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In all his years traveling with Bull and the Chargers, Krem had only heard stories of qunari mages… They weren’t exactly pretty stories either. Bull never seemed to share those opinions, and Krem was somewhat glad for that.
Despite all the stories, seeing an actual qunari mage in the flesh was not at all what Krem had expected. Watching the tall man and the viciousness with which he cast his spells on the training dummy in the yard was a sight to behold. Also a sight Krem wasn’t about to interrupt. Instead he sat, watching as the man trained, and sipping from a mug of ale brought with him from the tavern.
He’d acquired an audience.
A seasoned mercenary himself, Armogan was used to being sized up for skill. It was part of the life. The Valo-Kas had been no different than any Tal-Vashoth band in that they straddled a brutal edge of survival and profit, with no real home besides the road they’d traveled. Weakness could get one man killed, it could get an entire scouting party eradicated--and that was everyone’s concern. Sizing up new members was seeing your own likelihood of survival on the next job. It was integral to the career.
And here he was more than just a mercenary, he was a leader. Soldiers had been watching all morning to know that the man they would follow into battle was a strong one--he’d expected that. It’s why he’d chosen to practice out in the open, very public practice field.
But someone in particular caught his attention.
He recognized Bull’s right hand when he saw him out of the corner of his eye, between one series of spells woven into the air around him and the next. He hadn’t spoken to Krem--not directly, not yet. He knew his face the same way he knew the faces of some of Leliana’s spies, or Cullen’s officers. Purely by proxy of the banner they all followed.
What piqued his interest was the curiosity. Krem wasn’t out there to size him up, he was there to observe. He noticed it viscerally, the difference between ignoring Krem’s presence and deciding that perhaps it was time for a break.
Armogan set the butt of his staff against the cobblestone and held it with the crook of his arm while he pulled the waterskin from his belt and drained a third of it. Then he leveled a long, measuring stare in Krem’s direction.
“You’re the Bull’s man, aren’t you?” he asked, in lieu of a good morning or hello. He had kind eyes, for a Tal-Vashoth, but he was the sort that didn’t miss anything. Perceptive, even if he was a bit soft for a battle hardened merc. “Like what you see?”
