Hire And Hire He Rose (Closed)

[Leopold]

Hire And Hire He Rose (Closed) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYXiTN2GCdg&feature=related)

2598


Closed to Of Two Minds.

Serves as Of Two Minds' Recruitment Thread into The Winchester Rose Trading Company.

Warped, degraded sands of time,
Ivy on the mighty ‘cline,
This dark and stained and tumbling ‘bode
Is no fine home, but still it’s mine.

This crooked nook, this crooked nook,
How fine it was in days gone by.
Fine tiles of gold and walls like snow,
Why away did the beauty fly?

Wood alike the dark night quilt,
Infested just like the neighbourhood,
My fallen door so grand yet shattered,
Like any door it would have stood.

This crooked nook, this crooked nook,
Once it was the family house.
Now here it stands in weary sorrow
Like a groom without a spouse.

Cydney Oliver.

[Leopold]

Sir Leopold Winchester was not amused. For the last four hours, he had rifled through a dozen or so lack lustre applicants for a recently opened position in the ranks of his caravan guard. In Scara Brae, of all places, he had not expected such a poor turnout. In Scara Brae, of all places, he expected quality. He extended his chubby hand over the desk and plucked the quill from the inkpot. He tapped it against the dark blue glass to remove the excess, and then started to scribble down a few choice notes about the previous interviewee.

“Tell me, Wilfred, why we are doing this?”

His manservant approached from his statuesque vigil in the office’s large bay window. He leered over Leopold’s shoulder, and checked the name of the man they had just had a light conversation with. Like his master, he had allowed the long stream of people to meld into one indistinguishable mess. He wrinkled his nose and adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses whilst he jostled with his reply.

“We have an opportunity, and someone, somehow, has to meet the required calibre of the Winchester Rose Trading Company.”

Leopold nodded in heartfelt agreement. “Quite correct old boy. Now, looking at this list, can you tell me why this is proving to be…” it was Leopold’s turn to mince his words now, “difficult.” He slumped back into the thick padding that covered his ornate, ancestral and wing back shaped chair. Wilfred could only sigh.

“They are not what you might call ‘made of the right stuff’.”

“No, they really are not…” Leopold wistfully leant his head against his right hand, using the arm rest of the chair as a prop. “Shall we go with the best of a bad crop?” he added. His eyebrow rose inquisitively, but more for his own benefit than to add emotion to his question.

“Well, sir, I think we should see the last applicant we have scheduled for the afternoon before we start maudlin.” The butler shuffled his ageing feet around the ornate desk and pulled the last scroll from the bundle in Leopold’s terracotta in tray; a souvenir from his recent visit to Fallien’s Outlander Post. It still smelt of figs and date wine.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Leopold could not help but smile at his servant, though increasingly, he treated the man more like an elderly relative than his employee. “Who do we have to bedazzle and inspire us?” he sat upright and tried to look interested. He leant forwards to return the quill to the silver stand next to the inkpot; a relic from Raiaera, salvaged after the Corpse War and given to Leopold from some niece of another he had soon forgotten the name of.

“Well sir,” Wilfred unrolled the parchment and read the details aloud, “we have a gentleman by the names of Jensen Silster and…” Wilfred paused. He re-read the parchment several times before he continued, “and Syrian DeVries.” His dead pan expression told Leopold all he needed to know. Wilfred set the parchment back onto the desk.

Both men looked at one another with a bemused smirk. The clock over the door started to chime, and a little cuckoo sprang from a trestle door with lilac flowers delicately painted onto the frame. It retreated, returned, retreated and returned. It was four o’clock.

“Are they brothers, do you think?” Leopold often had family members, lovers, husband and wife teams and twins apply to be in his guard. They had a menagerie of reasons for doing so, from a need to seek out adventure, a need for money, or through a need to escape the mistakes of their past. He tapped his digits on the edge of the thick pine topped desk.

“No, sir. They appear to be a singular individual.”

Leopold could only shrug. It took all sorts to walk through his doors, and stranger people had worked for the Winchester Rose in his long tenure as its patriarch. With the sun still shining outside and the birds still singing, he gestured to the door. “Then do me the honour and bring the man…men in, would you?” he sat upright, a spectacle in silk and well pressed cotton slacks.

It did not long for Wilfred to clear the rug covered floor and rest his shaking hands onto the brass knobs of the double doors of the office. He pulled them open and slipped out into the marble decked entrance hall of Winchester Mansion. In the foyer beyond, a row of dusty velvet covered chairs had been lined up at the foot of the stairs. At midday, they had been full, but now only a solitary figure remained. Wilfred approach, his glasses illuminated by the golden splendour of the chandelier and glowing candles overhead.

“Sir Winchester will see you now Mr…” he hesitated, “Silster is it?” he stopped a few away, standing between the last interviewee and the double doors that rose behind him, like the gates to hell, or at the very least, to opportunity.

[Of Two Minds]

“So sorry guv’nah,” Syrian braced sharply and gave the retreating applicant a smart salute. Given that he looked more like a well-fed farmer than a warrior, Syrian wasn’t surprised to see the downcast look on the man’s face. He had even told Jeren as much when the man had been called in for his interview.

The farmer looking man gave Syrian a rude gesture at which Syrian laughed before grumpily plodding out of the mansion’s front door. Turning to his companion, who was busy ignoring Syrian’s antics in favor of perusing a dusty old piece of art, “I have a strong feeling that he’s not the man for the job.” Jeren nodded absentmindedly, not really paying attention. “Poor old man and his piles of money,” Syrian continued, thrusting his hands into his pockets, undeterred by Jeren’s act. “He’s spent all day interviewing applicants when we’ve been here all along. It’s a lucky thing for him that we’re here though, because his luck is about to change.”

Jeren closed his eyes and shook his head, proving that he wasn’t really tuning out the more talkative member of his little band.

“So what if the guy turned out to be some dour hardass,” Syrian continued, pacing around the foyer as he spoke. “Dour hardasses are the whole reason I keep you around.” Syrian grinned back at Jeren but frowned when he saw that he hadn’t taken the bait. “And on the off chance that Mr. Moneybags actually enjoys a keen wit and charming face,” Syrian reached out to bat at the tassels hanging off one of the room’s tapestries, “I’ll have the guy in my pocket within a minute.” Syrian paused again, striking a thoughtful pose. “We really are the perfect team. DeVries and Silster, swords-for-hire.”

“We should most definitely not get cards printed,” Jeren said cutting his partner off before he could voice his ludicrous idea. He turned from the piece he had been looking at and pinned Syrian with a hard stare. “We’re on a strange island with no money, try to remember that when we finally get our chance. Okay? Scara Brae hasn’t exactly been the burgeoning market for work that we expected so we really need this job.”

Syrian held his hand up, wounded. “You’re worried about me? When have I ever been anything but respectful?”

Jeren crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “The priest?”

“Okay, okay, there was the priest, but everyone has at least one bad day.”

“The butcher’s wife, the horse tender,” Jeren held up a hand, counting off fingers as he went. “That midget in Rasso …”

“Alright, fine,” Syrian threw his hands up in an admission of defeat. “I’ll admit that I can be a bit of a …”

“Raging ass.”

This time it was Syrian’s turn to pin Jeren with a hard stare. “Rough cut piece of wood.”

“What does that even mean?” Jeren opened his mouth, looking like he had something else to say before turning away from Syrian knowing that there was no winning in an argument with the man. Syrian lived to see people riled up, like pissing people off gave him sustenance or something. Fortunately, there was a moment of blissful silence in the hall before the butler reappeared.

“That one’s Silster,” Syrian jumped in, eager to prove that he wasn’t going to screw things up this time. He thumbed across the room at Jeren. “And I’m Syrian.” Jeren shot him a look of annoyance. “Uh … DeVries. Mr. DeVries, that is.” Syrian stuck a hand out. “We’re very pleased to meet your acquaintance, and glad you’ve given us this opportunity. You see, when you hire DeVries and Silster, swords-for-hire, you’re hiring the …”

“Please excuse my friend,” Jeren interrupted, walking over to offer his own hand to the butler. “It’s been a long day and he sometimes gets antsy when he hasn’t eaten in a while. I’m Jeren Silster.”

Jeren pushed Syrian behind him, much to the other man’s consternation. “We’re very eager to offer our services to the Winchester Rose Trading Company. Please, lead the way.”

[Leopold]

As the butler to a large noble house on the island of Scara Brae, a city well known for its strange occurrences and stranger people, Wilfred had been privy to many a curious sight in his lifetime. He had, however, never seen a man talk to his sword before. Even in a drunken throe, he had only heard it done ironically, suggestively, and with affection. This man on the hand seemed to think the sword was talking right back to him.

“I…” he began, mouthing one thing and thinking another. “Do follow me,” he continued, half sighing, half ordering. He turned on a sharp boot and scuttled back towards the gold leaf doors that lead into Leopold’s office and study. He made a show of knocking on the frame, even though his master took a strong dislike to too much protocol, and opened it with a twist of the knobs in counter clockwise rotation. They swung open of their own accord, weighted in the hinges so that they came to a gentle rest when they were fully ajar.

“My lord,” Wilfred began, hands tucked into the small of his back as he walked. With an expectant stoop he ambled across the regal carpet into the tobacco scented chamber. “Our final interviewee for the afternoon is one,” he turned when he reached the halfway point between the front of the heavy mahogany desk and the doors, “Mr Jeren Silster.”

Leopold tried to look stern and sincere as he rose from behind his desk, his throne creaking as his bulk shifted. Dressed in his usual waistcoat, dinner jacket and jet black corduroy slacks, he cycled around to the front of his work space and waved the man in. He was as close to the clichéd image of a merchant as one could get without screaming it from the rooftops.

“Mr Winchester, sir,” he began, sounding almost apologetic as he approached.

“Mr Silster, there is no need for such frivolities. At the Winchester Rose, we are all equal,” he chuckled, “but some tend to be more equal than others,” he held out his heavy hand for Mr Silster to shake, and they exchanged greetings with a firm jostle. Leopold noticed that the man’s palms were quite dry. This, to the astute mind of a well to do business man, was a good sign indeed. “Call me Leopold.” He broke away from Jeren and started to amble flamboyantly back to his seat.

“Take a seat, Mr Silster,” Wilfred instructed, gesturing to the small, considerably less comfortable than Leopold’s throne chair in front of the desk.

“Can I offer you a drink at all Jeren?” Leopold raised his eyebrow as he sat a huff passing from his lips as the relaxation took effect. It had been a long day, even though he had not done anything other than sit, talk and consume vast quantities of expensive whiskey from all the corners of the globe. “Anything you fancy, Mr Wilfred here can produce it for you – when you’ve done that take a seat and tell me why you’re here? I know who is here, but enthral me, spin me a tale,” he scooped up the cut crystal tumbler before him and took a sip of the rather ample serving of Delphinium Bourbon to calm his nerves. He did not attempt to hide his Scara Braen origins, and let his natural, warming, and friendly accent cajole Mr Silster into proving his worth as a man that Leopold Winchester would want to hire.

He would do anything to distract himself from working out why he had two damned names.

[Of Two Minds]

The interview had started off well enough, Syrian thought. He plopped down into the chair Leopold had indicated, quite a bit larger and lusher than he was used to, and threw a leg over one side as he turned to address Wilfred. “Anything huh? In that case I’ll take a reuben, lightly toasted, extra sauce,” he said, flashing a bright, toothy grin at the butler.

Jeren groaned a little and shifted to sit forward politely. He felt a familiar ache beginning to grow behind his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the hopes of keeping it from growing. “He meant to drink, Syrian. Anything you want to drink.” Unlike Syrian, he maintained a more pessimistic outlook on the interview’s beginnings, mostly because of Syrian. He was almost certain that Leopold’s polite gestures were purely because the man was a well-mannered host and that soon enough he and Syrian would just as politely be shown the door like the day’s previous applicants.

“Oh,” Syrian’s smile faded to a sheepish glance. “Something to drink? Do you have anything exotic, like maybe Salvaran Ice Vodka?” He paused considering the request, “probably not though, I hear it’s rare. I’ve always wanted to try it though.”

Wilfred’s lip actually curled in a slightly amused smile. “Actually sir, I believe we have several bottles in stock.”

Syrian whistled appreciatively, “Then I’ll have a shot of that. No, make it a double.” Syrian glanced over at his partner, “if that’s ok?”

Jeren nodded his assent and turned back to Leopold. “Sorry about that. Syrian and I aren’t exactly rolling in the lap of luxury.” Jeren paused for a second before his eyes visibly widened and darted around the well furnished room, as if he realized that what he had just said could possibly apply to his host’s environs. “Not … uh …. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Of course not,” Syrian piped in. “I can tell you that we most definitely would not turn down a nice big sack of coins and a fancy mansion like you’ve got here. I’ve really got to tell you that I admire what you’ve got here.”

Jeren shot Syrian an acidic look.

“What?” Syrian said defensively. “It’s a nice place.”

“Anyways,” Jeren cleared his throat, his cheeks blushing in embarrassment. “That’s kind of why we came to Scara Brae. We heard that this was the place to be for young, inspired swordsmen looking to make a name for themselves. Unfortunately, business seems to be a bit slower than we were lead to believe.”

The door opened behind Jeren and he paused while Syrian thanked Wilfred and downed the bright blue liquid from the large shot glass that butler had brought for him. The Ice Wine was sweet, yet pungent, and its rare vintage was so potent that Jeren thought he could almost taste the fiery liquid himself. Actually having imbibed the liquid, Syrian’s eyes widened in surprise and he gave off a low whistle. Realizing that everyone’s eyes in the room were upon him, he stopped and beamed. “Thanks for that Wilfred, my good man. It’s just as good as I thought it would be.”

[Leopold]

Wilfred, not quite used to being called ‘good man’ as he perhaps should be, bowed. As he took the tray away heleft the bottle on the edge of the desk. From the man’s strange mannerisms, he was sure that both he and Leopold were going to need a measure a lot bigger than a double to see them both through the remainder of the afternoon. He turned dutifully to his employee with an inquisitive raise of his eyebrow.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you very much Wilfred. You may take the rest of the afternoon off, or at least until Patricia calls you in to help with the dinner.” He thought hard for a moment, trying to remember who Ruby had arranged to dine with them that particular evening. “I believe the DuBoe family are joining us for light supper and a discussion about serving the barony with trade supplies.” The butler nodded, to show he was correct in his recollection, and then slipped silently out of the study.

The sound of the double doors clicking shut behind him echoed about the stacks and piles of account archives for several awkward moments. Leopold used it to study his potential employee closely.

“In answer to your many damning, but quite appropriate concerns Mr Silster I say this. Given the economy, business in Scara Brae is not…” he smacked his lips, and drew another sip of his own drink from his glass, “slow…” he set it down onto the veneer desk. “It is however struggling to move beyond constraints placed upon it in a difficult climate.”

“What sort of climate?” Mr Silster asked, pulling his glass away for just long enough to speak clearly.

“You seem like…earnest men, so I will cut to the chase. The civil war in Corone has forced Valeena’s hand into raising taxation on non-essential businesses, a very high inheritance tax for the upper echelons of the noble houses, and-” he broke off his train of thought to finish the last of his drink. He stood, dutifully, and walked to the large bay window behind him. The gold sunlight streamed through the rusty, long abandoned white paint panelling and cast Leopold in a regal light. He squinted beneath the glare, but made out the shapes of the trees on the edge of Regent Park beyond.

“The Winchester Rose Trading Company, according to her Royal fucking Highness, is not an essential business.”

Mr Silster mouthed surprise, but sipped his vodka. It reminded him of home, or a girl named Jacqueline, or perhaps both. He shook his head, an internal voice causing him to press the man for more detail.

“So why expand now, why bring in fresh muscle if you cannot manage the workload?” it was an earnest enough question, but Leopold sighed all the same.

“The taxation on business only affects conduct on the island of Scara Brae herself,” he turned and smiled at Mr Silster. He had finally, in his internal thoughts, worked out who, or what was talking.

“Ah, clever,” the man mumbled. Or possibly the sword did, Leopold made a mental note to ask about the strange relation one day. It would be improper for him to do so now. “I need a capable caravan guard to go north, to Berevar, on a trade mission of a critical importance to the bid of my company to secure charters with Salvar. The delivery of raw materials to the shattered city of Knife’s Edge is a lucrative contract, one my rivals, the Montague Brigade, are all too keen to see prized from my fingers. If Lady Clarissa Montague is anything like she was when we last met, those will be my dead, cold, crooked fingers.” He wrinkled his lips, half perturbed at how casually he had referred to his own death, and half worried by the cool and calm façade Mr Silster maintained.

“It will be…a dangerous journey, then?” he raised an eyebrow along with his glass, and let the last of his vodka slip down his gullet.

“Immensely so, the caravan will await our arrival in southern Salvar, run north through Knife’s Edge to deliver oak and iron ore, and then onwards further still to the border with Berevar.”

Mr Silster flinched.

“Dangerous, and cold?” his concern, Leopold realised, was not for his safety, but for wherever or not he had a big enough coin purse. He smiled, and returned to the desk. He poured two drafts of whiskey into his own glass, and then pointed to the vodka bottle.

“Colder than the vodka, which you may keep, by the way, and dangerous enough to warrant a very lucrative financial reward. However, do not get too excited my good man. At the Winchester Rose we do things by the book, which means that payment comes upon completion of your first successful assignment, at which point, 25% of that gold will be kept in a pension scheme as per the governance of the Guilds-man Circle of Scara Brae.”

“Is that mandatory?”

“Oh, if you wish to gain a contract to work for me, yes. If you decide, upon return from Berevar and the diplomatic endeavour with the orc tribes there, that this company is not for you Mr Silster, then I dare say you can take all the gold that is rightfully yours and disappear back into the dark abyss from whence you,” he nodded to the hilt of the sword on his hip. “And your friend, so delightfully emerged from.”

Mr Silster and his companion both mouthed their agreement in unison. The voice was a strange harmony of duality. Leopold was almost certain, that for just a brief moment, he felt like fate had made Mr Silster wait until last.

“Of course, that is not a job offer. If you want danger, and you are a man of your word, sword, and sanity…” he chuckled softly, “that is good. However, tell me about yourself, we pride ourselves on being not just a strong workforce here,” he waved his arms over the study, at the trestle tables lined with fossils, and the relics of his past endeavours hammered to battered pictures frames on every spare inch of wall, “but also, an unbreakable family. Why should I let you into the throng?” with that, he picked up his glass, and sank back into his chair.

[Of Two Minds]

“Where to begin?” Jeren ruminated, watching the light blue liquor cling tenuously to the sides of the glass as he swirled it. The chair was comfortable, and the liquor’s soothing influence seemed to finally allow him to sink comfortably into it. There was always a certain amount of agitation that went with having to drag Syrian through any sort of serious situation. When it became clear that Syrian’s antics weren’t going to be enough for Leopold to throw them both out, all of the tension flowed out of Jeren in one big calming wave.

“I can’t really speak for Syrian,” Jeren began.

“You can and frequently do,” Syrian laughed, pouring another drink of Ice Wine. Job offer or not, this interview had at least provided beneficial.

Jeren sighed, and gave his friend a patient look. Unfortunately, Syrian was back in his own world, blissfully enjoying the blue Salvaran liquor. Knowing that admonishing his friend at this point was just an invitation to drag Syrian back to the fore, Jeren instead chose to ignore him and continue with Leopold’s interview.

“I don’t really remember the name of the town where I was born, but I remember that my parents were kind and hard working. They owned a small plot of land which they farmed to feed us, and sold hand carved knick-knacks to make what little extra they could.” Jeren offered a wry smile. “I’m sure it sounds a little odd that I don’t remember the details but everything has just sort of faded into the background over the years.” Jeren’s laugh was self-depreciating. “The army needed bodies for the civil war and when the conscription teams rolled through town they apparently decided that ten years old was a ripe enough age to join the war effort.”

Jeren sighed, taking a sip of his drink, savoring the cool burn that the Ice Wine made on its way down. “I was given to a spear regiment on the front, though I was treated more as a mascot than a warrior.” He finished his drink in one swallow, pouring another right behind it, “in war, even a mascot sees his share of blood and violence.”

A deep melancholy settled over the room like a black cloud, the silence only broken by the quiet clink of the bottle of Ice Wine on the edge of the shot glass. “War was fought, everyone died, yadda yadda yadda,” Syrian finally interjected, unable to stand the solemnity any further. Then he blinked, looking between himself and Jeren, “well almost everyone. My story is pretty much the same, though I wasn’t raised on a farm.” Syrian’s grin showed that the Ice Wine’s initial effects were working. “We stuck together after that last battle, figuring that the war wouldn’t really miss the two of us. We were finished with war anyways, but there was little else we knew.”

Jeren harrumphed.

“Apologies, Mr. Leopold,” Syrian giggled at his friend’s stoicism and shook his head. “I knew that Ice Wine was good but it seems a bit more potent than a cold draught of amber bitters. That’s pretty much our story. We’ve travelled around since then, getting into and out of trouble more times than I think either of us can count.” Syrian swirled the remnants of the Ice Wine in the bottle. He brought the lip of the bottle to the top of his glass and then paused, thinking better of it. With a sigh and a smile, Syrian re-corked the bottle and set it down.

“I know it’s not much in the way of credentials,” Jeren said, sliding the bottle away. “Frankly I feel a little silly now, having taken your drink with so little to show for it. All I can say is that we’re both reliable,” he looked at Syrian, “reliable-ish, and we know our way around a sword. I understand if that’s not enough for what you have planned. We can manage to find our own way out if that’s the case. No need to waste any more of your time.”

Jeren looked at the bottle on the table next to him. “Or your alcohol.”

[Leopold]

“That is an enlightening tale for sure. As an ex-soldier myself, once captain of the Corone Imperial Brigade some thirty years ago, I can only emphasise with your malcontent for the horrors of war.” He took a deep breath.

Leopold pursed his lips with an expression torn between amusement and decision making. Something about this applicant above all the others was making him feel somewhat excited. Honesty, to the Winchester family and their business associates, was quite literally worth its weight in gold. Honesty could not be brought, only secured, so for Mr Silster to be so forthright off the bat, especially in an interview scenario meant a lot to Leopold.

“Frankly, Mr Silster, the alcohol is yours to do with as you please,” he leant forwards and rested his finger on the rim of his own, now very much empty glass. “You can have another bottle to take home with to celebrate, too.” He reached for his decanter, which was set to his left on a small silver tray with a polished, floral rim. “I have every empathic bone in my body, muscle too, telling me that you are going to fit in well at the Winchester Rose.” He poured a healthy glug of his liquor and the sound of the crystal chiming back onto the tray rang through the study.

“Is that to be taken as a good feeling?” the debonair man smiled, and poured himself another slug of vodka, though a slug considerably smaller than the preceding helping. There was just enough left in the slender bottle to state that lingering, salty taste on the lips that gnawed at a man’s resolve to stop whilst he was ahead. Leopold had no such taste on his lips.

“Before I answer that,” Leopold leant back into his chair with a resounding creak of old, but very much antiquated oak, “I have one final question to press you with.” He sipped from his glass. The almond liquor, a product of the heavy sediment and sugar concentration was beginning to taste a lot like Amaretto the emptier the bottle became. He smacked his lips, fluttered his eyelids, and then cleared his throat.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Mr Winchester,” Mr Silster pleaded.

“There are two names on the application,” he tapped the parchment on the desk with a hooked finger. “Though I too possess a dual nature, I cannot claim to be comfortable hiring anyone without at least enquiring as to the reasons why.” He lingered for a few seconds, trying to find the right words to form his question delicately. He was, for all he knew, treading on very delicate ground.

“Ah, well…” they said in unison.

“From my limited ability to make sense of the world around me through rapidly bedraggled senses, alcohol breath, and a euphoric bout of giggles with Guilds-man Circle, I deduce that one of you is the man before me. I assume that the other is, and I am strangely not fazed by the notion, the sword on your hip.” He took another sip, “is that…correct?”

Leopold was not sure if the tension he felt rise in his stomach to grip his lungs and heart in a vice was because of the severity of his intrusion, or if it was in fact his curiosity reaching fever pitch. The clock over the entrance began to chime, five dings of a heavy pendulum, accompanied by a small, battered, and red robin that darted in and out of a small trellis panelled door. It chirped, but made no sound. Like much of Scara Brae’s noble glamour, it had faded in the many years of abandonment and taxes.

"Unless it's none of my business, of course?" he added, not entirely forgetting his impeccable etiquette, despite his rising state of inebriation.

Though Mr Silster and his companion had commented on the glory of the Winchester Residence, Leopold hoped that with men like he on his side, it would be a place to truly marvel at in the years to come.

[Of Two Minds]

An awkward silence filled the sitting room, trailing Leopold’s question. Jeren and Syrian traded confused, worried glances between the clinks of Leopold’s ice cubes in his glass. Both of them looked at the merchant and his glass, then back to each other, thinking the same thought. Apparently they weren’t the only ones feeling the effects of a long day and a generous amount of strong liquor.

“Beg your pardon Leopold,” Jeren began cautiously, “but Syrian and I sort of assumed that you would hire both of us. That’s why we’re both here, after all.”

Jeren pursed his lips as he set the shot glass on the side table next to the Ice Wine and slid them both gently towards Leopold, eliciting a whimper from his companion. “You’ve been exceedingly generous to us, certainly more generous than anyone else who’s ever interviewed us. But if you’re only looking to fill a single position then I don’t think we’ll be able to help you. We pretty much do everything together.”

“Except for the butcher’s wife,” Syrian murmured with a nervous, sullen giggle. His red eyes flitted between Leopold to Jeren, as if he were trying to be serious but failing.

“Shut up!” Jeren rounded on his companion and hissed through his teeth.

He turned back to Leopold. “Sorry, really I am, but even though we bicker like an old married couple, we’re not going to compete to see which of us gets the spot on your caravan.”

“I understand,” Leopold said, though the frown on his face suggested that he didn’t. “Apologies if I was unclear. That was certainly not what I meant to suggest.”

Relief washed over both mercenaries.

“Oh man, whoa,” Syrian laughed suddenly, a bit too loud for the sitting room’s confines. “Look at us all getting so damned serious. I think I need another drink.” Syrian leaned forward, retrieved the Ice Wine bottle, and poured himself another shot.

Even Jeren seemed to visibly relax, ignoring Syrian while offering Leopold a smile. “If you’re worried that we’re trying to gouge your caravan I can assure you we’re not,” he added. “We’ll both supply our own swords, armor, and camping gear. All we’re asking for is a decent wage and something to eat.”

[Leopold]

Leopold smiled. “Worry not, the both of you, I only asked to make sure I understood your peculiar circumstances correctly. Perhaps, someday, you will recount to me the tale of how a sword acquired a voice, or a man became a sword, and in turn, how you became companions on the wide open roads of these strange lands and stranger times.” He pushed his glass away, quite content to remain tipsy until later that evening. There would be hell to pay from all quarters if he had to retire early to defecate in an alleyway whilst singing show tunes.

“Strange indeed,” they said in unison.

“Gold is something I am very much keen to shower anyone who works for my company with. Since you asked,” he smiled wider still, and leant back as he slid open the stiff draw on the right side of the desk. He rummaged in the nest of paperwork that he kept there, and produced a single sheet of well-read vellum. He held it aloft with his left hand, and shut the draw on instinct alone with his right.

“I did?” the sword grumbled. They both took another draught of ice wine. “I guess so…” Mr Silster glared intently, greedily, and with the sort of work ethic Leopold could only admire at the parchment.

“Pay is as follows for all employees working as a caravan guard; you will receive 10% of the dividends for staff from each shipment tended to that is successfully delivered.” He scrolled over a large chunk of text that was legal speak, and something he would fail miserably to explain at this juncture. “If, for example, the share of a route was thirty per cent of the net profit for staff, you would get ten per cent of that thirty.”

It was a complicated, but fair system. His high wages compared to the likes of rival companies the Montague Brigade, or the Vogut-Stokes meant his profit was less, but his overall respect and presence in the merchant circles of Scara Brae and Radasanth was considerably higher.

“We have a clause that means you never get paid less than twenty five for each full day of duty served.” He waited for the information to be processed, which took several seconds longer than it normally might because of his slightly greater than usual generosity with alcohol.

“Okay…easy money,” Mr Silster nodded, eyes screwed, nose wrinkled, brain still processing.

“That guarantee comes with your contract, which will be signed by me, and my wife, upon the first successful, and satisfactory conclusion of your first assignment.” If Mr Silster returned, along with the caravans relatively still trundling through the snow, then he would be welcome fully into the throng of the Winchester Rose. “The fee for this particular assignment is all the alcohol you can carry back from the incredibly low economy of Knife’s Edge, one hundred coins, and my personal gratitude.” Leopold did not think Mr Silster would put any stock in said gratitude, but he liked to make a show of his personality and kindness all the same.

“Food of course I presume will be supplied on route?” the man raised an eyebrow, and tilted his glass in cheer.

Leopold nodded.

“Excellent, carry on then!”

“Does that sound like a worthwhile use of your time? I can’t promise it will be an uneventful trip, but from what you’ve said thus far, I rather think you’ll thrive on the conflict, if any arises in the Dunbar Tundra. The orcs I hear are quite the opposition, even for us ham strung veterans.” He chuckled with a course, smoke stained laugh, and slapped his knees.

[Of Two Minds]

Jeren politely laughed alongside Leopold, though what the merchant found so humorous was beyond him. He made a mental note to remember that the merchant was somewhat of a lightweight when it came to holding his liquor. He wasn’t sure how often he would get the chance to put the remembrance into practice as a guard for the merchant’s caravan, but remembering the little things often paid off in the long run.

“Honestly Leopold, I’m pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say that we gladly accept. Frankly, I find it to be fairer than we have any right to expect and I can’t think of anything wrong with the arrangement.”

Jeren looked over to Syrian, who merely shrugged and reached for the bottle of Ice Wine. Scowling, Jeren shifted the bottle from one hand to the other, grabbing it away from Syrian before his friend’s predilection for drink somehow managed to unravel the good fortune the two of them had stumbled into. He ignored the annoyed look he got from Syrian, corked the bottle and set it aside with the promise that the two of them could finish it off later, which seemed to assuage Syrian.

“Now I don’t think that either of us has ever had to fight an orc,” he continued, turning his attention back to Leopold, “but we’re both fairly accomplished swordsmen so I don’t think we’ll have a problem with them as long as we’re not outnumbered ten-to-one or anything. That is, should the need even arise.”

Jeren smirked at his new employer. His head was swimming pleasantly and he had a good feeling about this job. No one had ever accused Syrian or him of having an overabundance of luck, but perhaps this contract meant that they had finally managed to round that particular corner. And despite the merchant’s incredibly odd fascination with his sword, Jeren couldn’t help but like Leopold. Most employers he had associated with had treated the two mercenaries with a mixture of scorn and mockery, but Leopold showed neither. Perhaps being a veteran in his own right made him more forgiving when it came to dealing with the old soldiers.

Opposite Jeren, in a strangely uncharacteristic reversal of roles, Syrian didn’t see any reason to gush over the details of the contract, no matter how good they were. True, he and Jeren weren’t exactly rolling in the money, which wasn’t exactly uncommon, but they always managed to scrape by. Having some extra coin in their pockets wasn’t a bad thing, but he couldn’t shake all the times that a promising contract had turned sour and pulled the rug out from under he and Jeren. Leopold may be offering the two of them decent pay, food, and all the liquor they could carry, but Syrian wasn’t going to allow just latch on to the old guy and pretend that he was the solution to all of their problems.

“We may not have dealt with orcs before,” he said, offering a counter to Jeren’s point, “but we’ve got plenty of big uglies under our belts. Just point us in the right direction and we’ll pull our fair share of the load.”

[Leopold]

“That is,” Leopold shuffled in his chair, becoming uncomfortable with the prolonged period of not being what he called a ‘busy body’, “excellent. Really, I had a feeling about you the moment you walked through the door.” He shrugged. “Then again, compared to the geriatric archer, the woman from Akashima with big hair, and the twins who called themselves Sun and Moon, from Salvar, apparently, you’re by far the best candidate.”

The awkward silence told Leopold all he needed to know about his current state of focus. He was, by what his wife would measure, ‘well beyond appropriate limits’. Mr Silster was seeing a side to the head of the Winchester household that few outside the secretive Noble households would ever see. He rose.

“This document,” he made short work of trotting around the desk, coat tails and legs well timed and swaggering, “will not only outline the contract in more scrupulous detail,” he turned it over, “but it also has the details of where to meet me at the start of our journey.”

Mr Silster blinked. He drank, and then blinked again.

“You will…be joining us?” Syrian intruded. His voice sounded sceptical, though Leopold was not sure if that was the sword’s manner, or just the curiosity of accompanying his new employee on the open road.

“What he means, Leopold, is that sounds excellent,” Mr Silster pursed his lips. Leopold held out the parchment, and it was taken dutifully between a final emptying of the glass. Leopold offered to take it off his hands, and he embraced the warmth of the crystal, clung to dearly throughout their interview, and felt rather host like.

“Don’t worry, my good man, it is not a regular occurrence.” Of late, the Winchester Rose Company had come under heavy attack and sabotage from its rivals, who were fearful that the small firm was becoming not so small. Leopold had to see for himself, because this shipment had a more important purpose to it. “I have advertised for another guard to join this particular trade endeavour because it is of vital importance to me, my family, and of course to my business that the goods in the wagon reach their destination.”

“With me,” started Mr Silster, “and I,” continued Syrian, “no harm shall come to it.”

“Remain as positive as you have been and you’ll be running wagons with the title of Guilds-man Maester soon enough!” it did not occur to Leopold, as he patted his new recruit on the shoulder affectionately, that he likely had no idea what the title meant. “Now,” he stepped back, heavily polished boots scuffing the well-trod carpet of the study Mr Winchester practically lived in. “Unless you have any further questions, Mr Silster, Mr Syrian, I do believe you possess the acumen to see yourself out.” He wrinkled his nose, scratched his beard, and tried not to let slip the fact that he had prematurely sent Wilfred away. “If not, I shall see you in three days’ time, at dawn’s call, and bacon’s lure!”

[Of Two Minds]

“You most certainly will, sir,” Jeren rose and offered his hand to the merchant. “Thank you again for this opportunity. We’ll make sure that your faith in us was not misplaced, Leopold.” He paused, considering the fact that this man was now his employer. “Uh, Mr. Winchester that is.”

“That’s right Leo,” Syrian obviously had no compunction about addressing his new employer in such a familiar manner. “That feeling that you’ve got about us just means that you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He too reached out and took Leopold’s hand, shaking it a bit more vigorously than Jeren had.

Jeren grabbed Syrian before he could cause any more problems for the two of them. Just because they had been hired didn’t mean that they couldn’t just as easily be dismissed. The two men graciously bowed out of the study room, pausing only to grab the bottle of Ice Wine, and made their way out the Winchester Mansion’s front door.

“Well?” Jeren asked once they were out of earshot, craning his head to observe the retreating edifice.

“Guy seems a little out of it,” Syrian laughed, twirling the liquor bottle in his hand.

“Yeah, but if he pays as well as he says,” Jeren glared at Syrian, “and if you can manage to keep us out of trouble, then I think we can overlook his eccentricities.”

“Me keep out of trouble,” Syrian laughed. “It was your sword that he’s so fascinated with.” Jeren grunted, but there was a smile on his face. “Besides,” Syrian continued, “expensive liquor and actually being paid go a long way to helping me ignore an old man’s senility.”

Jeren spun the Ice Wine in the air, catching it by its neck. “You said it brother.”

If anyone thought it odd that the man leaving the Winchester Mansion was talking to himself, they surely chalked it up to the half empty bottle of liquor he was tossing from hand to hand.

[Leopold]

Leopold craned his neck to the study door, waiting just long enough to make sure that Mr Silster had indeed left, and that the sound of the front door banging closed was not just a cruel trick. Ever careful for his wealth, he could not risk it. Content he was now alone, he returned idly to the bay window, and leant against the right panel of glass to look out and down at the street below.

The soft light of the approaching afternoon halcyon broke the horizon of Scara Brae’s cityscape, and cast a wondrous array of gold and bronze over the tree tops and rolling hills of Regent Park. It was a perfect, poignant, and idyllic backdrop for Mr Silster’s departure. The merchant watched his new employee turn a corner and vanish, a bottle spinning in his hand, a strange potential sparking in the air around his every step.

“Well, that was an enlightening meeting of minds,” he chuckled to himself. He relieved his by now throbbing temple by pressing it against the glass. The cooling surface gave him only a few seconds of relief before it faded. In his erstwhile attempts to convince Mr Silster and Syrian, whichever way round they were, he had come quite undone on the sharp twang of liquor’s regret. Though it was still the afternoon, he felt like it was more eight o’clock.

Turning on a lazy heel, Leopold waltzed back to his desk and dropped, quite heavily, back into his chair. Dust rose from the chintzy fabric like debris from a comet’s descent. With a sigh, he envisioned himself smoking a cigar in the cellar beneath Magnus Paoki’s lavish mansion, indulging in the Guilds-man’s Monthly and ritualistic meeting called a Van Degalion. As he let all the strain and tension in his muscles drip away, he vowed to make Mr Silster and Mr Syrian very wealthy men for their combined efforts.

“Higher and higher he rose, on gilded wings and honest intentions,” he whispered, reciting one of his wife’s favourite poetic lines. He keened his gaze at the cuckoo clock over the door, and counted down the minutes until he had to move on to the next pressing engagement. Things were looking up for the Winchester Rose Trading Company - the coming months would be interesting times indeed.


Spoils:

Of Two Minds

+ The rank of Caravan Guard in The Winchester Rose Trading Company (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?24103-PG-The-Winchester-Rose-Trading-Company&p=194895#post194895).
+ Bottle of Salvar Ice Wine.

Leopold Winchester

- 100 gold from proceeds of this thread.
+ Skill: Dichotomy (Speech) - Average.

[Sagequeen]

Plot ~ 24/30

Storytelling ~ 8/10 - Very entertaining! There was a little more confusion than intended, I think, in the very beginning, due to the nature of the dual personality and a time jump between the second and third posts. I think that a little more could have been added to the actual interview, to add a little richness to the plot.

Setting ~ 7/10 - The setting was well and beautifully described, but it lacked movement and life. Attention to certain details, for example, the cuckoo clock, could be sprinkled throughout the story to keep the setting present and from becoming stale.

Pacing ~ 9/10 - For the most part, the delivery of the various events was very good. Just splitting hairs, but on the whole, even though the interview was meant to be short, it seemed slightly rushed in narrative, while less important events were given equal weight.

Character ~ 24/30

Communication ~ 9/10 - The two, er, three of you bunnied each other rather seamlessly. The communication among your characters was supurb, especially for the play between Jeren and Syrain.

Action ~ 7/10 – I really needed more reason why both Leo and Jer/Syr wanted this job interview to go well, and more importantly, why it did. It seemed a little contrived.

Persona ~ 8/10 – You guys did wonderfully in portraying your characters, to the point where (see above) I wondered why they'd be okay with such a chance encounter.

Prose ~ 24/30

Mechanics ~ 8/10 – Mild errors. Just needs proofing.

Clarity ~ 8/10 – On the third post, the odd, disorienting jump was a problem. If it were either a time jump, or an introduction to a character meant to be intriguing and not give too much info, it'd have been fine. But the two combined resulted in a lot of confusion. Otherwise, mild errors.

Technique ~ 8/10 – You both did well, with perhaps a bit too much attention focused on describing something instead of actually including it in the 'living setting.' I think there was interesting foreshadowing of Jer/Syr's personality before revealing he doesn't realize how he (they're) viewed by others.

Wildcard: 8/10 – Overall, an excellent story to read! Well done, and I hope to see so much attention given to all threads that are, by nature, necessary but not necessarily the most fun to write.

Total ~ 80/100

Leopold Winchester earns 770 EXP and 20 gold. (Per spoils request)
Of Two Minds earns 550 EXP and 90 gold.

All other spoils granted... but the Ice Wine was a gift, and cannot be regifted or sold. :)


Notes: Jensen manages to creep into too many threads ^^ Typo ftw.

Moar commas!