*the wind whistles and whines through the pass…. snow piling up in drifts over the bodies of ogres, giants, and trolls. With a metallic hiss a sword slides home into its scabbard*
Still chomping the tattered remains of an unlit cigar, Starkadder survey’s his surroundings with his good eye. Fresh dents and scratches in his armor blend in with countless others. It’s battered, but well maintained… which describes the man as well. With one last look around he unslings the massive crossbow, locks and loads it, rests the butt on his hip as he turns back West to continue back to Foothold.
The lights of Foothold grow out of the gloom, the wall stretching across the Pass. Voices call to open the gate as he nears, sharp eyed sentries recognizing the distinctive armor and countenance of the battered old mercenary. Turning, he walks backward through the gate, crossbow covering the Pass with practiced motions.
Looking around at the fresh new faces of the Guard, the townspeople going about their business, adventurers swaggering down the street, he smiles and chuckles as he unloads and uncocks the crossbow, slinging it across his shoulder. “It ain’t much, but it’s home” he mutters. Spits out the stump of the cigar into a snowbank, pulls out a battered and dented case with an old unit crest on it, fishes out a new cigar and starts chewing on it. Eyes linger on the case for bit. “Thanks Cap’n” he whispers and returns the case to its pouch.
Fresh snow crunching under battered armored boots, Starkadder makes his way to the Dragon and a warm bed.