They carry themselves with a very rigid, military bearing. For a moment, you wonder if it’s another Bogknight, but the way they’re walking doesn’t fit with that. Their every step is very deliberate, as though they’re aiming to walk a very precise distance – try that kind of act in the swamp and you’ll fall in the muck before long.
You’re no expert on the military – the Marshguards aren’t exactly a typical one – but you can read the type. This is the sort of person who just naturally follows every order they’re given without thinking for even a moment about what it means. Worse, from the expression on their face, they’re used to giving orders. An officer who thinks that way is never good news.
“Got everything you asked for, but there was a problem,” the Guild worker says apologetically. “See, one of the items… well, there’s only one in town, and it belongs to the town guard. So…”
“So,” the officer interjects, “I need to know exactly who’s requesting it.”
“That would be me,” Long says. He looks as though he could burst into laughter at any moment. “I don’t see why there’s any issue here.”
“The issue is that the town is in an uproar and we’ve had our hands full,” the officer says, almost accusingly. “And yet the lot of you seem to be able to run around freely chasing muckbeasts, despite all the criminals causing trouble.”
“And on the other hand, your guards aren’t free to deal with them, are you?” Long shoots back. “So we’re doing you a favor. If you want to look a gift horse in the teeth, well, you could at least wait until the last beast is taken care of.”
“Even if I were inclined to do so, I am more than a little concerned about what, exactly, you asked for.”
It’s a lot of salt, is all I’m saying