Captain Davis Richards slammed his mug down on the bar. "Aye, bartender! Gimme 'nother one of those." A fresh mug of the worst ale he's ever had slid across the bar and came to a sloshing stop at his outstretched hand. Tossing a copper to the ugly bastard, he grabbed his drink and wormed his way through the crowd of off duty, and few on duty, soldiers towards the seat he had noticed on the way in. It was tucked all the way in a back corner that was poorly lit and was probably only set up as an after thought, trying to squeeze as many human bodies as possible into the tavern.

Kat returned to where her companion was sitting, squirming rather uncomfortably through the growing mass of soldiers occupying the Rabbit's Foot. Something about having too many suits around her for her liking, but perhaps that was a sense of the old instincts kicking in. Regardless, she didn't feel quite comfortable.

"Here you go." The thief slid one of the mugs she had been carrying towards her friend. "Found our man yet?"

Victoria caught the mug before it could slide past her and spill its contents on the floorboards. She examined it with a critical eye and wondered if it had been better to have done exactly that. Pale, thin ale just didn't hold a candle to a glass of fine red wine. Still, it was either this swill or going thirsty.

"Yes, I've spoken with the representative of the Order," the noblewoman replied. "It shouldn't be long before we are to take that oath of theirs and we are given the Seals." The prospect of being handed such potential power in exchange for pledging to stop the Deadmen was such an enticing one for Victoria. And there was no mention of having to give their powers back afterwards.

"Sooner rather than later, I hope..." Kat leaned back into her stool, taking a swig from her mug as she mused on the idea of serving under another banner. Admittedly, the decision to join up with the Order was more Victoria's than it was hers. And given that the thief didn't exactly advocate for noble causes made it all the more amusing when she had off-handedly decided to join her partner in a quest for glory. It all felt a little surreal if you'd ask her.

Still, having powers was nice. 'Probably.'

Veronica smiled at her accomplice. "If you're so worried about that, why don't we head down there now? You look like you could do with a change of scenery anyway."

"Don't mind if I do." There was no denying that, really. She gulped down the last remaining drops of ale before kicking herself of the wooden stool, only turning to Victoria for a brief moment to flash her an uncertain smile. "Let's go find our man."

As the captain they had been looking for was still in the same room as them, it didn't take long for Victoria to spot him by process of elimination. He was huddled all the way in a dark corner of the tavern. The perfect change of scenery for Kat, one that even Victoria was accustomed to. The noblewoman made her way through the crowd towards the captain's table, her companion not too far away.

Old Man Larry shuffled his aching feet quickly across the poorly paved side street. A few pavers sticking up at odd angles caught his bare toes nearly dropping him to the ground more than once. He was in a hurry and wasn't affording himself his usual caution.

As a main road, there were more of them than elsewhere in this central section of the city, crossed his path he tucked his prize away under an arm, keeping watch that no one saw him or what he carried. Pausing only briefly to check traffic, he shuffled his way through people and a few carriages made slow by the crowd, the main street pavers giving him no obstacle.

On the otherside of the busy street he slipped into an alley where there was a tiny alcove between two buildings. Here he had a small measure of privacy and could be sure no one was watching as he drew out his prize from under his arm.

The fresh warm bread still steamed in the early Winter morning. He resisted the urge to tear into it with reckless abandon. After all, it was a full loaf! He carefully considered how long he could last on that loaf if need be. It's not likely that he will ever get another one of this quality again.

He torn off a quarter of the bread, marvelling at how easy it came apart in his hands. More steam escaped from its innards. He took a moment to enjoy the warm scent as it wafted over his face. Winter was here and it was no small feat to ward off the growing chill that came with it. He stashed the large part into the folds of his rags, keeping his torso warm and bit into the slice he had tore off. He took small bites, nibbling at its sweet softness, relishing in its warmth.

Infantry Officer Cal Warde cursed, rather loudly, and kicked a bucket. It went flying out off the South Gate battlements and clear over the closest row of ditches and spikes. The wooden bucket shattered on impact sending split wood planks into the next ditch.

"That damn Bearer, I'll show him to order me!"

Angry, Officer Warde looked around as if trying to find something else to kick. His eyes set on a relatively new soldier. "You! Come here!"

The greenhorn was not accustomed to his officer's rage, and shrunk back from fear of being punished. In hopes his officer didn't mean him he looked around him fervently for who he might be talking to. The outstretched arm pointing directly at him and the glaring eyes staring down his soul told him that there was no mistake. Dutifully, he trotted up to his superior and gave a salute. "Y...yes sir?"

"What's your name soldier?" Officer Warde's expression maintained its intensity.

"Symond Leventhorp, sir." The young soldier said proudly.

"Tail him, Symond." Officer Warde said.

Dumbfounded, he just stood there with a blank expression. "U...um, what? Ah, sir?"

"That's an order, soldier! Follow Captain Da... that Bearer, and report his location at all times. You are dismissed."

As Symond ran towards the stairs to comply with his officer's orders, he nearly ran into another young soldier on his way up the stairs.

The soldier stopped in front of Officer Warde and waited to be addressed. He wore a scout's outfit, made of mostly leather it is lighter than what normal soldiers and cavalrymen wear to afford him more speed in his duties. Officer Warde had sent him earlier to scout a group making its way up the road to the South Gate.

"At ease. What do you have for me?" He spoke authoritatively, trying to regain his composure.

"Sir, the approaching company is more Southern Refugees. They have some mercenaries for traveling protection but are otherwise harmless." The scout stood at attention, speaking clearly and with purpose.

"I will be the judge on if they are harmless, soldier. You are dismissed." He looked out to the approaching company of refugees. The Seal Bearer that had come to order him around was Captain Davis Richards. He seemed to think it was appropriate to tell him how to do his job.

"Men, search that company of refugees for the injured and sick. Quarantine them in the Refugee Camp. As for the dead, cut off their heads and burn the bodies." Officer Warde gave the orders easily. Orders like those were common since the March began, but he still felt it odd to hear himself speak them.

"Um, sir. What about that Bearer's or... uh, suggestions?" One of the soldiers asked tentatively.

Infantry Officer Cal Warde spun on his heel and headed toward the stairs to greet the newcomers. "What," he laughed. "To search refugees for anything strange on them? Ha, no. Our enemy is the dead, not the inanimate."

Few things annoyed Ren more than escort jobs. If you wanted her to go take care of some bandits that were getting uppity, she'd do so with gusto. You wanted her to bolster guard patrols and look for problems through the moonless night, she'd keep her hand on her sword's hilt till the first rays of morning came, but if you wanted her to keep a bunch of townsfolk safe from the wilderness at large...

The job was simple enough. There was a caravan of refugees trying to flee the March, who had food but little money. Ren, who had plenty of money but also wanted to travel north to avoid fighting the undead hordes, had taken the job in exchange for meals. Ten families, a few merchants, and all their worldly possessions secured in five wagons. The caravan leader was a grandfather in one of the families, an important figure in whatever life they'd just abandoned. He was used to people listening to his every word. He and Ren had not gotten along at all during the last month.

"Merc! Clemmons wandered off again!"

Her shoulder's sagged in exasperation at the old man's words before glancing behind her at the waddling form of Mr. Clemmons wading into the shrubbery at the forest's edge a half mile back. This was the third such trip in so many days, and Ren being the only person with any apparent combat or survival skills had had to drag the nincompoop back to the caravan before he hurt himself. If he was making her work harder just because he couldn't wait to piss again Ren was going to throttle him and strap him to one of the wagons.

She cast one last scowl at the caravan leader before taking the reigns of her horse and taking off at a light trot. The refugees stared at her as she passed, giving her a wide berth until she left the group to fetch the straggler. Ren could make out a few of the whispers, but so long as she made it to that checkpoint at the southern walls she could care less about if her clients liked her or not. They were wanting someone reputable to answer their call, some guard passing through from one of the bigger cities, not a drifter looking for easy work. She'd long since became accustomed to such looks.

It only took a few minutes for Ren to reach the spot Clemmons had begun his foray into the woods, her look of annoyance deepening as she heard the sounds of snapping twigs and the crunch of dead leaves betray his direction and pace. The woods lined a clearing that led to the checkpoint that was their destination, and was the local hunters grounds to harvest meat. The local predators like bears and wolves had efficient competition, and as a result were not as well fed as they'd like. If Ren could track the bumbling idiot from the wood's edge, she had no doubt anything hungry nearby was already studying him and contemplating how much effort his blood would cost them.

Ren dismounted and kept a hand on her sword hilt as she slowly and carefully stepped in after Clemmons, meticulously following his clumsy path through the woods. From the looks of the rummaged bushes and broken , he had been foraging for berries and herbs, apparently unsatisfied with the rations he had been given not three hours ago. Fortunately his lack of grace and white shirt made him easy to spot among all the dead limbs. He was indeed foraging, greedily stuffing berries into a pouch at his side. She quietly stalked Clemmons until she was just behind him, placing a hand over his mouth with one hand and used the other to put him in a half nelson.

"You're a cruel man, Clemmons, taunting the wolves with so much meat. You should get back to the caravan before they decide to take it," Ren growled, wanting the man to know of her aggravation with his actions. He protested, his words muffled by her hands as he struggled in vain to get free of her grip, but it merely tightened in response. He dropped the berries he still had clutched in his hands and tried to pry off her arms, but as his struggles continued, the snapping of a branch behind them drew Ren's full attention. A black bear, one barely out of its adolescence, slowly approached the two humans occupying its forest and regarded them with curiosity. Tilting its head as it debated what to do about their presence, Ren's grip on Clemmons tightened still as she grabbed hold of the pouch containing Clemmons ill gotten berries.

"Do not run," she whispered, yanking the pouch from his belt and gently tossing it to the bear behind them. Clemmons made muffled protests, but they were ignored as the pouch landed and a portion of its contents spilled. The bear's focus shifted to the easier meal, mostly ignoring the duo as it sat down and began to casually eat the berries. Ren dragged Clemmons slowly away, not wanting to make any sudden or aggressive moves until they were back in the clearing where Ren's mount patiently waited for their return. Then and only then did Ren let go of the man.

"Get your hands off of me! I refuse to be man handled by the likes of you!" He spat, though his words were mostly ignored as Ren mounted her horse and took hold of the reigns. Clemmons scowled but seemed confused by her actions until her horse began to walk away from the man. "Hey! You expect me to walk back to the others?"

"I expect my horse's back would not survive you. Besides, you walked away from the caravan easily enough, right?" she said coldly, taking off in a trot to regain the ground lost by her detour. They were almost at the end of her leg of their journey anyway, and the pay was not so great that she would starve if the caravan leader was dissatisfied with her services. She was away from the ambling hordes and had a months worth of food given to her. The look on Clemmons face as she galloped away was a welcomed bonus, though.

When she did catch back up, the group was within sight of the southern walls and was nearing a checkpoint. Scouts were coming for inspections to make sure the group were not merely well dressed bandits or unsavory types. They'd find little cause to turn them away, but even if they did, Ren's contract with the group was now over. She had no reason whatsoever to tell the caravan leader of Clemmon's whereabouts, so his fate was now his own. She hoped the bear craved meat over the berries.

She dismounted as soon as she caught up with the group proper, the horse belonging to her former clients, and as she dismounted one of the scouts from the checkpoint approached her.

"You there! You're no villager. State your business," he barked. Ren regarded him coldly for a moment, looking him over with a look of disinterest.

"I was hired to guard the refugees during their trip, though I'm also looking to pass through myself," she replied, making sure to fight the instinct to put a hand to her sword. She didn't like it when authority figures questioned her. Fights usually broke out.

"Fucking mercs. You're to sit tight until we've got the sick and injured sorted and see that any dead in need of burial are properly prepared. Cause any trouble and an archer'll pin you to a tree without hesitation, understood?"

"How could I not? You're such an eloquent speaker, sir," Ren shot back, a snarl spreading on the scout's face as he spat in her direction and stomped off. Her gaze followed him as he reported back to the checkpoint proper, focus shifting from him to his superiors. They seemed annoyed about something. She was good at dealing with annoyances. She decided to move closer to the checkpoint before sitting, eavesdropping on the scouts and guards as they searched the refugees. The purpose with which they conducted their sweeps betrayed an ulterior motive, but what possible reason it could be Ren had no clue. She'd have to coax the info out of whoever came to search the lowly mercenary.

Officer Warde didn't like mercenaries, never have, never will.

They'll do anything for money. Cal has seen many a simple merc turn bandit. Some were more patient than others. They would paint themselves decent folk low on coin, a skill had and a service needed. They would dutifully do their job and gauge the capabilities of their charge. When it came time for payment they would hold their employer at sword point demanding double or even all they had. Some worked with the bandits themselves, handing over the ones they were supposed to protect. Some were simple cowards who had no right to hold a sword. Every damn one of them has the worse attitude. They lacked disipline and refused to follow any chain of command without them on top. Cal didn't like mercenaries one bit.

He had already talked to the caravan leader, some grandpa who held himself with an air of importance. He seemed to respect the officer well enough and gladly told him a lengthy and boring story of how they came to be here. There were no complaints about the mercenary they called Ren, nor did it seem that he had been threatened to stay quiet about her. In fact he seemed quite inpressed with her skills, professing she did an exceptional job.

Cal wasn't fully convinced about her though. A woman merc? Something just wasn't right about that. Shouldn't a woman be the one protected not protecting? How ever did she convince them to bring her along, and feed her to boot? Warde suspected that her services were not what they claimed.

As he approached the woman, he studied her closely. As he had thought she was a rather pretty woman if a bit rough. Obviously not the typical prostitute though. This one seemed to use the face of a mercenary to cover her sins in bed. She even carried a blade with her, the costume was well executed. Officer Warde was rather impressed with the effort with which she expended in order to cover up her services. Though a mercenary would still cause suspicion asking admittance to the city, a prostitute would find herself selling her services for free to convince the city guard to let her in.

Once he arrived to where the woman stood, Warde dismounted his horse and passed the reins to one of his nearby soldiers. "I am Infantry Officer Cal Warde, commander of the men you see here, protecting the South Gate." He declared confidently. "You must be Ren, the mercenary in charge of this caravan's well being. What business do you have here in Dyrlyn City?" He couldn't help but sneer at his own cleverness. She really was quite the looker, after all Cal wasn't convinced yet that she should enter the city.

Ren glared as the man on horseback began to approach her, wanting information but not particularly wanting this much attention. She could tell just by the expression on his face that he was smug, whether it be his general demeanor or he believed he had something over someone she wasn't sure. He rode like a man that led from the back, his men having twice the discipline and posture that he had. She wondered when the last time he'd drawn blood outside of shaving had been. Must have been a long time if he had a guard position in somewhat safe lands. She wouldn't be surprised if his position of power would soon be given to a more grizzled veteran, given the turmoil that was to come in the spring. Tradition always gave way to survival.

He dismounted and didn't even look at the man who was to take his reigns, so he had little regard for those under his command. Ren may dislike authority, but she hated the abuses of it. She got the feeling whatever this man wished to say to her would do little to improve her mood.

"I am Infantry Officer Cal Warde, commander of the men you see here, protecting the South Gate," he declared with all the confidence of a man who'd never had his words questioned. Her glaring eyes narrowed in disdain as he continued talking.

"You must be Ren, the mercenary in charge of this caravan's well being. What business do you have here in Dyrlyn City?"

Ren raised an eyebrow as the blood in her veins began to boil. He doubted her skills? Who did he think she was?

Ren had been wearing a fur lined coat for warmth during the trip, but at the insinuation that she was a liar she grabbed it by the collar and yanked it off, casually tossing it off to the side. Her armor was mostly leather, hardened pieces on her chest and stomach but metal bracers and grieves to protect her extremities. One could also see the small bit of chainmail poking out of her sleeves. She rolled her shoulders once to pump herself up, before stepping forward towards the man.

"My business is to find more work once in the city. Solve problems plaguing those with too much to lose to risk their own necks. If you've any doubts of this, I'd be glad to demonstrate my combat proficiency on the target of your choice. Won't even charge for the labor," Ren replied, locking eyes with the man as she growled her response. She was nearly a head shorter than him, but her posture was that of aggression and defiance. She hoped he was the type of idiot that would want to test her himself. She wanted to break his teeth so that he couldn't make that smug little grin again without pain. A merc's reputation was their livelihood, and she couldn't abide by slander or doubt.

Doran Merekson bounced and his carriage rattled as wooden wheels rolled over uneven stone pavers. The motion was not comfortable and not for the first time he cursed The March for driving him out of town, and business. The roads in southern cities at least were dirt and smooth.

He pulled the curtain aside that covered one of the square windows of his small carriage and looked out into the street. The side street he traveled on was rife with trash, filth, and refugees. Dyrlyn City Guards at least managed to keep the main streets clear of the trash but couldn't do anything about refugees. There were just simply too many of them. Multiple families shared abandoned homes and still there was a constant crowd on the streets, they had nowhere to go.

Doran had of course hired and gave home to all he could. But not even he could take care of everyone, so he had focused on the skilled. They would be useful to him, some practiced their trade for him, some made use of their muscles on the streets for him, some sold their bodies for him and others their merchandise. The others, the useless, were simply out of luck. Of course they still rode on his generous back and hoped that his new coalition would get access for all southerners to travel north. If what he was trying to do worked, Merekson Coalition would be a trade empire.

The carriage slowed to halt and Doran realised that he had reached his destination. Swinging his carriage door open he took a few labored steps as he lowered his admittedly large mass to the ground. In front of him stood the door to a small shop obviously abandoned and looted but with a few signs of the beginning of a renovation. Above him swung a wooden sign on small iron chains that read Weland's Forge.

Doran stepped up to the door and rapt his knuckles on the heavy oak.

Ragnar had been in Dyrlyn City just over a week. He spent his first few days exploring the city visiting various smiths along the southern end of the City, who were churning out vast numbers of weapons for the military. Most of the smiths welcomed his visit especially once they realised he was a fellow metal worker and eager to hear how close the Deadmen were to the city, however one smith resented his presence.

Ragnar entered the forge where he saw a young baby faced soldier haggling with a sly looking smith. Walking up to the pair he introduced himself. "I'm Ragnar I've only been in the city a few days and wanted to see of there was anymore room for another smith in town." The young soldier looked up nervously as Ragnar spoke and the sly looking smith tried to take the sword back. "Thats a fine looking sword may I?" Without waiting for an answer, he took the sword and began to examine it. It was perfectly straight and was well balanced but something about if felt off to him. When he moved into the doorway to have some better light he saw that the blade was a dull grey colour, it was pure iron. Taking the sword with a hand at either end he slowly bent the sword into a circle before tossing the sword at the smith's feet. "I'd find a reputable smith to get a sword from lad if I were you." He turned and made his way out the doorway.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ragnar had found the abandoned forge in the Northern part of the City. As soon as he laid eyes on it he knew it was the perfect place for him to set up his new home and workshop with the little tools he had managed to salvage from his old home when he fled North.

Ragnar had been up since before dawn so he could light his forge and have breakfast while the forge heated up. He began heating seven rods, four of which were soft iron and three of steel he had hammered out the night before. He heated up each rod till it glowed bright red so he could twist them into a tight vertical spiral. He had just finished twisting the longest rod of steal which would form the spine of the sword when he heard someone rapping on his heavy oak door. Grabbing his trusty Axe he made his way to the door and cautiously looked through the peep hole where he saw that his visitor was a large, well fed, and richly dressed man who appeared to have traveled to his forge in the carriage that was parked outside.

He opened the door cautiously, keeping his Axe out of sight as he didn't want to scare the man unnecessarily. "Can I help you Sir!"

Captain Davis Richards sipped the warm piss water from his mug.

He preferred the strong spirits of the north and the stuff they sold here was bordering on blasphemy. They didn't even have the decency to serve southern mead, Davis had heard the south was famous for its sweet honey mead, to the mostly southern originating soldiers. And this was obviously not the type of place to serve wine, Davis was never fond of it anyway, whether northern or southern wines.

No, the tavern owner was stuck in his old, subpar ways. He was one of the few that stuck around the city once the March began, refusing to leave his old tavern. Most of the other original inhabitants fled to northern cities before they shut their gates to refugees. The original Dyrlyn City Guard soldiers likely appreciated the same old drink they've been drinking since they had hair on their chest. It was warm, tasted like piss, and worse of all it was weak.

Even as he drank and fumed about the alcohol, Captain Davis Richards was a careful man. He choose the table he did for several reasons, namely for the view it gave him. He could easily watch the door of the tavern, him and it on opposite sides of the bar, affording him a clear view through the tightly packed crowd of soldiers.

He had seen the two women enter together and had wondered what they would be doing at a place like Rabbit's Foot Tavern. They didn't look like your typical prostitutes and in fact were probably armed. Curious. He watched as they made their way towards him, he had no doubt that his table was their destination.

The one who pushed her way through the crowd of men looked like she lead a much different life that the woman who followed on her heels. The second woman held herself as though she was born of a higher station in a city that probably didn't exist anymore. It wasn't long before they were both standing in front of him.

Before either of the women could speak Davis yelled right in their faces, “The hell you want? Can't a man drink without a woman spoiling it?” He made sure to adopt a drunken slur to his words to appear more drunk than he was.

Officer Warde's muscles tensed and his hand twitched, ready to draw his sword off his back at a moment's notice. She wore a stance full of openings, practically begging him to cut her down. Her over aggressiveness would be her own downfall and all it would take is a single slash of his sword.

He gave her another look. The coat he thought covered her more risqué garments was one used to thwart the cold and the armor it was concealing was good, worn from use but still good. What's more, the hilt of her sword looked just as well used, it's leather grip discolored from years of sweat and friction.

“You really are a merc, huh?” Of course, he thought, they could be stolen. But her posture spoke of a readiness born of years fighting.

There's no way he could lose this fight, not to a lowly mercenary, not to a simple woman. He was no fool. She could probably hold her own, he could see that much, but he could probably take her down. The difference was in their armor. Warde stepped back and yanked off his cloak to reveal the steel half-plate armor he wore underneath. The problem is that neither of them would go down without a fight.

“Then let us make a wager” he spat out the words, “dual to first blood. You win, you can enter the city and do your business however you like. But if I win,” he sneered, “You join the City Guard.”

Slowly, Warde drew his sword from his back, “So, what do you say, girl?”

The door to Weland's Forge opened.

The description that was given to Doran matched the man that stood in its doorway. He was a mountain of a man, his head nearly touching the door frame. Long red hair that flowed into a long red beard framed his face. He was a man full in his prime. His arms alone were three times larger than the average adult. It's no wonder he had bent an iron sword, even if it were only pure iron.

Doran had received a report from the blacksmith guild that a “giant red-headed smith” was bending swords and driving off business, claiming the swords were of low quality. He couldn't have that kind of rumor spread. It made no difference that it were true. How else could he make a profit from selling swords to soldiers and refugees? He couldn't afford to have his blacksmiths taking the time to produce thousands of high quality steel swords, so inferior pure iron was the product. And of course bronze swords were out of the question, with more than half the One Kingdom's tin mines in the south, all trade of tin dried up.

“Good morning! My name is Doran Merekson, I am sure you know of me.” He shot the big man a look that said he thought it was doubtful he hadn't. “On behalf of the Merekson Coalition, I would like to speak to you about your business.” And why you are undermining my own. He thought to himself. If he could just convince this man to join him, then he can save face and say that he hired such a skilled smith to help him improve the quality of his product. Of course he would be recruiting the man's silence and his blacksmith guild would continue selling subpar weapons.

“As a matter of fact I would like to commission a project from you.” He let the bait sit for a second, then said, “Dear me, it sure is beginning to get rather cool is it not? Thank Wynari for winter to slow The March but my arse may very well freeze off long before they reach Dyrlyn. Would you kindly share a fire with me?”

The welcome was... expectedly mundane as far as welcomes go, just felt like having another meeting with your drunken contact. Place smelled the same, too, so the familiarity wasn't exactly lacking for either woman. Especially Kat. In spite of all that, however, if this was indeed the man they had been looking for, all pretense of wanting to offer her services as a loyal dog once more had jumped out the window; the drunken greeting from the old sod met with a rather exaggerated eyeroll.

"Lovely," Kat began, flashing the captain an unimpressed look at best. "Another gritty, veteran asshole who's too old for this shite. Haven't seen that before." Her glare lingered for a moment, trying to get a sense of the man (although she had already made her judgement) before turning to her partner with a grimace. "You sure this is the guy? Seen beggars more credible than him."

Her companion shared that doubtful look for a moment. "He's wearing a captain's uniform, and he matches the description I was given. I would assume that this is our man." Unless the real guy had fled and they'd just stuck a similar-looking drunkard in a spare uniform in the hopes that nobody would notice the difference. Similar or worse things had happened in the face of the March.

"We happen to be looking for the Order. My associate and I have business to attend to with them," Veronica replied to the man's immediate, uncouth questioning. "And whether we spoil your drink will depend on how you choose to answer."

After seeing her for what she was, a sick grin spread on Ren's face as she rolled her shoulder's and chuckled under her breath. She fed on the intimidation, watching as the man's motions lost fluidity and his hand twitched, afraid to be near her without a weapon in its grip. She was glad that her outward demeanor had not lost any of its edge, playing into her savage persona as she continued to study the Captain of the Guard or whatever he had said he was. She'd gotten in his head enough that he'd accepted her challenge, stepping back and removing his own cloak to reveal half plate armor. He'd be quick and his vitals still safely shelled in steel, but any weakness to the legs and he'd be dead on his feet. Nothing like a gash to the calf to make you feel the weight of all that metal on your torso. This was assuming she could get through his guard, but that was where the mind games were coming in. A savage only knows how to charge.

“Then let us make a wager” he spat out the words, “dual to first blood. You win, you can enter the city and do your business however you like. But if I win,” he sneered, “You join the City Guard. So, what do you say, girl?”

Ren spit off to the side before drawing her longsword, gracefully twirling it once before casually propping the flat of her blade on her shoulder as she looked from Warde to the men behind him. She made it a point to look bored.

"This how you lot got conscripted?" She asked, grinning as she glanced back at Warde to let him know she was trying to raise his ire.

"Ass backwards way of screening but if I get to shove my pommel up your ass I've got no complaints. I accept your terms!" Ren said with as much smug as only a former criminal could muster, still resting her blade on her shoulder as she watched the man draw his own blade from his back.

They were about four or five paces apart, which would be just enough room for her to charge if she so desired, but instead she kept her relaxed pose and watched the man for just a moment. He struck her as the type to take pride in his armor and would relish for her to go on the offensive, bouncing her blade off his chest and leaving herself open. True, her pommel was pointed and made of dense steel itself, but trying to dent that breastplate would be too labor intensive for a duel such as this, and the same strategy any higher might make this match a murder. Forcing him into the offensive would most likely throw him off of his game and draw a mistake out of his technique, but putting herself in his sword's reach was a gutsy gamble.

"I'm waiting Guardsman! Surely you don't make it a habit of leaving women this disappointed," She said, winking and widening her stance, sword readied in front of her. If he was a smart man he'd ignore her words and see through her bluff, but the men under his command were watching and she was betting his pride wouldn't allow him to take such insults lying down. If and when he charged her, she'd roll towards him but just to the left where she'd settle behind him, and put the momentum into a swing towards her right at his legs. Even a nick would slow him down and diminish his armors advantage, but if not, there was one advantage she had over the man he might not have yet considered.

Mercenaries could care less about honor in combat.

Ragnar had been expecting a visit from someone after his visits to some of the local smiths but he was surprised it was from someone as cheerful looking and rich as his current visitor. He smiled to himself when the man mentioned a commission, his upsetting the smiths may have paid off better than he hoped.

Glancing up and down the street to see if anyone was lurking around. "Certainly Mr Merekson we can step inside if you would like to warm yourself by the forge." He stepped back inside gesturing with his arm. As soon as Doran was inside he closed the door and dropped the huge oak beam which he used as a locking bar. "Can't be too careful, we don't want any unwelcome visitors." He placed his Axe on his anvil before pulling out a folding chair for his guest and a 3 legged stool form himself. "I'm sorry about the mess I haven't got round to getting everything straightened up yet." All round the forge was the remnants of the previous owner belongs that looters had destroyed but amongst these on racks were spear heads and axe heads waiting to be attached to their shafts.

"Can i offer you drink while you warm yourself?" Doran had mentioned a commission outside but Ragnar was happy to let him raise that subject in his own time Sitting opposite the man, he perched awkwardly on the tiny stool for a few moments before giving up. "Would you mind if I worked while we talk?"

"Yeah? Is that so? Why the hell you looking for the likes of them?" He kept the affected slur but the irritation was real. Captain Davis Richards was in no mood to talk about The Order.

The pair of them was a peculiar sight. The wild looking one was falling for his act but she seemed the type to question everything and always be ready for the worst. The calm one used her head and trusted logic and observation. Two very different women. It was obvious they were more than simple acquaintances, or prostitutes for that matter. The wild one had too much fire and the calm one too much pride.

"No wait, let me guess." He started before they could respond, “You want to join, right? You want to Bear a Sigil?”

He's seen many like them before. Those with delusions of grandeur. Those who seek the Power of a Sigil. Since the March began, Captain Richards has seen a massive increase in such people. The Order is recruiting on a level never before seen. Everyday a group of southern refugees become Bearers and everyday another group heads back south to fight the very thing they were running from. Some return. Most don't.

“You want power? Or you want to fight? Would you lay down your life for The Order, right now?” In his irritation he slipped out of his affected slur. He didn't care. He wouldn't take more refugees to their deaths, not again. He did more than his share of that.

“What would a couple of broads like you do with that Power?” Of course, it didn't matter what their answer was. He had already made his decision.

Cal Warde's ears burned red.

His authority had been ignored for the second time that day. He was losing his composure, he could see it in his men's eyes.

Some had seen The Order's dog commanding him like he was some recruit wet behind the ears. He had had no choice but to grit his teeth in his presence and had lost face in front of those soldiers. They were looking at him like they were ashamed to be under his command, like he were weak. The soldiers that had been down on the ground inspecting the refugees had either finished their task or paused to watch their superior. They were forgetting themselves. Warde wouldn't tolerate such lack of discipline. Very well, let them watch. Let them see their commander squash a noisy bug. They will be reminded of their place.

Now here he stood, goaded into a duel with a female mercenary and she was taunting him no less. She too needed to be reminded of her place. This mercenary was getting on his last nerve.

Warde did indeed deal with his more rowdy men by way of duel. If they best him, he releases them from their service. If not, they shut up and follow his command. The practice itself kept his men in line. Most didn't dare challenge him. He wasn't some top notch swordsman or anything but then again, neither were the men under his command.

There was just enough room between them for him to take a few good steps and the foolish merc would easily be within his sword's reach. Warde hefted his big sword with both hands and shifted his muscular frame forward to charge. He thought he saw the damn merc smile. After closing the gap he swung from left to right across his body at her shoulder height with enough force that when she blocked it she would be thrown aside. She dropped. His sword found only air. He missed!

Before he knew what happened Warde felt a hit against his right calf and stumbled a few paces before he gained his footing again. Despite his years wearing the heavy plate armor it was still an effort to slow his momentum enough to stop and turn facing his opponent yet again. He quickly checked his calf. His leather vambrace was sliced but the cut only just missed his skin. It was just pure luck that the merc didn't win with a single strike.

Warde pulled his sword up into a ready position in front of his body. She was fast. Her light armor afforded her more freedom of movement than his own and it nearly cost him the duel. He should have seen it before. He may have the stronger armor but she clearly had more speed. Warde waited. This time he would let her charge so that he might make better use of his defense. He smiled despite himself. He refused to lose.

For someone who was supposedly drunk, the captain sure was quick at guessing their motives behind joining the Order. Or Victoria's, at least. The noblewoman smirked as he momentarily slipped out of his drunken slur, having riled himself up from his own array of assorted assumptions and queries. The two women were wise to the ways of deceit.

"Perhaps some of us do want power," she remarked. "Perhaps some of us are destined to have power. Either way, if we want it then sitting around and twiddling our thumbs won't do us many favours."

"What she said." Kat added somewhat redundantly. Standing around muttering about philosophies sounded well and all until you did start thinking about it, and then the plan to sell your soul to the highest bidder seemed like less of a good idea as the conversation wavered into more of an one-sided argument. Either way, the captain lost on both ends.

And after a short debate with her own conscience, the thief let out an irritable sigh. "Look, just tell me where to sign up and I'll worry about the why. Deal?"

There was something innately satisfying about reading an opponent at a glance well enough to control him during combat. She could see after the words left her mouth that they dug deep into Warde's skin and refused to dislodge. His men who weren't already busy had stopped to watch, and they seemed to enjoy the sight of their superior being taken down a peg. No one seemed indignant at their Captain being insulted, and no one was rooting for their superior to win this friendly bout. Good things to know.

Warde's muscles tensed just before he lurched forward into a hard run, sword raised over his shoulder for a horizontal strike. Aiming for the shoulders? Seems first blood were mere words if the Captain was going to try to cleave her head from her shoulders right out of the gate. Despite the unnecessary escalation, Ren still smiled before ducking the blow and rolling forward, swinging at Warde's legs as soon as she was righted. She felt the leather strap slice in two from the swing, but didn't feel the familiar tension of cutting through skin and braces. She looked disappointed as she stood and watched as Warde slowed to a stop and realized what sort of battle he was in for, checking his calf in a panic to see if he'd lost their duel in a single strike. Warde readied his blade but the near loss had shaken him and put him on the defensive. Had he lost all that bravado already? Ren let out a laugh before spitting off to the side and readying her blade again.

"That sword is impressive. A cleaver meant for the necks of cavalry horses and polished to an immaculate shine. That you wield it in a duel on foot betrays your ignorance. I might not have been able to dodge were you wielding a proper broadsword," Ren called out, making sure Warde and the men around them could clearly hear her. Truth be told, she was having fun playing this man for an idiot, but she'd prove nothing by just mocking him until he made a mistake of charging her again.

So instead she charged him, going into a hard run and raising her blade above her head, swinging down with every ounce of muscle she had. With that claymore in his grip he'd be remiss to wield it with anything besides two hands, which meant he'd need two hands to block her. Blocking the downward strike would bring his attention upwards at her blade, leaving her free to bring up a leg and slam the sole of her boot into his knee cap. There was no plate to absorb the blow, and even if she did not break the leg outright, it would make movement burdensome for the man on his turns, making it easier to flank him. Regardless of if the blow landed or not, Ren planned to move back out of reach of Warde's blade before coming in low again to slice at the leg she'd kicked.

Warde had no intention of merely wounding her, so she had every intention to cripple the little bastard if she could manage.

As Doran Merekson entered the smithy he studied the mess. The building had been mostly emptied of its contents, the previous owner taking everything their wagon could handle. Not much was left, but the new owner seemed to have brought some of his own tools, some even seemed brand new as though he made them himself. Other than the tools, the rest of the place seemed to still be in its ransacked state from when looters had come looking for valuables. This was a focused individual, Doran realised. His work area was organized and there even seemed to be remnants of a breakfast next to the firge. How much time does he stay by the forge?

He could see that this was also a cautious man. He watched as the big man set down his axe. Cautious or suspicious? The barred door made him think the later of the two.

"Oh no, I don't think a drink is necessary. I'm only here for a short time." He responded. Doran perfered to keep his wits about him when he was making house calls. It helped him to better judge and manipulate his host.

"And please, feel free to continue working. I am most interested in appraising your skills." Doran already knew that the blacksmith had an excellent eye, so he was curious at how well he worked a hammer. "As I said, I am seeking a skilled smith for a commission." Doran dangled the bait again. "I heard that you discovered one of my smiths selling a poor quality sword to a young soldier. You have good eyes. I assure you the product was right but it was not fitting to the customer. A soldier deserves a quality sword to protect us from the March." Not that the young boy, hardly old enough to sign up for the service, could afford the proper sword, Doran thought to himself. "So, I would like to see if you would be willing to craft me some more appropriate swords for our more valued customers.

"Of course I would like to ensure the quality of your own products, if you will excuse my rudeness it is purely business. I believe that a gift of your skill would convince the blacksmith guild masters to admit you. I would like to see what a sword made by a blacksmith of your skill is like."

"Thank you. Mr Merekson and you just happen to be in luck I'm in the middle of making a sword." Ragnar lifted the 7 rods in his left hand, "i know these don't look like much at the moment but if bare with me i can have you a sword in less than a hour", with that said he began heating the 7 rods as he began pumping the bellows. "If you want a large number of my swords I will need an assistant or preferably two, I'm hoping with your connections you might be able find some suitable candidates," Drawing the longest steel rod first along with one of the iron rods when the tips were cherry red and placing them side by side he began hammering the tips together before returning them to the forge and reheated the tips he continue the heating and hammer till he had the steel core rod heat welded till the 4 rods of iron followed by adding the last two steel rods to the outside of the tangle of twisted metal rods, turning to Doran and showing him what he had done so far.

"Now we attach the 7 rods together at the end leaving the extra length of the central rod to become the tang which allows the blade to be attached to the handle." he quickly heated up the other end of the sword and using the heat and hammer to weld this end of the sword together. "This is were the real work begins" he chuckled as he set his work into the flames of his forge and replaced the small hammer on his tool rack and taking down his medium sized hammer and set of tongs setting the hammer beside his anvil, returning the to the forge he began heating the blade faster as he pumped the bellows hard forcing the air into the forge as he used the tongs to turn the blade making sure it was evenly heated till it was glowing almost white hot. he pulled it out and began to hammer it using the weight of the hammer, the heat of the metals and his huge strength to meld the 7 rods into one deadly blade, he accomplished this in minutes were to would take other smiths hours maybe even days to do this after giving it another final heating he hammered the blood channels into each side of the blade before taking a small die and placing it on the blade struck it once with his hammer to stamp the letter R deep into the Blade satisfied with his work he thrust the blade into the water trough to quench the blade. He would have preferred to have used oil but he was unable to acquire any so far.

Walking over to the treadle wheel in the corner on the bench, he began he got it spinning it up to speed to grind and hone the blade. he was lost in a world of his own as he remembered the first time he had ever polished a sword blade in the Dad's forge all those years ago as a child. when he was happy with the blade he took it over to his work bench by the window and selected two ash wood hand grips which he riveted on before wrapping the grips in soft leather and attaching the pommel.

"Here you are Doran" he presented the sword hilt first to him. "I hope you find this sword satisfactory ive given her some beauty but she is a tool nothing more. just like my hammers. also i have been think while i made the sword there may be away to improve your iron swords so that your customers might be able to survive a few battles and return to buy more swords from us and i could also use a wood worker to make spear handles and axe handles for the weapons i make. I could make them myself but that would mean less time i can spend at the forge."

"What do you think of her is she acceptable to you and when it comes to your more valued customers i can make unique custom swords for them." As he stepped back out of Doran's sword reach picking up his axe to give him room to try out the sword if he liked but also letting him see if he turned out tracherous he wouldn't go down without a fight.