Belisar had not been the only one up in the predawn, Chath Varak had been marching for days now, rising before the sun and walking into the night, ever since his letter of invitation had reached him, somewhere in the middle of the Eloerna. Luckily his contract as a guard had been up, when the Silver Leaves had come recruiting, in the form of a letter, which had been chasing him across the trade routes. Well, everyone in his profession and many outside it, knew who they were and their reputation, he would have been a fool not to accept but then again, he had always like a little bit of luck to decide for him. Sitting in the tavern, with a tankard of almost sour wine, he had dug a small silver coin from his belt pouch and flipped it. Now if any gambler had seen it, they would have known the flipping silver disk was not currency of any nation but mark of a follower of Visky, the Goddess of Luck.<br/><br/>He had caught the shinning silver and slapped it against the back of his left hand. When he revealed to the coin, he found the face of his Lady, looking back at him in a triumphant smile. She favored the offered contract and thus, he had gone south. Now, with the early morning sun pleasant warm for the spring, the crossbowman, pack and bedroll upon his back, quiver slapping against one thigh, his katzbalger the other and favorite weapon slung his shoulder, was approaching the gate of a mighty fortress. He wore his armor, having no other way to carry it, the black leather wrapped around his chest but unbuckled, hanging open in the front like a wool vest might. Grey eyes appraised the sturdy stone, the towers, gatehouse, arrows slits and crenellations. A smile split his lips, as he though how much fun a man like himself could have, defending such a place.<br/><br/>Getting through the gate had been no problem. he simply flashed his letter at the guards. Those men had then instructed him that an officer would be made known of his arrive and that he should wait in the mess hall, to be assigned bed and get some breakfast while he was there. Walking to the building the guards had pointed out, he found himself moving through a line, plate loaded with a  few plain rolls and a wedge of cheese, in one hand and sword-hilt in the other, so he didn't poke anyone with the exposed blade. At the end of the line, he was freed to roam among the long tables, finding himself at one that wasn't overly full, just a dwarf and three humans, even if one was more a giant then man. Not asking permission, he set his plate down next to the dwarf and unslung his crossbow, leaning the weapon against the bench and sitting down. Leaning forwards a little, he peered into the pitcher and frowned slightly, before grabbing a cup.<br/><br/>"Well" he said in a light tone, setting the cup down and pulling his canteen from his belt, "Thats no way to start the day, drinkin water. Wine is much better."<br/><br/>Grinning like he was among old friends, the mercenary poured a measure of the red wine from his leather and wood canteen before glancing about. Now it was his wine, he had bought it, with his coin but he was joining a massive company of sellswords. Others of their profession, he knew, liked to try and prey on new members. Maybe it would be best to have some around, who were willing to watch his back, rather then hoping to steal from him, when he preoccupied proving he wasn't easy meat.<br/><br/>"Anyone else agree" he asked, holding his canteen out in offer, "And I be Chath, by the way."