Morris
A Hunter Must Hunt
Skellige, Rannveig village.
Corthis took a deep swig from his beer mug. He really needed a cold one, despite the harshness of the local climate, for to his experience, nothing calmed his nerves better before a job than this. He had the tightly linked chainmail face-veil part of his helmet detached, laid on the cranky old wooden table of the pub. He listened to the gossiping around him with one ear; damn barkeep charged him extra for not liking his attire. Not feeling like picking a fight, he paid up.
The native islanders cast him half-curious, half-scornful and dismissive gazes. Since he was visibly armed, nobody tried to start a brawl in here, but it was clear from the chilly atmosphere he wasn't welcome. If it wasn't for a job offer they clearly meant for someone of his occupation, hanging so clearly from a signpost, he wouldn't be here in the first place.
He was excited at first to come to Skellige, get away from the riff-raff of the continent, away from the constant worry of the Niflgaard-Redenian war from spilling over his personal life and work. He soon had to face disappointment after setting foot in Kaer Trolde. The islanders may have been a tad bit friendlier in the large town at first impression, he soon found out that favours, even small ones, do not come here cheaply either. The distrust and suspicion towards him was palpable.
Nevertheless, even if he wanted to go back to the continent, he'd have to earn some spending money first. So he took on a few simple offers that he could find; there was no competition whatsoever. There were no witchers in Skellige - not anymore, to his knowledge at least.
So here he was, preparing to trace down a nest of Drowners who have been killing some fishermen. He will meet up with the village elder within the hour, gather what information he needs, and set out.
Frowning, he lowered his almost empty mug, gripping it tightly. Damn this place. Along with all the others. Had he been who he aspired to be, he would be at least treated to a hint of professional courtesy, or so he wagered... but that was not meant to be.
Eh. Enough ploughing lamentation. He emptied the mug, and started to patch back his armor-veil.
@Jaded Jinx
Corthis took a deep swig from his beer mug. He really needed a cold one, despite the harshness of the local climate, for to his experience, nothing calmed his nerves better before a job than this. He had the tightly linked chainmail face-veil part of his helmet detached, laid on the cranky old wooden table of the pub. He listened to the gossiping around him with one ear; damn barkeep charged him extra for not liking his attire. Not feeling like picking a fight, he paid up.
The native islanders cast him half-curious, half-scornful and dismissive gazes. Since he was visibly armed, nobody tried to start a brawl in here, but it was clear from the chilly atmosphere he wasn't welcome. If it wasn't for a job offer they clearly meant for someone of his occupation, hanging so clearly from a signpost, he wouldn't be here in the first place.
He was excited at first to come to Skellige, get away from the riff-raff of the continent, away from the constant worry of the Niflgaard-Redenian war from spilling over his personal life and work. He soon had to face disappointment after setting foot in Kaer Trolde. The islanders may have been a tad bit friendlier in the large town at first impression, he soon found out that favours, even small ones, do not come here cheaply either. The distrust and suspicion towards him was palpable.
Nevertheless, even if he wanted to go back to the continent, he'd have to earn some spending money first. So he took on a few simple offers that he could find; there was no competition whatsoever. There were no witchers in Skellige - not anymore, to his knowledge at least.
So here he was, preparing to trace down a nest of Drowners who have been killing some fishermen. He will meet up with the village elder within the hour, gather what information he needs, and set out.
Frowning, he lowered his almost empty mug, gripping it tightly. Damn this place. Along with all the others. Had he been who he aspired to be, he would be at least treated to a hint of professional courtesy, or so he wagered... but that was not meant to be.
Eh. Enough ploughing lamentation. He emptied the mug, and started to patch back his armor-veil.
@Jaded Jinx