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Rorik Carrian had little patience for weaklings. Man or woman - if they couldn't be used, fucked or ordered around, then they had better stay the out of his damned way. *Time was worth more than gold.* Some foppish scholar who'd once hired him had said something like that, amongst other philosophical bullshit that was beyond Rorik's understanding. Once that job had been done, he'd robbed the old man blind for giving him such a headache. *Those scrolls had been worth a pretty copper, too...*
But enough reminiscing on money long spent; Rorik had a new contract, with a fat purse promised at the end of it. How difficult could it be, truly, to steal from a lord in his own castle? Particularly if that lord was well drunk and busy entertaining other guests...
It was simple, really. He and a charming date would infiltrate a lavish party being held in celebration of the winter solstice by the noble (if lecherous) Lord Arsen, ingratiate themselves with the arrogant and soft-minded elite...and then disappear deeper into the castle to steal a precious artefact. *And take some trinkets to compensate for the effort, of course.*
Just the vision of the future riches in his mind was near-erotic, and Rorik had to swallow a mouthful of foul-tasting wine just to bring himself back to the present. *Job first, loot later.*
The job would involve precision and no small amount of charm, which his usual crew of misfits and thieves were ill-suited to. *Loyal, but stupid.* So Rorik had to hire new blood, for the little charade his client had suggested. A stranger alone might draw a curious eye, but a pair is more easily dismissed as foreign guests.
Which is why he was here...in this decrepit pit of an inn, deep in the oldtown of Sel's Rest. Waiting for the one that his contact in this city had ensured him was "more than fit" for the job. *I'll see about that,* Rorik thinks with an arrogant smirk, his dark eyes scanning the dimly lit common room.
Motion to his left makes the treasure hunter instinctively reach for his dagger. Dark eyes, cold and fiery all at once, scan the stranger, dragging over their body, before he relaxes. Or appears to, at least. Rorik was not a man who ever truly put his guard down. "you, is it?" He finally says, pushing back marginally to make room for them at the small table and hailing a serving wench for more drink. "You'd better be as good as they fuckin' say."
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