𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃
@retrovirel asked: “Mr. O’Connell.” Spoken in a baritone that carries effortlessly throughout their agreed-upon meeting place — the doctor places down a map. A general location in Saxony, marked with a black X. “The object you are to recover belonged to someone close. Her journal, aged brown leather, stored away in a peculiar blue lockbox. It’s no artifact of historical significance, but I’ll be filling your pockets grandly should you manage to bring it to me.”
𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 some bodily inclination to his attentiveness. Palms ‘round elbows until lateral rises to settle idly at chin. The map is taken in, looked upon with some skepticism. Moreover in light of the explanation at hand. The only incentive is the assurance that payment would be as grand as the desire this man holds in being, assumedly, reunited with whatever this journal was to him. His tongue clicks beyond full tiers lined with stubble. Digits strum across coarse mandible whilst contemplating. But suddenly, he buffers the request with curiosity abundant. “So.. you want me to get this journal for you.” He starts, nigh incredulously. A coyness begins to etch itself into handsome features all the while that he swipes his tongue across bottom lip to simply wet it. The strength in his hands reach out then; one rests against tabletop whilst the other jabs at the X scrawled across parchment. “What’s the catch?” He knows better. If it’s just in a lockbox with zero historical significance, as stated, then it should be just as easy a task for the man himself to fulfill. It causes a sternness to cross throughout the marrow of prior soldier. Rick has seen his fair share of danger && looked death in the eye, smelled its breath && lived to tell the tale. Admittedly more than once. && should this situation serve to offer the same situation && circumstances he would rather be the most prepared he could possibly be. Thusly, his question is more than warranted.