Berrod Armstrong crashed through the front doors of the establishment with his usual lack of grace, looking only slightly harassed this visit. Dressed in creaking black leather from neck to toe, the highlander was the very image of an unarmed fighter. Harness straps wound about his broad torso and led to well-padded leather gauntlets. No weapons hung from his belt or hips, but the multitude of spikes along his heavy-looking boots seemed a good enough substitute. For all the black he wore, blood-red hair crashed into things superbly, pulled back into a folded tail and shaved at the sides. The layer of ruddy scruff along his jaw spoke of days without a shave.
Not so much as a glance was yet given to the other patrons before he could conduct his business; the massive hyur strode quickly to the levemete's counter and deposited a sizable rattling sack that had been clutched in his left hand. Â "Company's completions for today," He grunted, "We'll do the usual, you take your time, count these up and I'll send Darovic in for the gil later."
That said, he finally offered himself a glimpse back at the floor -- only to scowl. There were a few familiar faces, some of whom he considered friends. There was only one course of action on his mind at the sight of his friends in the Quicksand...
...an attempt at hasty flight.
With another grunt at Eustace the levemete Berrod did his best to propel his large frame toward the exit, inadvertently making himself far more noticeable than before.Â
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