Being a mercenary, Alaric's pay was usually exceptional-- enough to support his roaming life style. That exceptional pay usually gave him confidence enough to brush over the small bumps in his career (supplies, manpower, defenses, he could make up for what they lacked.) Yet, of all the small bumps in his career, this manlet tactician was the first to give him doubts. His amber eye bored into the back of Mark's head as he wondered how this chicken-livered, noble-born boy could be a leader of men.
Oh dear, how long had this one been among them? He’d inquired with the others, but nobody seemed to recall the arrival of this person. One of the men had said something about him being a mercenary, but aside from that, Mark had heard nothing at all. He should be ashamed of himself. After all, he took it upon himself to get to know each and every one of the men (and women) that he was guiding, to better know their strengths and weaknesses, how they were feeling, how they could best be used, when they shouldn’t be used, and any other information he could gather. But he hadn’t even noticed this man before.
“Um, excuse, me, sir,” Mark finally piped up, not even aware of the fact that the man had been glaring at him. “Who are you?” Well, that wasn’t exactly polite, but it would have to do for now. Hopefully this man wasn’t the sort to take offense at the slightest provocation. Those encounters were never pleasant.
