Vincent had been quite busy during the Market's Door celebration this year. He had done the usual political rounds with some of the other noble families, as well as with some of the officers of the Order. At one point, he even managed the time to share a glass of wine with his cousin, though Eodric was far too busy with hangers on to socialize, and Voncent understood that all too well. As soon as possible, he slipped away to really enjoy the festivities.
He made his way back to his quarters and traded out his fancy regalia for a basic outfit and cloak. He then made his way back to the party, further away from the hubbub of the tents harboring noble houses. Eventually, after a few more glasses of wine, he found himself a seat in a tent with others he recognized. The stern corporal he remembered from the gate was there, as well as the red eyed gnome and his orc friend. Sampson was there, quiet as usual.
He spotted Ardurus making his way over, and began signaling for him to join him. He's come along quite a ways since we first met at the gates. I'm glad his wounds didn't hurt his admission to the Order.. At his statement, Vincent says, "Well, there isn't always time for festivities, but when the opportunity presents itself, Braganzans know how to throw a party." He laughs, and claps the young priest on the back. He looks about the table for something to soak some of the spirits out of his stomach, and spies a relatively unmolested loaf of bread. With a quick gesture, the loaf lifts itself off the table and floats over to the two members of the Order.
He breaks it in half, and hands one portion to Ardurus. He takes a couple bites, and says, "What do you think about livening this party up a bit?"
Adurus takes the offered bread with a mock salute, saying, "Thank you sir!" He bites into it vigorously, looking more his seventeen years than he has in a while as he attacks his food. As he chews, he glances around the tent some more, seeing a few people who were on the edge of his vision before. He had seen the cleric from the gate, and the hulking warrior; both of them stood out quite well in a crowded room. As he continued to look however, he was surprised to see that the scarred guardsman was also present, as was that gnome who had so bluntly walked up and stated his business. As Adurus packs away a large chunk of seared gourd, he thinks to himself, Well now, it looks as though we have a little reunion from that day. He wonders at what could happen this time with so volatile a group. Adurus takes another large bite of his bread as Vincent asks, "What do you think about livening this party up a bit?"
Adurus hurriedly chews his bread down and replies with a smile, "If you're going to ask me to start up a song, I'll have to decline you friend." He takes a gulp from his ale before looking back to Vincent and seeing what he has planned, anticipation written across Adurus's face. He knows that whatever is about to happen, it'll likely be something good.
Nathmir had spent the next month after the gate encounter going about his business and making use of his abilities. He scouted the lands surrounding and with in the city for proper sites to consider. While not looking over locations he visited the training grounds and recruits.
He had a few bushes with the war mages, they scoffed at him on more then one occasion. Until he lectured them on magical practices and pointed out holes in their magical training that created wasted effort in gathering spell energy. After which some among them quickly started to approach him at every chance to speak on matters arcane.
Remembering the corporal's recent lost of a unit priest he paid him a visit. With permission, he started advising his unit on protection tactics and maneuvers concerning clerics and the favored aspects of complementing them. As not all clerics could be treated the same, their abilities similar to fighting styles for warriors. Emphasizing how to maximize each other's efficiency while allowing optimal mobility against the gorilla tactics of the Nirmathai forces.
Yet another service was his aid in rooting out thieves and forgeries. His ability to spot sneaks and pickpockets in the act not only discouraged such acts with in the city, but scared off just as many who would attempt such crimes. While few guards had the bookish inclination needed to train the eyes to detect the more high grade forgeries, kept by the equally higher class of scoundrel. His help relieved them of such work.
Feeling very much as if he was no longer on leave he looked forward to a break. Which came in the form of a annual celebration called Market's Door.
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He arrived for the festivities without his armor or shield but kept his staff and traditional robes, his hood down exposing his face. Attracting a number of looks both interested and annoyed. Still he took a perverse pleasure in causing more then a few early drunks to revisit their meal after looking him in the eye for to long, it seemed his shifting colors induced sickness upon the addled mind.
Finding a good spot to stand and observe the room he scoops up a glass. Promptly dumping it's contents out of the way, he whispers a prayer while rubbing a finger around the rim, filling it with clear crystal blue water. He was not one to drink in such a setting, cautious habits die hard after all.
Garroth had just about finished slaying the contents of his fifth tankard when a loaf of bread 5 seats down from him started floating. He half rose from his seat, perching one leg upon it in case he needed to leap into the path of a weapon. By the time his hand found the hilt of his blade, the bread had reached its destination, Garroth relaxing with a short exhalation. He remained standing for several long moments, studying the two men the bread had meandered to, before sitting back down, satisfied that nothing sinister was afoot.
He didnt remain seated for long however. Just as he raised his sixth tankard to his lips, a shady looking individual entered the tent, cloak and cowl pulled close around his features. On edge from the previous scare and judgement more than a little impaired by drink, Garroth rose fully from his seat and moved towards the cloaked man. Behind him, his client had all but lost control of himself, giggling and snorting into his cup, spilling wine everywhere "Hey now, get back here and guard your mug Mr, before someone assassinates it!" he said with a mock authority in his voice, before breaking into uncontrollable laughter, snorting and wheezing for breath. Garroth didnt hear him.
While the merchant had spoken, the cloaked man had empties a cup, covering it with a twirl of his hand and somehow filling it with a liquid. "Poison!?" Garroth thought, stalking towards the man, his hand finding the blade at his hip.
Arzazel could not believe how small Braganza is to see Zeltresh again. He nods and motions for him to join him. While the gnome threads his way through the pavilion entrance and filling tables, Arzazel orders a drink for his scholarly companion.
When the gnome finally arrives, Arzazel stands and shakes his hand as politely as he can while the gnome grips two of his fingers. "Zeltresh! How are you, my friend? I've already eaten, but I can eat again. I already ordered you a drink." They sit down smiling like old friends. "How have you been? Your outfit is different but familiar. Did you finally join something?"
His eyes snap on the half orc moving towards him with his hand on the hilt of a sword. Gaze boring into the man, he sensed ill intent. Their were to many people around, he would have to be careful if this man tried something. Without putting down his cup he gripped his staff, no longer leaning against his shoulder as it had been. He flexed the muscles in both his wrist, feeling the hidden sheaths there. He went through a mental checklist of the spells he had left on his scrolls and those granted by his god. Planting his feet, without his armor he was lighter. Still he had learned to move normally in his armor, only his ability to sprint was hampered because of it. An ability that was useless in such a situation and a poor trade off in terms of protection. He would have to rely on his luck and more dependable his faith to protect him.
This aggressor would not find him an easy victim, the guards would have him quickly enough. He would simply have to make sure the citizen's remained out of harms way.
Vincent immediately scanned the room for potential targets of his pranks.
The corporal would ruin the fun. Sampson would kill me and half the tent. Don't know the gnome, but don't want to appear to be picking on the little guy. That orc with him is too big to take a chance on. The black robed priest is guarding his drink too well. The other orc seems too serious. Aaaah. There's my quarry.
Vincent raised a finger to his lips, then moved his eyes in the direction of the boisterous merchant. With another quiet incantation, he waited for the man to look another direction, then pointed at his glass. A barely visible beam of energy traveled to it, then vanished as it had completed his task.
Whispering to Adurus, he asks, snickering as he does so, "What's the wager on whether or not that man recognizes the taste of stagnant water?" It is quite obvious Vincent has become rather inebriated at this point.
2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts, 1st Braganzan Guntanks… The day at the gates is long behind the gunslinger. Eldred walks the line of trainees, watching as they clean their weapons. The fresh stones of the training yards deep within the Keymaker’s Promenade are a sight to behold. A somewhat welcome feeling to bring the importance of a gun regiment to the forefront...but it does tend to diminish some of the mystery that normally swirls about a gunslinger.
The cadets completed their tasks, Eldred is quick to respond. ”Again, you scum-dwelling dogs. You’re not archers, your Fusiliers. If you want to lacquer some wood and string a bow, I can send you to the whore’s town outside the city!” With that, they begin breaking down their weapons, none of them surprised by Eldred’s command.
The past weeks had driven forward at a speed reminiscent of his time at Ramgate. Between his first shift at the gates of Braganza at season’s open and through the building of the Promenade, there had been no shortage of tasks to accomplish. Eldred had found his niche working with the raw recruits and training them in the ways of the gun. In the evenings, when sleep wouldn’t come, he found usefulness in patrolling with the Order through the dark city streets or the remaining tent-city outside the walls. There had been a good deal to learn regarding some of the swaddlers who’d taken to the ranks of the Order; some were as Eldred had expected, overly pampered with expectations of the world working according to their station. One evening’s entertainment was seeing one such noble pulled from his horse and punched soundly, losing several teeth. Ole Lia’s barrel to the eye of the assailant had been enough to stop the ruckus, the noble’s taken offense and resulting tirade enough to see the brawler locked away for…
...hmm, come to think of it, the brawler is probably still languishing in prison for his assault.
But there had been surprises amongst the Most Noble Order. Vincent Teldas among them. The young field-squire…no, Eldred corrects himself. ...he is only two years my junior… The field-squire had accorded himself well at the gates, and Eldred had taken the opportunity to run patrols with the man’s squad when he was available.
Eldred looks over his shoulder, easily spotting one of the towers in the Order’s compound rising into the sky. He admits to himself that men like Vincent would have been welcome additions to the front. At the very least, there was sense between the noble’s ears.
His thoughts turn to the cleric, Nathmir. The aasimar had turned out very close to what Eldred had been expecting. An independent thinker and one who could be depended upon in a scrap. The cleric had been good to his word, stepping in as a cleric for the trainees; healing where it was needed, but more importantly, providing tactical acumen. Another one Eldred thought would have been a good addition to the front.
”Rain’s comin’, Dread.” Keppish’s voice stirs Eldred out of his reverie.
”Hmph, just in time for the festivities.” The remark shows exactly what the gunslinger thinks of a “mandatory” night off.
Eldred turns and shouts to the assembled trainees. ”Well, I suppose even maggots need a night off so they can get back to the rotten meat, eh?”
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So that is how Eldred finds himself at a long table, eating at some pulled pork and working over a tankard of ale. With the rain coming down, ole Lia is safely secured under his coat, a leather flap over the shoulder rig to prevent water. The only other weapon he has is his dagger, that being used to lance more pieces of meat for his plate.
He notes Vincent’s arrival, nodding his greeting to the field-squire and taking another swig of the ale. The young man who’d been at the gates that day arrives too, finding company and a friendly face with the noble.
On the other end of the table, a large half-orc turns to greet a gnome garbed in the colors of a warmage regiment. Would that be the same gnome who’d challenged his trainees to a shooting match? When Eldred had heard of their treatment of the gnome, he’d seen them flogged and placed in the stocks for their mockery, memories of his dead comrade Frig close to mind.
There is a disturbance on Eldred’s left side, another half-orc, this one bearing the mannerisms of a bodyguard is looking in the direction of Vincent. The half-orc is placing himself in between a pudgy looking celebrant. It takes a few beats for the his concerns to be lay to rest, satisfied that it is simply Vincent levitating a piece of bread, before he takes a seat.
Eldred relaxes a touch, realizing he’s tensed up in response to the sudden movement. Across the area he sees Nathmir arrive and stand to the side so he can observe the goings on of the celebration.
More movement to his left. The half-orc is rising again, this time leaving the table and his charge, heading towards the tent’s entrance. The gunslinger follows the path, seeing that it is leading directly to Nathmir.
Hmm, Nathmir can take care of himself, but I better keep an eye out…better yet...
The gunslinger is about to let out a two-tone whistle; the opening notes of a favorite song, also, a signal he’d used with Vincent on the few patrols they’d shared over the past few weeks…but he notices the field-squire is up to something else entirely. A prank perhaps? A sedative? Not knowing what is truly transpiring, Eldred sits back and begins rolling a cigarette, watching events unfold.
Wow. A warmage. Sounds impressive, thought Arzazel. He is happy for and proud of his small companion. His brief chat described the gnome’s month before he ran off to visit an army buddy. Arzazel relaxes watching people and nursing his drink. He feels free to do anything he wants, and he wants to sit here, relax, and watch people imagining their stories. He doubts there will much drama tonight but expects to hear some good stories.
He waves to a couple of merchant customers. No, he has not seen Benot lately. A satisfied smile returns to his face.
Eldred keeps Nathmir's situation in the corner of his eye but shifts his gaze to the gnome seating himself across from him at the table. If Eldred didn't kids his guess, this is the gnome his cadets had mistreated.
"You do me honor, soldier. It is I who owe you an apology for your treatment. You'll be pleased to know they've been flogged and imprisoned. They'll never carry a gun in this army." Eldred lights his cigarette, glancing Nathmir's way a moment then back to the gnome. "I won't tolerate people of low character."
"I see you've find yourself a place in the Service. Good, a man should have purpose." He extends a nod. "I'm Eldred Pentwert"
The cloaked man had spotted Garroth, but contrary to expectations, he stood his ground instead of fleeing. Given pause by the peculiar reaction, he slowed his advance, taking his sword hand of the hilt and placing the other upon it in a relaxed manner. "Hmm, looking for trouble are we?" he inquired with one brow raised, voice slightly slurred by drink. "Whats in the cup then?" he quickly added, before crossing his arms and staring the man in the eye. In the silence that followed before the man spoke, Garroth wobbled slightly on his feet. Whether it was drink or the mans strange eyes that conspired against his balance he wasnt sure, but when he noticed, he shuffled his feet into a wider stance.
Somewhere behind him, the merchant emptied his cup, looking into it with surprise in his unfocused eyes "Oh my, seems ive gone and drunk someone elses wine...its...uhm, quite an...exotic taste."
Nathmir stared for a moment at the drunk half orc before responding, half hoping to topple him over with his gaze alone. Still it seems he was mistaken, the man was no threat just inebriated and so volatile as a result. Not that it excused his actions.
"I was simply standing here, you approached me with a hand on your weapon. If one was to look upon our actions, I dare say yours would be considered looking for trouble. As for my drink, I prefer that which sustains life and provides clarity. Simple but vital water."
His voice drops slightly in politeness on that last word, a hard look placed on the man before him. None the less his eyes darted behind the drunk for a moment, he had seen what transpired. His voice returned to a more relaxed and polite conversational tone.
"Your drinking partner has been the victim of a spot of fun. He just drank what I suspect to be dirty water. Nothing serious but you may want to get him away from the food. Should he suddenly reveal his earlier selections for all to see, or get the urge to visit a privy."
He took a sip of his own clear drink as he waited for the groggy gears to turn in the man's head.
"What's your problem? You think you're hard or somethin'?" The drunken man sways as he leans over Sampson. The drunkard is tall, and a mercenary by his piecemeal armor. He's pale skinned and darkly bearded. Some kind of Ulfen-Chelaxian mutt no doubt. Sampson sits alone despite the crowded nature of the feast tent. There is one empty seat to either side of him. The people closest to him are leaning away, as if they'd rather be somewhere else. He fights the reflexive urge to let one corner of his mouth twtich upwards. This is what he'd been waiting for. He'd left his armor and uniform at home, dressing in a simple tunic and his breeches, sans chakrams. His smaller falcata is sheathed at the waist, and he wears a cestus on his right hand. Sampson ignores the man, keeping his eyes on his food. He picks up his wooden mug of water, and takes a long drink. The drunken man says, "Hey, f!!+wit, I'm talkin' ta you! Why the hells you sittin' all alone? You got some kinda problem?"
Sampson knew from the beginning it would come to this. Men of a certain type bound up in a crowded city could only go so long without becoming violent. He picks up a carrot, and takes a single crisp bite out of it, chewing placidly and still ignoring the man. The drunkard says, "HEY!" and begins reaching out to touch Sampson's shoulder. The Hermean übermensch says a single quiet word just before the drunk's fingers touch his broad shoulder, "You."
"What!? Speak up assh*le, what's your problem?" The mercenary shoves the back of Sampson's shoulder roughly. Sampson swings one leg over the bench rapidly and precisely, hopping up to his full towering height in a single motion. The tall mercenary's head comes to Sampson's chin. His armored shoulders are barely as wide as Sampson's chest. "I said my problem was you, sir," Sampson replies in a cold but polite voice. He raises his dead fish eyes to meet the pale blue ones of the mercenary. He allows the full measure of his lack of fear, his lack of remorse, his lack of self preservation to show in his gaze. They seem to be pools of molten black fire reaching across the gap to threaten the smaller man.
While the pale skinned man has a few second thoughts, he quickly crushes them. The mercenary had killed men himself. Men like Sampson, or so he thought. He had the advantage of armor. He summons the horses of his bravado and fury, whipping them forward with lashes of liquor and shame. "No one insults me like that and lives! Die, cur!" The armored man shouts as he grabs his heavy mace from a loop on his belt. Sampson steps back one huge pace from the man, holding his hands up palm out. "Wait sir, I have no desire to fight you, but I cannot turn down a formal challenge." His voice is totally flat, like a construct reading back a memorized script.
Sampson does a back handspring down the aisle as the mercenary steps forward and brings his mace down and onto someone's foot where Sampson had been a moment before. "Get back here m*ther f&@~er!! I challenge you to the death!!" the mercenary roars, as the feaster whose foot he just shattered begins to scream. "Accepted. I return your challenge. Prepare to die." Sampson replies, suddenly shifting his stance from one of retreat to one of readiness. All revelry at the nearby tables has ceased and all eyes are on him. The guards at the edges of the tent are rushing forward, fighting through the crowd to get to the scene. The mercenary continues to charge forward roaring and waving his mace about. Sampson waits calmly, still as a statue until a moment before the man is in reach. A milisecond later there is a flash, followed by a whispering sound and a sudden spurt of red. The mercenary's bearded head goes flying straight off, sailing through the air as Sampson is re-sheathing his blade. The bearded, blood-streaming head plops down in a very fat woman's bowl of soup, spilling it all over her. Crimson splashes pulse onto a few more feastgoers as the merc's body topples over into the aisle.
Sampson reaches over, and plucks a steak knife from the hand of an older gentleman nearby whose mouth is hanging agape in shock. The Hermean then cuts a long horizontal slash into his upper right arm, just below the four scars already there. "Thank you," he says placing the knife back in the frozen man's hand and turning to walk calmly back to his seat. He leans over and picks up his napkin from where it had fallen on the floor. Sitting on the bench he places it back on his lap, picks up his carrot and takes another bite out of it. In just a moment, the knot of guards heading for him will arrive.
Garroth had felt the first inkling of his temper threatening to muscle its way into the world around him, the mans sip of his cup seeming more than a little contemptuous. However the action had also served to remove Garroths professional interest in the man. Before he could formulate a retort, much less utter it, sounds of trouble caught his ear over the din of the festivities.
"Whats your problem? You think you're hard or somethin'?" Garroth had heard the phrase plenty of times before, different words, but filled with the same underlying meaning as always. Trouble. Flynn had attracted more than his fair share of similar attention when they had toured the underworld of the various small towns and harbor cities, and Garroth had learned to hear such words even muffled as they were by the noise around him.
"That fat sack could stand to lose his lunch once or twice." he muttered to the cloaked man, before turning away and scanning the room for the source of the nearby boiling temper. He didn't need to look for more than a moment, the unfolding scene so obvious any common peasant would have caught it immediately.
The man was huge, so large Garroth could only assume he had been the source of the voice, before the drunken mercenary repeated and expanded upon his question with embellishments of profanity. This didn't look to be something Garroth needed to worry about, but all the same he quickly walked back to the merchant, placing himself in the most direct path between the argument and his employer. Then suddenly everything escalated quickly.
By the time the mercenary's body fell to the floor, Garroth had drawn his weapon and taken several steps towards the hulking brute "Here we are again. This is when everything goes to shit and you find yourself talking to the authorities all night." However, contrary to his expectations, the big man simply sat down again, cutting a line on his arm like a check on a scoreboard. In moments, the man became the only calm point in a rolling sea of alarmed patrons, not least of which were Garroths employer who was screaming for him to come protect him. Spotting the guardsmen approaching, Garroth sighed, sheathed his blade and went back to stand guard.
”Finally, the show begins.” Arzazel thinks as a drunk starts to harass that mountain of a man. The man is faster than he looks. While his movements are precise, they are not designed to work the audience. He is no prize fighter. He kills from practice.
”Wow. That sword attack from the scabbard is new. Never seen that before. Very effective, but must require tremendous practice and patience to master.” He wonders while nursing his drink. While the fighting certainly did not excite him, the decapitation causes him to slightly nod in appreciation of skill.
[i]”I wonder who that bodyguard is protecting? I don’t recognize either. Learn and explore to be a good scholar, the gnome said.”[i] Already, Arzazel surveys the pavilion passively searching for the next act.
Vincent snickers as the merchant recoils from the drink, then tentatively tries it again to make sure he tasted what he had. He nudges Adurus and thumbs the mans direction to Eldred, hoping the show would continue.
It did, but not the way Vincent had expected. Sampson had apparently managed to find himself in an altercation, which escalated to violence too fast to be stopped. As his opponent's head landed in a woman's bowl, Vincent fought back a drunken urge to laugh, and cast a serious look to both Eldred and Adurus.
Damnit, I'm off duty Sampson!
If there were to be a questioning, Vincent hoped he could slip away and not get wrangled into all this. He hadn't seen the start of it so had no idea as to Sampson's motives. He began warily eyeing the area, looking for the easiest route of escape.
First it'll be the lecture from father about socializing with people beneath me. Then all of his "friends" will want me to tell them all about it, and act shocked at every little thing. Then they'll twist whatever I say to fit their preconceived notion of the man.
He looks to Adurus, and says, "Let's relocate."
He picks up his tankard and walks over to Eldred and the gnome. "Mr. Pentwert, may we join you here, or are we interrupting?"
Eldred safes his pistol, bringing his coat back over the weapon as Samson reclaims his seat. Too good with a sword, giant-man. Otherwise, I could use you in the Fusiliers...
The gunslinger waves for the gnome across from him to refocus his attention, not wanting the guards to think they could get "witness" information from him or Eldred. If it came to it, his response would be "fool had it coming. Empire's better for it..."
"Mr. Pentwert, may we join you here, or are we interrupting?" Vincent and the young cleric, Adurus if memory serves.
Eldred turns to the people sitting to his right. "Move." It's all he has to say. The pair of construction workers grab their plates and drinks and begin eagerly searching for a new place at the table.
The gunslinger looks to the new arrivals and nods to his right, takes a drag on his cigarette and then a swig of his ale.
Adurus is slightly amused by Vincent's prank. Though he was hoping for something a little more amusing, Adurus supposes this could lead to the fat merchant spitting his drink across someone else, which might lead to some fun. However, that hope is quickly cut short as the merchant takes a sip and proceeds to down the rest of the mug, apparently not caring about the change in taste his drink underwent.
Adurus turns to Vincent and says, "Maybe you should've tried..." He stops what he's saying as an argument on the other side of the table escalates and a weapon is drawn. As he looks on, the massive ox of a man draws a small blade and beheads the other man quickly, sitting down afterwards and bizarrely going back to his meal. Adurus stares at the man with a mixture of fear and amazement, and when Victor suggests the two of them move Adurus gladly stands up without a word and moves far away from Sampson.
Although he's much farther away from the big man now, Adurus still glances over to him constantly, watching the unfolding scene with the guards and wondering why the man killed another so calmly, as if it was no big deal. As if he hadn't just ended another human life. Adurus wonders if there was another motive, or if he had simply done it for some love of killing. He hardly hears what Victor is talking about with the gnome and the gunman.
Vincent takes the seat, trying to relax once again into a festive mood. He looks over to the wild eyed gnome, and says, "Names Vincent, this is Adurus."
Glancing back to Sampson, Vincent says to Eldred while studying the behemoth, "You heard anything about that Sampson fella that just played the part of a walking guillotine?"
Eldred sees one of the attendants still brave enough to be in the area and signals for more drink. While he won't allow himself to get overly drunk so as to avoid some of the more unpleasant memories that usually float to the surface, the gunslinger plans on getting pretty close.
In response to Vincent's question he says. "He's good with a sword, he's tall, doesn't like small talk, Hermean I think." Eldred shrugs. "I like him. Wouldn't mind having him in the field to thin out the enemy a bit." The gunslinger makes a small chopping motion with his right hand. "We had a half-orc squad up north, some about his size. They worked with us on deep sorties. We lay some lead...then send them in like shock troops...they would chop and hack, a glorious sight. Then they'd disappear into the forest while we threw more lead down range."
Eldred sees a pair of guards moving quickly to remove the headless body...and the head from the tent. A set of servants are quick to follow using mop, rag and bucket. The duty officer approaches the table, looking determined but reticent to discuss the incident with Samson.
Eldred grins, a macabre thing when taking into consideration the scar running down the side of his face. "My advice, don't f..fuss with him."
Nathmir watched the whole affair with little concern. Moving his head to the side as blood flew past where it had been a moment before. True Sampson had been looking for an excuse but then again the mercenary had given it. His ability to heal was not so great to repair that kind of damage, he doubted his god would have approved of such a use of his power as well. He took a sip of his water once more before looking for a new location, he saw the gather of those from the gate near by. On a whim he walks over, nodding in respect he speaks to those gathered.
"How does the feast find you gentlemen, eventful?"
Leaning his staff against his shoulder he grabs a bread stick, pausing to speak a prayer it suddenly looks as if freshly baked, he takes a bite. The soft sound of the bread crackling and it's renewed aroma flowing forth.
So late, so late! Thought Vincent as he ran through the streets of Braganza. The guards had taken such a long time with his papers; it almost made him worry that Keith didn't do as well job as he thought he did, but he kept hoping for the best and kept smiling throughout the entire procedure, he entered and immediately took notice of the small number of people in the streets. The jester was quickly able to acquire information on a celebration of some kind taking place a few blocks away, and what better place to gather information than at a celebration where everyone is too happy and drunk to guard their tongues. So here he was running at full speed to make it in time to get the information he needed, while everyone was still sober enough to speak coherently.
The jester arrived to a multitude of tents, tables and most importantly people. He began slowing down, but before he came to a complete stop, he bumped into a severer who was carrying two heavy looking plates. The poor man felt his balance crumble and the grip on the plates he was carrying weakening. Ivenn reacted the moment he saw the plates fly into the air; he placed his right hand over the server's shoulder and flipped over him. The jester's right hand immediately snaked its way to the still flying dish and his left made a narrow save to the one that was about to crash into the ground, then his feet touched the ground with an expertly executed landing. The young servant snorted at Ivenn and roughly grabbed the plates from the jester, Ivenn simply waved him goodbye, his smile unwavering. It was then that he noticed that he attracted the attention of quite a few people Time to blend in, what fun! The jester pulled out four throwing darts from his front holster and began juggling them, his plan to press the advantage from his unplanned plate catching act seemed to be working; as many of the diners began clapping at the Jester's act.
After the spectacular execution and accompanying chaos, Garroths employer had all but sobered up, sudden acutely aware of the potential hazards all around him. He wouldn't stop flinching at every sudden movement, blabbering on and on about his safety and how Garroth had to check everyone who looked at him with anything but a smile. Moving down the crowded, mud slicked road, Garroth was treated to his third event out of the ordinary that night, as a man came running down the street. He looked the man over but quickly realized he wasn't even the slightest bit interested in the merchant, passing them in a hurry. It wasn't a second later before the sound of scraping boots and a startled yelp made him spin around, alert and ready. Once again he found no danger, but was instead treated to a spectacle of flying cutlery and a subsequent extravagant catching thereof.
Snorting a laugh, he applauded with the crowd as the performer proceeded to continue without pause, juggling with skill and vigor. Glancing back at his employer and realizing he had to get going, he started walking again. As he turned he called to the Jester with cheer in his voice "You just saved a man from going to bed angry, and with the day I'm having, that's saying something." Quite unintentionally, his remark spurred the crowds into laughter.
Snorting a laugh, he applauded with the crowd as the performer proceeded to continue without pause, juggling with skill and vigor. Glancing back at his employer and realizing he had to get going, he started walking again. As he turned he called to the Jester with cheer in his voice "You just saved a man from going to bed angry, and with the day I'm having, that's saying something." Quite unintentionally, his remark spurred the crowds into laughter.
Smiling back at the half-orc, Ivenn grasped at his darts and sheathed them into their holster with great speed "It is not everyday that I save a man from.... well, anything! That would make me a hero would it not?" Ivenn placed his pointing finger to his chin as if he was deep in thought "I think I can be a hero..." Continued the jester before making a spin, which caused his cloak to flap around him dramatically and then he paused, in an exaggerated heroic stance, his chest puffed up and his right hand to his side.
"Squire!" He exclaimed to thin air as he looked to his right "My sword! With a flick of his wrist a dart appeared in Ivenn's hand. The black haired man raised the weapon to his face "This isn't a sword...it seems I am little short on my squire's fee" Joked Ivenn, before he began performing fencing and slashing maneuvers with his dart. Acting as if he was engaged in an epic battle of life and death.
Hands clasped behind his back, rapier at his side, and dressed in the full regalia of the Most Noble Order's Commissariat, Sir Viktor Holt walks slowly but steadily towards the feast pavilion he was assigned to, not really wanting to go there but ordered to do so by his commanding officer. The rain, though pelting him and soaking him, bothered him little, for he could dry himself off once he got inside.
Ordered to relax and partake of a feast? Do they not know me? Viktor thinks to himself as he walks, deliberately taking his time, not wishing to spend more time than he needs to amongst the revellers and party-goers. Viktor would much rather be drilling cadets who have yet to prove themselves or doing paperwork than partaking of a feast. He can eat in his office-tent, alone, why should he waste time doing so amongst civilians and not getting any work done in the mean time?
Still only a Field-Squire and Commissar-Cadet in his order, however, Viktor still needed to prove himself when it came to non-military social situations, not to mention prove himself at acting more human and less a machine. Oh sure, he knew how to talk to people; to inspire them, or, if need be, make them fear him. He simply preferred to work around fellow soldiers, not untrained and undisciplined citizens and civilians. An order was an order, however, and although relaxing and enjoying oneself was all but impossible for the man, he would at least appear to do so for his superiors.
At the least, he hoped the food was palatable, and not the gruel that was served to lesser soldiers and the peasants so common in Braganaza. He had grown fond of the higher quality food offered to officers; Not that he wouldn't eat what was given, of course.
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Finally reaching his assigned tent after walking at a deliberately glacial pace, Viktor could hear yelling coming from within; Something told him that it was less of a jovially drunk yelling and more of a violently drunk yelling variety.
Breathing in deeply, preparing to yell himself if need be, Viktor walks into the tent, opening the pavilion's flap with a flourish and entering, only to see chaos. Over to one side, a man pretending to swordplay with darts, making a fool of himself; Elsewhere, guards and others were reacting to the beheaded form of a man, the guards yelling at a large, muscular, man sitting, peacefully eating a carrot.
Well, it seems I will be able to enjoy myself afterall.
Viktor's voice, loud and commanding, rings out in the pavillion, startling the guards, not to mention those here for the feast, and causing heads to turn towards him. The guards, though not part of the Most Noble Order, snap to attention at the sight of a Commissar, Cadet or not.
Eyes narrowing, Viktor walks, hands still clasped behind his back, towards the guards and the beheaded man, inspecting the chaos that had ensued before his arrival. The man's head still sits in the fat-woman's porridge bowl, the woman in question having long since fainted from shock. He stops just short of the headless form, looking down at it, before looking at the guards.
He was not using his inside voice, that was certain.
The guards, nearly trembling in their armor at having the attention of a Commissar focused entirely on them, continue to stand at attention - one of them, gulping in fear, speaks, "S-Sir, this man -" he motions to Sampson, sitting nearby, "Beheaded the other in a duel." A half-second later, he adds as almost an afterthought, "T-to the death."
Viktor steps closer to the trembling guard, looking him in the eye, before turning to look at Sampson. Turning to look around at the gathered partygoers, Viktor scans the group and comes to the conclusion that there were no such officials - until he does a double take, and notices the presence of Vincent Teldas. Eyes narrowing at the man, realizing that he is of equal rank to Viktor, Viktor turns back to Sampson.
He looks back to the guards, who had begun to slouch - they quickly snap back to attention when he turns to them. "Clean this up; Take that woman to a healer, and report back here. I will need your names and rank for my report of this incident."
The guards nod and begin doing as they are ordered; meanwhile, Viktor walks over to Vincent, looking at the slightly shorter man in the eyes. "It seems as if Vincent Teldas, younger cousin to our leader, Ser Eodric Teldas, has chosen to grace us with his presence. I should have known it would have been someone like you who would have let such a duel happen in such close proximity to civilians."
The knot of guards surround Sampson, removing the body, taking witness statements while cleaning up the mess. The duty officer talks to Sampson for a bit, but when Sampson flashes him a couple of medals the man backs off. Eventually the guards are satisfied from the witnesses that the event was a lawful, if unconventional, duel. Just as they are about to leave, a uniformed Commissar enters the tent and starts shouting at the guards. After a few moments of shouting he seems to come to the same conclusion that they did, and goes to yell at the knight from the gate. The empty space around the Hermean is now even larger than before. The guards eye him warily from the edges of the tent, like sheep keeping an eye on the wolf in their pen who insists he is but a dog.
Great. Viktor's here.
Watching as the Commissar goes about his rant, Vincent feels his gaze settle on him. He allowed him to continue his verbal flogging, rising to his feet as Viktor rants.
When the man concluded, Vincent replied, "Viktor, how nice of you to join in the festivities. As to the duel, there wasn't really any letting take place. The two men were having an argument, and things escalated to violence quickly. Sampson's skill with a sword put an end to it before any words could. Nobody else was harmed, and the victim was the instigator of it all. As such, there was no need to take any further action."
Vincent signaled for a refill of his drink, then said, "Perhaps next time, before you barge into a festival tent throwing the weight of the Order around," Vincent gestures to Viktor's uniform, "while off duty, I do believe, you should make sure of all the facts. We weren't granted our positions in the order to serve as overlord's to the guard or regular army, after all."
All the while wording his rebuttal to the other Field-Squire, Vincent maintained eye contact to let Viktor know his scare tactics would not work on him.
"I was ordered to attend the feast and enjoy myself. I am doing precisely that, Vincent. As a result, I am still on duty. Partaking in such a feast is one of my less-enjoyed duties, but orders are orders." Viktor returns the eye contact, never blinking as he does so. Though Vincent is of equal rank - and of the same blood as the Imperial Governor, if slightly distant, Viktor does not choose to allow Vincent the pleasure of telling him off.
"The Order represents Molthune - even amongst its people, we are always representing it as such, on duty or not. We must never let ourselves disrespect the Order through our actions while off-duty. Being the younger cousin of our leader, you in particular represent us even moreso. Remember that, Vincent."
"Even if our duty is not to, as you would say, serve as overlords to the Imperial Guard or Army, do remember that I was a part of that very same organization before being offered the chance to serve a greater cause. My ties to the Army are not easily cut, and one might even say I represent the Army in the Order, if only unofficially. Just as I will not let the members of the Order misrepresent us, I will not allow those of the Guard or Army to do so for their respective organizations, either."
Vincent cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes some at Viktor claiming to be on duty.
"Come on Viktor, I was at the same debriefing as you when we were 'ordered' to attend the feast. Just because you don't enjoy social gatherings and are trying to avoid the largest one of the season, do not expect all the rest of the Order to do the same. I am well aware of my actions, and have done nothing that would bring dishonor to my family or the Order. As for the guard present, they were performing well enough given the circumstances, I see no reason to bark discipline their direction either. I was part of their number too, prior to my own induction. So I am aware of the difference, and am able to differentiate my role as a member of the March as is expected of all of us."
Quickly sobering up with thanks to this argument, Vincent looks for a server, and flags them down. As they approach, Vincent says, "Come on Viktor, relax, lighten up, and have a drink. How can you be angry when the new home of the Order sits just over there, growing taller and more majestic with each passing day!"
Once the server arrives, Vincent says, "Gather up a round for the whole tent."
Once all the drinks are distributed, Vincent raises his glass and says, "A toast, if I may. May the might of Molthune be learned of through all the nations! May her soldier's serve her well and wisely," he gestures to Eldred, Sampson, and a sweeping motion to the rest of the assembled guard, "May the God's watch over her," he acknowledges Nathmir and Adurus, "And may the Order march on for eternity! Ever forward! Ever onward!" Vincent turns to offer his tankard for the final toast to Viktor, attempting to bury the hatchet, at least for now.
Eldred looks.down at the table top, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. He draws deeply on the vestiges of his cigarette and then puts it out in the plate before him. No appetite.
He raises his ale mug, more for Vincent's effort to smooth over the other man's display of "military prowess" than anything.
"You mistake my strict adherance to order as anger, Vincent, when I assure you: Anger does not factor into my actions."
Taking a goblet and making sure it is clean with a use of Presdigititation then filled with alcohol, Viktor returns the toast to Vincent; Though not one for social gatherings, Viktor would never turn down a toast to the Order or Molthune, both being important to him.
Skip by merrily skip Ivenn made his way to the noble dominated table. Already they were speaking of their business' and activities, uncaring if anyone listened, to them everyone not just Ivenn was part of the background, which suited the black haired jester just fine Naughty, Naughty mr. nobleman, I'll have to remember your face and silly, silly mustache, then I'll show you a real feast, with a show like no other' Ivenn increased the number of darts he was juggling to six and the crowd seemed to be loving it, except for an overly serious looking officer who began an overly grave conversation with another more relaxed looking officer.
Ivenn immediately ended his juggling act and swiftly moved to the table the two soldiers were conversing at, he placed his right foot on an empty stool and faced the younger officer "And one more thing! Your hair looks too good! You'll be shaved bald by tomorrow" Shouted the jester to Vincent in a clearly false serious tone, that was so very close to Viktor's.
Having been ignored even reasonably so, Nathmir simply keeps eating his bread as the two bicker. He eyes the supposed jester, that one was not fooling him. Still he sips his water at the toast, it was a wise and trapping move on Vincent's part but it's effectiveness would be dependent on the level of stubbornness the one called Viktor had.
Or so he thought until said jester made his move, a most provoking one at that. More fuel to the fire as they say, things could go back to where they started. He waited and watched.
Arzazel sees the gnome's signal to join him with the soldiers, but then the second act of the drama begins. Guards fill the pavilion securing their location and investigating the duel. The mountain of man, screaming woman, and other witnesses are questioned. But the apex of the scene culminates with the arrival of an Imperial Commissar. Who evidently knows the officer sitting with Zeltresh causing another duel, but this one with words. Excellent, more cheap entertainment. thinks Arzazel.
As the duel appears to finish in a draw with the aggressor receiving a drink from the aggressed, Arzazel slowly gets up with his drink and moves closer to the gnome. He puts his huge paw of hand on the shoulder of the construction worker sitting next Zeltresh and nods with his head to move down. After a half second for the worker to turn and raise his head to make eye contact with the intimidating half-orc, he wordlessly moves away pushing his companions further to make room. When there is enough room for his wide shoulders, Arzazel sits down next to his friend and softly claps him on the back. He looks around the table at the group making eye contact and nods before taking another swig.
Adurus can't help but notice the Commissar, barking orders as he is at everyone. Despite this Adurus leaves the arguing to Viktor, as Adurus himself has no right to talk up to either of them except by saying, Yes, sir! He meekly partakes of his meal again, avoiding eye contact with Viktor and trying to simply avoid his notice. Adurus is not one who deals well with the confrontational sort.
Trying to normalize the situation for himself again, he leans over to the half-orc sitting with the gnome and introduces himself in a stage whisper. "How do you do, my name is Adurus. I've met your friend only briefly before." As pleasantries and light conversation are gotten out of the way, Vincent stands to make a toast. Adurus looks up to him, admiring his work at deflecting the aggressive Commissar and thinking to himself, Yes, may this country and this nation flourish. Adurus has thoughts of home, and wonders for a moment or two how his siblings and his parents are doing. However, after he downs a large gulp of ale for the toast, such thoughts pass, and he returns to conversing.
At the jester's sudden appearance and comment, Adurus couldn't help but smirk. He's gotten the voice down well. Still he tries not to look Viktor's way to gauge his reaction, too fearful of the Commissar recognizing him and bringing down Viktor's wrath on his head. Adurus instead reacquaints himself with the gnome, and talks with him and the half-orc of what they've been doing since the incident at the gate.
A jester, eh? Eldred observes, resisting the urge to chuckle at the thin man's mockery of Sir Viktor. It was one thing for Eldred to house animosity for soldiers of such rigidity, but quite another for someone outside the ranks of either the Army or the new Order to mock them so openly.
Besides, men like Viktor didn't learn their lessons from mockery. No, they learned them when the men they so willingly browbeat with the rule book decided not go chasing into the Southern Fangwood when he's cut off by enemy forces after an ill advised charge up the middle.
The gunslinger glances Vincent's way. He was young, but Eldred thought of the nobleman as one who could capably earn the respect of his men. The dichotomy is interesting.
In the end, Eldred's opinion matters about as much as the fodder he'd lay after such a huge meal. Time would test the mettle of both men. Time would either grow them, or grind them in the butcher's gears.
Across from him at the table, a half-orc Zeltresh had invited seats himself. Eldred inclines his head in greeting. His hands deftly moved into a satchel at his side to withdraw some more tobacco and a wrap. After tapping a portion onto the wrapper, he offers some to the gathering.
Eldred looks at his cigarette, eyes wide for a moment. If for more dangerous environs he'd have reached for ole Lia. But he catches the gnome's grin and for his part, the gunslinger offers a grin of his own. It's a sickly thing given his scar, but the effort is there. The gnome does remind him of his departed friend.
"Much obliged, Zeltresh."
"Damnable weather!" Garroth thought to himself as he made his way down the street, the sudden downpour having all but cleared everyone back inside the tents. He couldn't wait to find his way back to the tent he had previously occupied and continue the good time he had enjoyed before all the commotion. He could of course just enter any tent that wasn't already fully seated, but he felt like talking to the big brute, share some stories and maybe thank him for unintentionally cutting Garroths contract short. It had been for one night only, and the early return to the merchants house had freed him for the rest of the night.
That was of course all assuming the big man was still there, but even if he wasn't, Garroth was curious to see how everything had proceeded after he left "With how things were going, the place is likely a smoking ruin by now" he mused, before finally spotting the tent up ahead.
Reentering the tent, he found every noteworthy individual from before still present, including a few newcomers, the Jester amongst them. Grabbing himself a pint Garroth moved to stand near the entertainer, a smile having replaced the scowl he had worn when last he had been inside the tent.
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The festivities that have been permeating the entirety of Market's Door finally begin to simmer down to a slow crawl. It has been a busy and eventful night; a man cut down in a single stroke for allowing his pride to overshadow reason; a jester from parts unknown performing all manner of entertainment and tricks for the small audience housed within the expansive tent that hosted said audience; and the arrival of a Commissar-Knight of all things, his stern reproof earning scores of downcast gazes as civilians shrink under Viktor's scrutiny. Fortunately, the mounting tension disperses in short order, given the verification of the duel's authenticity and the profound amount of booze available to drown what might be worries away in an impressive array of lagers, ports, and stouts.
Many stagger home with full bellies and fuller bladders, while others pass out on the table itself, snoring and drooling in excess until a friend or guard arrives to find them a proper resting place—the former leading them to homes and the latter leading them to mud-choked ditches. Unfortunately, unlike the waning sobriety and consciousnesses of those celebrating, the rain shows no sign of abating. In fact, it has only increased in ferocity in volume, the torrential downpour lending an awful racket of percussion to the partially drooping canopy of the tent hanging above. Wind howls ominously, managing to find enough purchase to rend holes in parts of the pavilion. Thankfully, the tent as a whole proves resilient enough to stand up to the brunt of Gozreh's bluster, and the provided foods and other refreshments are luckily missed by the assault of rainwater spilling down through the compromised accommodations.
Thunder begins pealing ominously on the horizon, occasionally preceded by lightning bold enough to breech the confines of the storm clouds that serve as their billowing harbingers. The pleasantly cool breeze that had existed previously has been replaced by a deepening cold gale that manages to snake its way into the feast-tent despite the best efforts of the guard that yet remains at the entrance flap. Many who had dined and supped on the provided banquet have elected to be elsewhere in the face of such a storm, leaving just under two dozen still present within the relative safety of the tent...
As the intensity of the situation after the duel slowly winds down, Adurus consumes another tankard of ale, his cheeks turning rosy and his eyelids slightly drooping. The storm gets louder and fiercer, opening a hole or two in the tent. Luckily for Adurus no hole opens directly above him.
Feeling the effects of the stiff breeze Adurus pulls his thin cloak tighter, blowing warm air onto his hands. Any of the feast food which was once warm is by now cold, and Adurus doesn't think there is any place in the tent safe enough to start a fire, so he simply resigns himself to enduring the wind, though not without a murmur of annoyance or two. He passes the time chatting with the half orc, the gnome, and Vincent, learning that the gnome is serving in the military now and the half orc is actually an ex-slave. Adurus, with a little bit of goading from the group and a little help from the alcohol, recounts the brief story of how he obtained his powers.
He tells about applying for the Molthune Regulars, training hard with his friends, and the duel that ended his time with that particular chapter. Speaking of Gruckalus and Bordana causes Adurus to wonder about where the two are now, a couple years after he parted with them. No doubt on the front lines, screaming to the gods and dying. The thought serves to sober up Adurus's attitude quite a bit, and he closes up a bit at the conclusion of his story, a little reluctant to say anything else. He drinks some more ale.
Arzazel chats with Zetresh’s friends and reveals his background as a former Chelish slave. Although he looks like he belongs among the soldiers with his parade dress Molthune armor, he lacks any loyalty to Molthune, which he guards closely. He wonders if a slave can ever faithfully serve two masters.
They joke with him a bit due to his apparent joy of the stiff wind and pounding rain. One of the holes in the pavilion directly leaks on to his shoulder running rivulets down his back under his armor. He takes pleasure in the pure water cleansing him of last night’s slaughter. When the cold wind gusts, he closes his eyes as if facing a warm sun. Arzazel has endured far worse than these elements and considers the weather refreshing without the weight of shackles or fetters.
By now, Arzazel severely dilutes his drink with rainwater. The masters of the pit fighters sometimes drugged him, and he is still uncomfortable self-medicating. While his constitution could develop a strong tolerance for alcohol, his lack of practice and enjoyment of the buzzed feeling keeps his tolerance low. Even so, he would be a quiet, sleepy drunk.
As the situation calms inside the tent, the storm strengthens outside. Every so often, a strong gust forces it's way into the feast, and many have chosen to retire before being caught in the storm. Vincent, had been one of those who had chosen to stay for the duration, but now, looking at the storm, regrets his decision.
The Commissar still stood rigidly to the side, also keeping Vincent from really enjoying the revelry and taking his mind off the weather. "Why does he have to stand around in the tent I chose. And why can't he take the broadsword out of his posterior long enough to have a little fun?"
Vincent listens to Adurus tell his story, then claps him on the shoulder and says, "Well, you're with the Order now, and you know we'll put your talents to use, don't worry about that!"
It's that time of the night when only the hearty remain to hold discourse with their cups. Eldred, despite his earlier reluctance, is finding himself swimming in the deep end of his flagon. Memories of his time at Ramgate float in the froth unbidden and unwelcome. A lot of blood in those memories, more than enough ink for the butcher's bill, more than enough to bath Eldred in nightmares.
The gunslinger stares through the table and into the past, listening passively to the shared stories of those that remain. He follows with interest the way Arzazel speaks and wonders how he compares to the other half-orcs Eldred's served with in the past. Fierce warriors, most with a lot to prove because of their treatment at the hands of officers and fellow soldiers alike. "...never surrendered...ever..." the gunslinger mutters to his memories. One in particular, Forn...he never yielded, even when it meant defending the very officer who'd beaten him...
With regards to Arzazel, from what he could tell of him, he likes the half-orc already.
Eldred never really cared what species held the line with him, just so long as they never gave quarter, never surrendered. Hells, his halfling buddy, Frig had more guts than most humans...most leaders point of fact.
Yeah, but I'm dead, Dread. Deader than that elf you shot in the face a few years back. Remember how you smashed your barrel through his teeth?
"Yeah, I remember..." the gunslinger mutters to himself again, taking a deep pull of his ale. "...shut up, Frig."
Then it was the younger man's turn to speak of his history. Eldred listens, but his mind is focused elsewhere. When the Oracle intimates that his friends had been sent off for service, there was a fear in Adurus’ eyes for them. It catches the gunslinger's attention.
Vincent listens to Adurus tell his story, then claps him on the shoulder and says, "Well, you're with the Order now, and you know we'll put your talents to use, don't worry about that!"
Eldred looks at him, eyes half-lidded. ”They go to Ramgate?” he asks Adurus.
Vincent listens to Adurus tell his story, then claps him on the shoulder and says, "Well, you're with the Order now, and you know we'll put your talents to use, don't worry about that!"
Adurus gives an awkward smile to Vincent, obviously not communicative of the emotions he's experiencing at the moment. 'As kids, we were all ready to rush off to the front lines and earn ourselves a piece of the pie. But what price have they paid? What price will I pay before I'm through?' The ale serves to muddy Adurus's ability to hide his emotions, and his face is dark and tired. He doesn't voice a response to Vincent, and he's too lost in thought to notice Eldred's mumbles.
Eldred looks at him, eyes half-lidded. ”They go to Ramgate?” he asks Adurus.
Adurus considers a moment, then replies quietly, "I've no idea where they ended up. Been two years since I've seen either of them." Adurus realizes that he doesn't even know what they look like anymore. His memories of them are hazy; he remembers Gruckalus's wheezing laugh best, and that stubborn look Bordana would get every time she and Adurus fought. He gives a soft, humorless chuckle, holding his tankard to his lips and staring into middle space. 'To the Abyss with this drink. Maybe I'll remember them better tomorrow.' He takes another gulp.
"I've no idea where they ended up. Been two years since I've seen either of them."
Eldred follows along, taking another draw on his ale. "Remember them as best you can, kid. Remember them like they were before they were deployed."
That's right, Dread. I remember your breath smelled a lot better before you went to Ramgate. the gunslinger's dead friend says mournfully.
Eldred just grumbles at the voice of the halfling echoing through his head. "Stow it, Frig...
"Hold onto home, whatever that looks like for you." Eldred says finally, a thumb to his chest. "Keep it here. Don't let it out."
Awww, so poetic, Dread. Frig chides in the back of Eldred's mind. You always get that way when you drink...or when you're stomping a person's face into the ground.
The gunslinger grumbles and stands from his place at the table, a bit unsteady on his feet. He swings his legs over the bench seat and makes his way to get a refill on his tankard. He sees the walls of the grand tent billowing inwards like a ship's sail.
If I didn't see you walking around, Dread, I'd think the wind outside was you snoring...
"Heh, heh..." Eldred snorts a chuckle. "Stick around, Frig," he says to the air next to him. "This much ale, you're just the right height to smell something else I'll be passing later..."