1st of Zi'da 721
It'd been some time since Woe went on an honest-to-goodness job interview. Setting aside his campaigns for various political offices around the world, or being press-ganged into militaries, the last time he'd sat down and answered questions for a potential employer must have been when Erastus put in a word for him to get a job in the Andaris dungeons. That felt like ages ago now, so much distance between who he was now, and how he saw himself then. In a way, he was more responsible, since acting under his own recognizance than when he was taking orders from a superior or employer. A commander or employer absolved his employees of guilt, more or less, so long as they followed orders. Well, responsible commanders and employers did. More often the way it worked in the real world, the blame was laid easily upon the feet of the one committing the breach, whether following orders or not.
At any rate, Woe could get lost in the weeds over philosophical whinging about the unfairness of masters and commanders. What mattered now, was that he had a mind to apply for a job at Bel Alley's Widow's Lament. This was not something he embarked upon on a whim. He'd gotten a lead on Pang Kinsell, so long after his trail had gone cold. With the rumors of attacks in the streets of Almund, despite the increased Element presence, Woe could believe that Kinsell would be drawn here, in order to indulge his vigilante tendencies.
What Woe was less sure of, as if he was truly willing to do what was necessary, and apprehend the vigilante. While he'd surely been a scourge upon Egilrun, and done mischief to honorable citizens of the village, he'd also ensured the capture of many criminals. Yet for all that, Woe couldn't put the thought of the vision of his face, sneering back at him. The arrogance of the man, his certainty that he was in the right, without regard for the consequences that followed his vigilantism. Woe couldn't in good conscience let someone like that roam the streets freely. It was almost inevitable that he'd get ideas above himself, that he knew better than the law what deserved punishment, and what didn't.
Woe was waved into the backroom of the tenement in Bel Alley. There, he came to stand before Gulliver Kull, the captain of the Widow's Lament. Woe carried a sheathed greatsword, with the curved edge of a flamberge upon its blade. The sword was made entirely of embersteel, and damned heavy. It would take getting used to, although Woe was able to bluff his ability to use the blade. It was a masterwork in function if plain in form. The function was what mattered, and Woe didn't need every gang from here to Witchwood trying to challenge him to fights, in order to rob him of the thing.
Gulliver Kull gave Woe a once over, looking at his disguise carefully. Woe had activated his anonymity, which arrived from his Ignorance domain as a Mortalborn. He wondered idly if introducing himself now would have the slightest effect, other than to get laughed out of Gulliver's office. To think that a candidate for the office of Egg would pursue employment in a lowly mercenary group!
But Woe was serious, although he didn't go by that name or identity. Today he was Robert Sanderling, the blonde youth who liked to stalk the streets of Almund, spoiling for trouble.
Gulliver glanced up skeptically, pointing toward the large flamberge perched on Woe's shoulder. "Big sword. Know how to use it? You'll have to do more than look like someone nobody wants to mess with if you take a job with the Widow's Lament."
"I can, and prove it too. If you think you can take me." Woe feigned a southern accent, a Quacian accent. Which was simple enough, given his fluency with Vahanic. "Can you use that thing?" Woe asked, nodding his head toward a large blade that hung from the wall. It was a huge executioner-style sword, more a bludgeon than any blade. Woe had seen its like in his former profession as a torturer and carnifex.
Gulliver's face twisted in wry amusement, as he rose from his seat, and turned his back briefly to take the sword from the wall. He held it for the moment, in its sheath, like a staff almost, before shifting it onto his shoulder. "Care to try that boast, boy?"
