Woshington stepped into the Minstrel’s Perch; he was a sore thumb wherever he went in Althanas. His gaudy topical wares drew a squelching chorus as almost all present stared and blinked at once. Unbuttoning his bright yellow shirt, with blue and green trim, took only a moment of work for his bony digits. It was long enough for those present to settle their eyes somewhere else. Catching sight of a black man in these parts was rare enough. It was even more of a rarity to see one so bare-chested and exotically dressed: Woshington was certainly raising eyebrows.
The atmosphere definitely possessed particular qualities and Woshington had arrived specifically to harvest what he could. In his former life he had learned that the word on street was, in some cases, utter bullshit, but in others it was the lifeblood of society. A dynamic network of vital information. Woshington had heard that this was the place for a new clique. Accustomed to being top dog he was nevertheless ready to accept something more junior considering his unceremonious fall from the crown.
“This is easy.” he thought, as the mess of tatty advertisements confronted him on first step inside.
WANTED
Mercenaries, fighters, agents, spies, diplomats, and contractors!
Inquire in the back...
The crispness of this advertisement's paper caught his eye, while the direct nature and ultimately vague message alluded to some kind of elite—a status his ego demanded.
His figure was lithe as it deftly navigated the bulging crowd. Following a tête-*-tête with the barman he knew exactly who he needed to speak to. It was the ageing silver fox across the room, the one doling out business cards.
“I want in, brudda.” he declared boldly, “you want a fighter, a killer . . . I’m your man, boss.”
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