The difference was subtle, but certainly felt, between the commotion of the common room at the Wizard's Grace and a mess tent in practically any army he'd served in. It was the anticipation which was the common thread he supposed as he wadded another bit of bread soaked in stew into his mouth. Prior to a battle, the uneasiness and jitters were similarly expressed as they were here during the waiting for the next Call for Heroes. But whereas this lot was more associated with the likes of a coming spectacle, perhaps not unlike the revealing of a winner of a raffle, the soldiers in a war had every expectation that their revelry might well be their last...
As the tables, benches and stools had all been filled, the tall Kellid man was forced to stand against the wall to eat his meal. This he preferred anyway, as he could keep an eye on the exits and trust the sturdy wall to keep anyone from accosting him from arrears. With a gathering such as this, there were undoubtedly many light hands about, cutting purses and lifting jewelry. The broad-shouldered warrior had earned the few coins in his pocket the hard way, with his own blood and steel, and wasn't about to let someone take it from him without a fight!
The next bite of stew paused halfway into his mouth, and he winced a bit. The heavy, crooked jaw had locked due to his attempt at too large of a bite. Having been broken at least once in the past, it hadn't healed back correctly, and sometimes gave him problems during important undertakings like eating and kissing women. He bit down on the edge of the wooden bowl, forcing the bone back into the loose socket, and resumed his meal.
The hands which fed himself were scarred with strong, long fingers. The palms were wrapped in leather that tucked beneath battered and scarred gauntlets. The arms they attached to were long, perhaps a bit overly long, but otherwise well proportioned, muscles like twisted rawhide bulged when he moved. His armor, rusty chainmail, had certainly seen better days, for pieces of wire held it together in places, or hardened leather scales covered over the bigger holes. On his hip, hanging at that casual angle which anyone with any fighting experience at all would recognize as that of a competent swordsman, was sheathed in dilapidated leather, a well-worn longsword with the cast head of a badger on the pommel. A lamellar kilt came below the swordbelt to a pair of heavy soldiering boots that had been cobbled more times than they should have been. On his head was a dented helm with a nosepiece that had been bent and re-bent countless times.
With the back of his hand, he wiped stray gravy from a thick blonde beard which hung partially braided down to his chest. Beneath the helm, ragged blonde hair seemed to be escaping. On one side of the Kellid's thick neck was an ugly scar, the result of a wound that had nearly severed head from shoulders at some point in the past. Around his neck was a leather thong with several medallions, the symbols of which belonged to the various units and outfits he'd fought with. The Bloody Band, the Valor Hawks, the Grey Company, and others. It was apparent by dress, gear and demeanor that this man had been around, and if all of that weren't enough to the casual observer, closer inspection would reveal the stains of blood, tenaciously dried bits of gore, and dozens of other scarful memorabilia of battles won and lost.
He continued eating his stew, grunting for a refill when a serving wench passed by, and watched the crowd. He was eager for the Call to come, and ready to pound anyone into the ground who might try to keep his sword from being accepted.
"You. Wench. Bring Maerk spring water. You bring to Maerk." He said to the woman as she made her way back toward the kitchen. His Common was difficult to understand due in equal parts to his heavy accent and the difficulty in forming the words correctly due to his mis-healed jaw.
"And bread. Maerk wants more bread."
