<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/gNwY8ZO.jpg)</div><strong>Seras Goreev</strong><br/>Human Fighter - Lvl 1<br/><strong>HP</strong>:  25 / 25<br/><strong>XP</strong>:  0 / 8<br/><strong>Conditions</strong>:  None<hr/>Seras didn't hesitate to take advantage of the High Elder's hospitality when it was offered.  She'd been on the road a long while, and with snap change to winter a warm hearth was a luxury she'd longed for even longer.  Requesting a tub of hot water, and scenting it with a handful of dried petals, she washed the grit and sweat from her long march off, wanting to put her best face forward when meeting the rest of the village.<br/><br/>She hadn't missed that heavy look of disappointment in the High Elder's eyes.  A shrimp dressed in what could've been her father's armor, a witch wrapped in tatters, a crimson-garbed fool in a jeering mask, and girl whose eyes were still bright with naivety ... they hardly had the presence of the great heroes of yore.  His situation was dire, and it seemed that fate had handed him a pack of money hungry misfits; she'd seen that look too many times in her life already.  Well, preconceptions would crumble under the weight of results, as ridiculous a band as they made, they were the quartet who'd survived the journey unbloodied and unshaken.  That tenacity was the metric the Warsworn had taught her to use when judging her companions ... she could make do with this.<br/><br/>When she finally joined the festivities downstairs, she appeared without her armor for possibly the first time her travelling partners had seen her, wearing a dark sleeveless tunic that had been patched repeatedly with crude stitchwork over britches and her boots.  Still, she kept her axe close at hand, leaning it against the table to her side as she enjoyed the fruits of this year's harvest.  Still, she kept to the edges of the crowds, happy to leave public relations to the more sociable members of the party.<br/><br/>Growing up surrounded by her people, she was still acclimating to outsiders she couldn't easily seperate into Contractors or Foes.<br/><hr/>Seras was in a good mood in the morning.  A good night's sleep (where she'd snored openly, sprawled out across her cot with a belly full of stew and mead), and a warm bowl of oats had helped her shake off whatever misgivings she'd gathered up on the road.  Her armor was in place, her pack was secured, and she balanced her axe against her shoulder casually even as she regarded the people milling about the town square.  Her back straight and her head high, for Seras, she may as well be dancing and luxuriating in the sunlight.<br/><br/>"Yeah...I can tell you don't get many adventurers out this way." she said, glancing back towards the town house, "Vague mission objectives, non-specific promises of compensation ... lots of room for abuse from both sides.  A mission like this is bound to drag on ... hopefully High Elder's Telweather's good graces hold out."<br/><br/>"Hrmn." she muttered, rubbing her chin, "Much as I'd like to head out immediately, Warsworn policy is generally to fortify a base camp at the outset of a campaign.  It shouldn't be much trouble to hunt down a wild dog ... maybe it'll be a 'Bar Guest'." she added, the corner of her lips lifting in a smirk as she made air quotes with her free hand.  "We need to make sure that any reinforcements who come from the pass have a place to bed down, after all."<br/><br/>She tilted her head towards Gerard the Young, examining the silver-haired youth for a moment.<br/><br/>"How's the blacksmith in this town, Ser Mage?" she asked, "I'd like to pick up a few knives and bandages before we venture off.  You know," she gave a broad smile that didn't touch her eyes, "the essentials."