Action Addicts

Well, so here's a section from the story I'm writing. I promised myself I'd never, ever let anyone read my works in progress again, but I don't see any harm of putting it up here. The gist of this section is one man's anxiety over the role of money in this little fictional world I've created.

Money is important in anyone's life, but in his, it's even more so because there is no one type of accepted currency that he's trying to earn. The nation he works in is currently in a low-level civil war between a Democratic faction and a Monarchist one, each with their own style and philosophies towards currency.
Anyway, here it is. Sorry for you action addicts, this section is pretty much strictly internal dialogue. Action doesn't come until quite a bit later in the plot.

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The phantasms and haunts of his past life never seemed far away, like shadows cast by the candle of consciousness. He lay awake, thinking over his next course of action. His last job had not paid well, but at least it had paid. However, it had forced him into a position he’d rather not be in.
He was fast running out of loyalist currency, and the nearest substantial settlement of Democratics was at least a week’s ride to the west, near the coastline of the Inland Sea.
He had no horse, nor any means of securing one, and his emergency fund had been severely hindered in only a single night. He considered the idea of traveling south and looking for work at the numerous forts and outposts that dotted the roadways, but he disliked the thought of not knowing what kind of payment form he would be receiving.

With the Revolution coming into vogue, more and more manors and castles were turning over to the Democratics and their ideas of equal say and metal currency. Meanwhile, the royal family of Ahlweria strained evermore to maintain the power that they believed, by right, belonged to them. The system of money they used was based on the same faith that gave them their power.
If there was faith in the royalty, then the royalty would function, and therefore there would also be ample faith in the currency of the royalty, when otherwise it would just be worthless parchment.
He thought over and over, and his thoughts kept stopping at money.
It troubled him deeply, especially since he had still not forgotten when he cherished less tangible things, like love, honour, and nobility. Now it seemed that all those things were simply luxuries afforded by the amplitude of money, and now that money itself was becoming worthless, life seemed impossible to live. It all seemed to be a downward spiral.

He understood the system, but he also understood that he was considered poor by mercenary standards, simply because he refused to press himself into the role of a paid hitman. Ethics were rare in mercenaries, but part of The Storm’s reputation was that every life was worth more than any money, and should one be ended in his line of duty, The Storm would accept no payment for it.

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Naturally, anyone I catch lifting my work or photos will be brutally vivisected with a pen-knife. Also, there's quite a bit of history behind this "The Storm" character, which I will likely relate at a later time, once I get around to rewriting the prelude to the story.

Your turn D.