So here, we are again.
Bruce and Harold are sitting in Rufus’s Travellers Rest, discussing which of the three offers for the skills to accept. The pair are deep in a convoluted discussion. If the decision on the offers were simply a question of which offer put more gold on the table, it would be a simple decision. However, gold was not the only consideration. Being, highly skilled, and middle aged, warriors, getting out of the escapade alive had become a very important consideration also. Weighing equally in their considerations is also the reputation of the potential employers. Specifically, how well the potential employers cared for the lives entrusted to their hands.
The hubbub of world outside is something that is irrelevant, to the two close friends. The daily toils of the dray drivers, merchants, artisans, and labourers of Blake’s Crossing not intruding on their discussion.
The two warriors were almost oblivious to the outside world. The occasional squeal of a child at play, outside the tavern, did register with them. The occasional squeal from the children at play only eliciting only a minute reflexive response. Only a well-trained eye would spot the slight tightening of the shoulders and the right hands moving slightly towards the daggers in their belts. Those large hands momentarily moving away from the tankards they were previously nursing.
That the two were warriors was blatant to anyone who would care to notice. The pair shared the physical characteristics one would expect of highly skilled warriors, broad shoulders, barrel chest, and very well muscled arms. The slightly out of date apparel, adorned with sword belts (definitely not part of the original ensemble), the other tell tale.
The two friends were in some respects as different as chalk and cheese. Bruce was classically handsome; a portrait painter would not need to employ any artistic licence to produce a pleasing image. Harold on the other hand, bore the scars of the numerous scraps lived to tell the tale of. Harold’s broken nose, which he steadfastly refused to have corrected by any healing order, did not quite crown his face. What did crown Harold’s face was a livid scar that snaked down from his forehead, over his left eye, and finished on his left cheek.
That a god had touched Bruce would be obvious to anyone with the piety and knowledge of the god in question to see. The god in question would surprise some. The identity of the god is a secret that Bruce must keep under a gies from that god. But, the physical handsomeness of Bruce is a god given gift is obvious to see.
Harold also has been god touched, but only those who have seen him really fight would have noticed. Those who were on his side of the fight would have seen the red mist of a berserkers rage descend over Harold. The warrior god of the frozen north tribes, being the only god who would bless, or maybe it is a curse as well, a warrior with such a gift.