It takes the conclusion of one chapter to begin another, a denouement before the sequel, the closing of curtains before the new act can begin. For Sampson, his epilogue was the termination of his contract with the Mercenary band he rode, fought and drank with for the past three years. Three years, and they were going to be concluded upon their arrival to Baldur's Gate, the thought both excited and terrified Grimrock, who saw it as an opportunity to expand his horizons from the rank-and-file of professional soldiering. Luckily for Sampson the band was traveling to the city to look for new recruits, and they respected him enough to let him ride with them for just a while longer.<br/><br/>The journey to Baldur's Gate took them through boundless plains dotted with farmsteads, through forests filled with the mundane and fantastical; strange trees and stranger creatures which peered as the band traveled through their gnarled lands. The band traversed snow-capped mountains and Dwarven mountain halls, through cities old in honor and hamlets too small to earn a place in most Cartographer's maps. The journey was long, scenic, and utterly unnecessary. It would've been simpler to take a ship, but in doing so it would've eliminated another purpose of the land-bound trek; to pick up new recruits along the way.<br/><br/>In the end the band and Sampson parted ways at the gates of the city, letting Sampson keep the group-issue munitions plate and battleaxe that he had earned many times over during his career. The armor was of average quality; grey steel dinted and pockmarked with the scars of a hundred battles, it belied the experience of the man who wore it many times into combat. The battleaxe was of a similar condition, although perhaps better kept; the dark wood handle was wrapped in well-used leather, the blade bearing a wicked edge sharp enough to shave with. It was with these items of note that Sampson entered the city, and it was with these items he overheard the crier pointing wayward souls to the Purple Wyrm Inn, and it was in that armor and that axe strapped to his back that he entered the Inn.<em><strong>From one job to another in half a day</strong></em>Sampson thought as he opened the door to the tavern,<em><strong>might have to see if that's a record.</strong></em><br/><br/>The inn was Sampson's kind of place; full of patrons enjoying themselves, it would be easy to find a drinking buddy or a lustful woman to sit on his lap, but that is not what he came here for. It was the lizard he was looking for, and it was the lizard who let him through to the next floor to meet his future employer. He was apparently early; only one other had arrived upstairs to meet the noblewoman, a woman, from the looks of her frame and hair.<br/><br/>The woman behind the table was beautiful, there was no denying that. Sampson studied her shapely frame with dark blue eyes before turning his gaze on the knight behind her,<em><strong>a woman this wealthy would have such a guard, figures.</strong></em>What Sampson<em>didn't</em>figure however, was the apparent ease of the task at hand compared to the potential reward, "<strong>A journal, eh?</strong>" Sampson inquired, his voice a deep baritone, "<strong>And who exactly has this journal? One must know the quarry before the hunt, after all.</strong>"<br/><br/>Imagine Grimrock's surprise then, when the woman next to him spoke. The masculine voice of the woman next to him revealed a surprising truth, the Sorcer<strong>ess</strong>turned out to be a Sorcer<strong>er</strong>, which caused the Mercenary's eyes to widen as he looked down at the male with new interest,<strong><em>he may be a bit girlish, but he's got the right of it</em></strong>the man thought,<em><strong>the more we know of this job the better we'll be able to help this woman.</strong></em><br/><br/>Still, Sampson couldn't help but steal another glance at the Wizard, less out of any sort of desire and more out of how wildly different the pair was. Where Dalmer wore fine robes, Sampson seemed to have come straight out of a long march; his brown leather boots were caked with dust and dirt, his coarse wool pants and dark red, long-sleeved tunic flecked with sweat and grime. But where the two perhaps had their biggest difference was their bodies. Whereas Aberik had a lithe frame, Sampson's was powerful and muscular; his limbs large and shapely with taut muscle that belied a lifetime of hard labor. His face was rugged and tan, dark stubble framing a strong jaw as midnight blue eyes studied those in the room with him. Even their height was different, although that could be said about most other men; his figure topping out at somewhere around 6'5 Sampson was a giant of a man, as tall as he was strong.