Out of the frying pan, and into the oven [Closed]

[Archton]

''Spare me the pleasantries, sellsword.'' The slaver said, pushing him aside as he walked by. Archton looked at him as he went by, taking a slice of apple with his knife. They had been travelling for two days, two long, boring days, without any signs of desert raiders or stragglers. It was boring. Archton had only tried thanking the man for enrolling him on this little journey, one that would merit a fair sack of coin when they reached Ahnatep. He enjoyed making coin, it was what kept him alive. That, and the sword that swung from it's place on his hip as he walked. ''But my good slaver, I am merely thanking you for such an opportunity!'' He cried out, but the chubby, well-dressed man had no interest in replying. The other two sellswords, both of which were far shorter yet more built than Archton, joined him. Jon and Nefari, both born in lands beyond the desert. Why they were here, Archton did not know. Eyktol was a land of shit and piss, and the only worthwhile women cost a weeks wage to bed for no more than an hour. Outrageous. ''He barely speaks to us,'' Jon said, stroking his thick black goatee. Nefari nodded in agreement, the two knew each other from past jobs, and as such shared a closer bond than Archton did with either of them. Nefari was a wide man, donned in thick leathers and cloth, while Jon was smaller, adorned in only a cloth tunic and some leather slacks, with leather wristguards. Both men wielded axes, which were slid into the cloth belts that were wrapped tightly around their waists. ''Had he not be paying us, I'd piss on his head. Right after I detach it from the body.'' Archton laughed, waving his sword around in the air. The other two found it humorous, but not as much as he did. The caravan had stopped, as the slaver, of whom nobody knew his name, was speaking to one of the other slavers, who was also nameless. They were all fat, with fancy clothing and well-groomed beards. If the sellswords did decide to turn on them, they would not put up much of a fight at all. ''You'd hafta cut through the fat man's neck first.'' Jon joined in, pulling the skin beneath his jaw down. ''Nothing my blade cannot handle, I've dug it into far fatter men before. I mean, I can understand we're in a rush and all, but why hire a man when you don't want to speak to him? There's no justice in it,'' Archton replied, as the fat slaver approached them again. This time, he seemed even more angry, face bright red. ''We're going to set up camp here, apparently one of the scouts have spotted men ahead. A lot of men.'' ''Why not just go down there, slice off their legs, and walk right on past?'' Archton replied with a smile. ''Shh, we camp here. Help set up the tents. We're not paying you for nothing.'' ''Precisely, you're paying us to kill people, which is what all three of us are here to do.'' Archton shot back. ''Just be quiet, help get out the tents, Jon, you watch the slave carriage, make sure they don't alert anything. There's far more dangerous things in this desert, and they'd love for nothin' more than to watch those things swallow us up like a roast dinner.'' Gritting his teeth, Archton followed the fat man back to the supply horse, which looked malnourished, like at any moment it was going to drop to the ground dead.