A pittance for pay—piss-poor, really. But beggars could not be choosers, and to a man trained in fighting from his youth, any opportunity to fight would be good. Perhaps there was merit to the idea of building up a name not well-known outside some bordermarches only recently added to the Rose Empire. Notoriety was no substitute for food, but perhaps it would suffice for a time.<br/><br/>It was with that in mind that Maksym the Swift led his mule to the old tavern. "Might be a while, Izh," he murmured, patting her shoulder affectionately as if to offset the burden of the armor-pieces hanging off it. The only one he still wore was the easiest, a brigandine faced in black silk with rivets shining in the noon sunlight. Pausing, the warrior did something that might have looked odd. He took a deep breath, as if willing himself to swell up, then set forward to the tavern with a different sort of air.<br/><br/>He entered with the breezy confidence of a veteran fighter, sizing up the interior in general and the group gathering rapidly round the bar in particular. If anybody was going to be answering the call, this would be it. Even so, he didn't approach directly, but rather fished out a few coins as he approached the bar.<br/><br/>While he paid for the nameless drink, he carried on a different conversation with the bartender. "I heard tell of a captain putting together some fighters," he began, his voice elevated just enough to be overheard. "Know where I can find this intrepid fellow?"