Travel was still common in this part of the world, and so the press was mostly day-laborers, free from their labors. Gerrard received a few confused stares, but amongst humans he hardly noticed anymore. Goat-people weren't a common sight, after all. He had no business with them in any case.
Reaching the bar itself, he slipped into a vacated seat and took the black gloves from his hands, glancing around. There were more than a few suits of armor with bodies inside sitting around him, but not the ones he-
"You must be the Black Goat of the Hub." A voice growled behind him. It was quiet, but purred with the helm's voice like like the smile on the edge of an axe. He slowly turned around, to meet the red eyes of the Lion.
The man's armor was golden, but spiked and chevroned in sweeping, loose plates. It didn't look heavy; when Gerrard up-and-downed him, it flowed with him as he jerked his snarling faceplate toward a corner, heading that way with a light step. Gerrard followed, dipping his head. When they arrived, he noticed the other one for the first time- a gaunt, tall, silent armored man. He briefly nodded to Gerrard's scrutiny.
"First-" said the Lion, before squeezing the flame out of the candle in the center of the table and sitting down. "You put in effort to hunt us down. Who was your contact?"
"Marcella, in the Old Argo beach district. She highly recommended the both of you. It certainly was a chore to find your trail, that much I'll share." Gerrard said, folding his hands and looking between them.
"Mercenary work is easier if you leave once you're paid." Said the taller one dryly. His armor was more subdued, but still obviously powered and actively used. The scars and torn bits of sheared metal hanging off his frame was proof enough of that- much like the Greatsword leaning against the wall behind him.
"Yes, well, speaking of that-"
"You know our terms?" The Lion growled.
"Your job, your play, your fight, your way. So I'd heard." Gerrard said, slightly annoyed at the interruption. "The job itself is-"
"Why do you want a soon-to-be-Kopper dead?"
"Kobber."
"What?" The Lion asked, looking askance at the other.
"They're called Kobbers, after their Bar."
"So be it." He said, flapping his hand distractedly. "Why does a foreigner want some jailhouse bird red and cold?"
"Personal reasons, primarily. Will that be a problem?" Gerrard asked, filching a drink off a passing tray. He sipped before grimacing- why would anyone in their right mind want alcoholic prune juice?
"Your coin spends like any other." They shrugged at the same time.
"In essence, she bares me a personal grudge, as well as the administration I currently am stewarding. You'd think a war would clean up messes, not leave them to stew in their ugly tempers inside a jail." Gerrard said, discreetly pouring the glass on the floor.
"You want the head when we're done?" Osric asked. His helm snarled at Gerrard, and the red glass of his eyes seemed to pierce through him.
"...Please."
"Half up front, half when the job is done. Do we have an accord?" Antonio, the wolf knight inquired, holding his right hand out. Gerrard grasped him by the wrist and firmly pumped the handshake.
"We certainly do. I'll have your money to you by Tommorow morning. Thank you both very much for-"
"Save your gratitude. The work's not done yet." Osric said, standing and pushing away from the table. Antonio got to his feet, creaking like an old man. Only now did Gerrard notice that his left arm was dead; It hung from his shoulder like a piece of meat, even as he hefted up his sword to his pauldron.
"We'll be in touch."
"We'll be watching."
