He could feel his mind working overtime, heart pumping his cursed blood around his veins as all his strength was utilized to keep his patience in check, by snarling sounds and clenched fist, the marshal was receiving every humble apologies that the gryphon handlers could invent. The two little dwarves had decided that they rather NOT fly further towards the fields of the undead. They had decided before arriving, to cut the Nightfall Brigade short, and call for a land at the Refuge Pointe, in the middle of the Arathi Highlands.
A tired, unplated hand, rose to rub at his left temple before he pulled his sword from the soil. His strode was determined for one path, forward. There was no time for haggling dwarves. Pebbles and twigs crunched beneath his plated boots as he called his people to carry on to Hillsbrad. One of the stout men was trying his damned best to try and negotiate a few more coins out of the Marshal, stumping along and trying to fully him up the hill but was ceased at a grip by his collar.
My apologies, master handler. I do believe your service has come to term.
, it was a refined and calming voice that cut through the early morning. The firm grasp was that of a man in a black suit, there were no sign of baggage or packs, just him and his little book at the belt. The soft clink of skimmed coins were heard in the shadows as he with a swift motion of his free hand, had decided to relieve the dwarves of a few gold coins.
It is bad for business men and women to overcharge for a service uncompleted, sir. I've taken a little cut from your pouch, I'm sure you won't be missing them, after all - there is no need for hazard pay when you weren't in further danger than getting your little scalp wet.
the man in the black suit gently lowered the stout dwarf back to his feet, then adjusted the dwarf's collar. He offered a polite bow before setting in a brisk jog out of the small camp.
Of course, he had left a little gift. Within the pouch were one tainted coin, nothing more than a prank by the rogues of Dalaran but a prank none the less of good sport. From within the dark of the gold pouches, clattering along with its cousins, the single tainted coin began to emit an odour; a stench so foul it could send even the forsaken to their knees - or well, so the little adorable gnome claimed, Lochton wasn't convinced but though nonetheless of it as more a good deterrent against pickpockets and frauds.
The members of the brigade who were embracing their worgen curse for the next part of the journey, could just out of earshot hear, a few terror yells and coughs. They halted for a moment to look back at towards the camp; no smoke, no clashing of steel - just a man in a brisk jog running towards them.
Lochton had a hand in a few deals but mostly he was more or less an accountant at heart, he prided himself on tying up the loose ends to make sure the Nightfall wouldn't be cut short on a deal, as being a man contracted on the outside, his duty was to hold the books in the clear.
My apologies for the delay, sir. But I'd rather not leave people overpaid for doing less. So, I took it to my duty to balance the sheets for you, sir. Business has been concluded with the handlers
, Lochton talked in a calm voice, even though having run. With a respectful nod, he offered a small pouch of coins to the Marshal.