Before the droid rambled on too long, the Commandant waved a hand softly. “You are a Guardian for the travelers now.”
“You,” He then turned his attention to Lancelot and the new arrivals. “We will offer you bonus pay as off-world, foreign mercenaries. You’ll fight with the other sellguns,” He motioned to the Verians and Boklunders back at their respective tables.
One of the other Popularas, standing off to the side from the Commandant, adjusted his glasses. The Gemonese man bore the yellow stripe of the auxilia quartermasters, holding a tablet in the crux of one arm as he stepped forward. “I would suggest the foreigners outfit themselves with a Fokus and droid patch, the gear market will be able to provide.”
“What’s so important you need a section of mercenaries to walk your Popularas out in the woods?” The leader of the Verians spoke, placing his small feathered hat down on the table before him.
The words from the Commandant seemed to chill the air, one of the Boklunders turning in his chair slightly as a silence settled in the tavern. The chieftain of the northmen, a bearded Baltig named Skayvr, chortled. “Right, no one alive anymore to even walk the thing off the star deck of a crypt-ship.”
The droid listlessly turned towards Lancelot, the shuddering band of light ringing a blocky head a steady green. “You may enjoy your food and drink now, personnel are preparing for the arrival of the Exogarden.”