08-15-2017, 09:50 PM
The interior of the bounty commission office issued a cacophony unlike any that the hunter had borne witness to before. Even the carrion-flocks that had grown fat and indolent upon the demented forest the fleshweaver of Kraakstalt had planted were not so unquiet. Buzzing, beeping, and a thousand different conversations echoed through the sterile white room, the only colour being great portraits of light hanging over the desks, and small potted plants resting in the corners, too green, too perfect to be natural.
He cast his gaze over the crowd of grey-suited bureaucrats, undyed hair cut to regulation lengths as they bustled between consoles and manilla folders, a rare, elite few standing by translucent kegs of water, frequently looking at watches upon their wrists, timing their breaks to the second. What kind of reward would be worth this sacrifice of individuality, this abandonment of the self in exchange for immersion in this strange community?
Vulre’s teeth, weathered from years of subsisting on jerky and hardtack, to say nothing of blows to the face, shone in a smile beneath his helmet.
Money.
There was very little in this world that could not be bought with a suitable sum: Loyalty, love, and death were all easily bought, no matter what world he walked.
Finally, his vision settled upon a door set into the opposite end of the building, the bronze plaque set into its surface clearly stating the occupant of the office: Gorman.
The hunter began to make his way across the offices, the teeming horde of salarymen parting before him like a school of fish remaining mere inches away from the jaws of a predator. Defanged though Vulre was, his tall, athletic build, coupled with the armour and aura of menace his soulless self possessed, was drastically different from what the average office worker was acclimated to. The marred surface of his leather and scalemail attested to battle wounds more severe than an errant papercut.
The petal-like leaves of the portal slid into the walls, a spiral of steel giving way to a simple room furnished with polished wooden chairs adorned with plush cushions, a low table dominating the center of the room, documents strewn across its glass surface. Occupying the far side of the room, standing sentry over a tinted glass door, was an Elven woman, a crimson suit-jacket and skirt complementing pale skin and pointed ears, a file rasping against lithe fingers. Emerald eyes looked up at the armoured merchant of murder, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. “Do you have an appointment?”
Ah.
Scale-plated shoulders shrugged. “I’m afraid not. I got dumped into the Nexus earlier today, and I’m not one to miss an opportunity for employment.”
Carefully manicured nails tapped against a device of some kind, colours and shapes shifting above the desk, twisting and turning into new patterns. “Mister Gorman has an opening in his schedule in half an hour. Does that work for you?” She questioned, divining meaning from the arcane sigils held aloft over her place of work.
Vulre chuckled in response, placing one gloved hand on the desk as he leaned against it, smiling beneath his helmet at the secretary. “Well, I had a busy itinerary of wandering around aimlessly until I got mugged, but I suppose I can push that back ‘til this evening.”
The Elvish Woman was not incredibly impressed by his razor-sharp wit. Almond-shaped eyes with irises like emeralds blinked once, before a hand laden with a shimmering bracelet guided him towards the furniture behind him. “We pride ourselves on our magazine collection. Everything the discerning mercenary law enforcer could desire to see, sans explicit sex and violence.” Nodding in agreement, Vulre made his retreat to the table, silently seating himself into the calloused chair, a magazine being acquired by armoured fingers, its well-worn pages splitting apart and laying their secrets bare to the Hunter.
Imperial Weapons Weekly.
He cast his gaze over the crowd of grey-suited bureaucrats, undyed hair cut to regulation lengths as they bustled between consoles and manilla folders, a rare, elite few standing by translucent kegs of water, frequently looking at watches upon their wrists, timing their breaks to the second. What kind of reward would be worth this sacrifice of individuality, this abandonment of the self in exchange for immersion in this strange community?
Vulre’s teeth, weathered from years of subsisting on jerky and hardtack, to say nothing of blows to the face, shone in a smile beneath his helmet.
Money.
There was very little in this world that could not be bought with a suitable sum: Loyalty, love, and death were all easily bought, no matter what world he walked.
Finally, his vision settled upon a door set into the opposite end of the building, the bronze plaque set into its surface clearly stating the occupant of the office: Gorman.
The hunter began to make his way across the offices, the teeming horde of salarymen parting before him like a school of fish remaining mere inches away from the jaws of a predator. Defanged though Vulre was, his tall, athletic build, coupled with the armour and aura of menace his soulless self possessed, was drastically different from what the average office worker was acclimated to. The marred surface of his leather and scalemail attested to battle wounds more severe than an errant papercut.
The petal-like leaves of the portal slid into the walls, a spiral of steel giving way to a simple room furnished with polished wooden chairs adorned with plush cushions, a low table dominating the center of the room, documents strewn across its glass surface. Occupying the far side of the room, standing sentry over a tinted glass door, was an Elven woman, a crimson suit-jacket and skirt complementing pale skin and pointed ears, a file rasping against lithe fingers. Emerald eyes looked up at the armoured merchant of murder, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. “Do you have an appointment?”
Ah.
Scale-plated shoulders shrugged. “I’m afraid not. I got dumped into the Nexus earlier today, and I’m not one to miss an opportunity for employment.”
Carefully manicured nails tapped against a device of some kind, colours and shapes shifting above the desk, twisting and turning into new patterns. “Mister Gorman has an opening in his schedule in half an hour. Does that work for you?” She questioned, divining meaning from the arcane sigils held aloft over her place of work.
Vulre chuckled in response, placing one gloved hand on the desk as he leaned against it, smiling beneath his helmet at the secretary. “Well, I had a busy itinerary of wandering around aimlessly until I got mugged, but I suppose I can push that back ‘til this evening.”
The Elvish Woman was not incredibly impressed by his razor-sharp wit. Almond-shaped eyes with irises like emeralds blinked once, before a hand laden with a shimmering bracelet guided him towards the furniture behind him. “We pride ourselves on our magazine collection. Everything the discerning mercenary law enforcer could desire to see, sans explicit sex and violence.” Nodding in agreement, Vulre made his retreat to the table, silently seating himself into the calloused chair, a magazine being acquired by armoured fingers, its well-worn pages splitting apart and laying their secrets bare to the Hunter.
Imperial Weapons Weekly.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.