Party drama time!
Horace Longfellow Cabot was what the Second Republic called a ‘ghulman,’ and what the legions had called ‘short, wiry Eastern bastards.’ He had a furry, spare body that was all long limbs and impressive digging claws, and he spoke Orcish with an accent that she had never heard before. It wasn’t quite right, but it definitely sounded educated.
Cabot also wore those ridiculously archaic clothes the Second Republic favored, down to a bizarrely-knotted tie, white shirt, and expensive-looking black jacket and pants. In fact, he looked expensive, period. At least his hands are rough, Liza thought as they shook. He’s no stranger to work. I just hope he doesn’t wear those kinds of clothes in the field. Guess we’ll find out!
If Cabot was an unknown quality, Liza knew exactly how to describe Viviana Garcia Arco. She was almost blatantly a Sonoran mage, from the top of her slightly shimmering silver mantilla to the soles of her extremely practical shoes; and she had the look of somebody raised on the stories of the Great Sack of Old Hermosillo, not to mention every other war between Sonora and the orcs. Her handshake had been smoothly offered, civil — and about as warm as an icebolt. Still, Arco was a mage. Having one along for this wasn’t just useful; it would probably make the difference between success and victory. If Liza would have to eat some bile, then she would, that’s all.