 22, 2016 12:32 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 346
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