Garrick listened with unusual attentiveness for a common drunkard, his eyes lighting up at the mention of Beelzin infantry. "Pretty face, but 'ard as big iron, I can respect tha'. Seems you and me saws different parts of the same blood, I was a rank and file blighter myself, Beelzin as far as coin went." Garrick leaned back in his seat, mayhaps a thoughtful smile hidden under the ragged beard that adorned his face. "Was a farmer's boy, never on for war mongerin', yet we's were poor folk, and so enlistin's what I did. I was likely bettah lookin' back then, shaved and other such nonsense. Left home a boy, never made it home a man." The thoughts presumably went south from there, as Garrick emptied the drink with unnecessary speed. "Ten year's back, got's in a scuffle, a big man with the king's ear, some words gone said and lost. When they's were done scourgin me bloody, I was "relieved" of duty. See, they're might fine for making young boys into steel, but is' a one way trip. Blood was it for me by then, couldn't farm for the life of me, even if I had the coin to lie down. Killin's all they taught me, thought's I might as well make use of it. So, here's I am, a drunkard and a man who sells his blade propah, another tale to be forgotten when I'm rotten."<br/><br/>Garrick ran a hand through his grease matted hair, drunk as any proper man'd be. "Thas' the difference then, 'tween a commandah and us hounds. You get to leave, but no mattah how far's we go, we're still there every night. Might be I could'a been one of them pretty folks, clean hair and shiny armor, more coin then I'd ever get as a spare sword. Boys like that one on the farm always lookin to learn, a proper man-at-arms'd teach'm right quick. Yet I'd be sendin all of'm where I went, and I'd know it true. Sell-swords not one for glory and honor, but 'least we's know what we are, when's you take away the shiny toys and pretty banners, we're all just weapons."