Sun shines merrily down on the fair city of Kenabres as the morning of Armasse rolls around. Instead of the usual hustle and bustle of the city with dour faces and downcast eyes, an almost infectious elation has taken hold of the citizens. The atmosphere around the city is filled with cheery delight as the sounds of children laughing mingles with the clashing of steel on steel.
Though the speeches that mark the beginning of the festival have yet to start, the rest of the festivities have already kicked off. Merchants hawk their wares as the heady aroma of all manner of food and drink accosts the nostrils. Within the city's center, knights, crusaders, and common folk alike cross swords and practice their sparring. Squires polish blades and saddle their patron's horse as the latter straps him or herself into armor.
Most every restaurant, tavern, bar, and inn have thrown their doors open to the warm weather. Each has the most comely serving wench or bloke standing out front, waving any and all in sight within. Nearby, a myriad of fair games stand bright, colorful, and swarmed with onlookers. Everyone loves a party, after all.
Between the throngs of players and audience, a few games can be seen with open opportunities for newcomers. From first glance, they appear to be at least three different challenges to conquer for prizes. Between contests of hurling beanbags into arrayed buckets, a line of lizards painted different colors for racing, and a strongman's high striker complete with a large mallet, there are many options.
Plenty of idle entertainment for any intrepid adventurer to partake in.
An incredibly short tiefling woman wanders about the festival grounds, excitedly watching the games and festivities happening around her. Even this soon after the start of the festival, she has already purchased an armful of things she doesn't need.
Dressed for some of the weapon training events happening later in the day, she is dressed in leather armor, and a glaive sways dangerously high in the air above her as she drags it along the cobblestone with her tail - arms too full to hold it regularly.
Seeing the beanbag toss and a chance at more colorful gifts, she tries her hand at the game after giving the beanbag a few tosses into the air to test its weight.
Naali surprises the gamekeep by hitting the farthest bucket on her first try.
But on her second nearly drops all of her stuff, and the bag goes flying into the crowd, earning her a scowl as he goes to retrieve it.
But lands a second on the farthest bucket.
Bean bag toss - 5c
Set of cards to replace her old, bent ones - 1g
A few crossword puzzles, but no ink pen to do them with - 5s
A nice scarf - 5s, 1/2lb
A nice ring - 2g
A colorful dress - 5g, 4lb
Useless baubles and trinkets - 3g
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She wasn't sweating. Nope. Not at all. Well... Maybe a little... Okay a lot...
With a sigh Abrielle unclasped her heavy black cloak and pulled the hood from her head. Long, alarmingly blue locks fell free as she draped it over her arm. Under the cloak what she was wearing was not much better for the sun that beamed overhead, but it was at least she was a touch more comfortable.
The black clad elven woman moved through the crowded festival streets with practiced grace, one eye open for a any sign of trouble out of reflex more than actual concern. Kenabres was a well protected city filled to the brim with crusaders and other warriors here to test their mettle against the legions of the abyss. The most she'd probably see today was a bar brawl after people got a few too many drinks in themselves. Ah yes, they joys of urban revelry.
The smells of cooking food assaulted her nose and her stomach gave an appreciative grumble. She wasn't even hungry but the promises of fine lunch options later was enough to prompt the gurgle apparently.
"Step right up, step right up!" came a booming voice from across the road, interrupting her thoughts of food. "Come test your will against the mightiest dragons Kenabres has to offer! Push you dragon to the finish line first! With great speed, comes great responsibility!"
Curious as to what constituted a 'dragon' here in the city, Abrielle made her way to where the voice was coming from. On an overturned milk crate stood a man in a gaudy patchwork cloak and matching top hat bellowing out the nonsensical advertisement for the game he was running. At the start of a miniature race track were a handful of brightly painted lizards. She couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness (and creativity) of it all and put forward her five copper to participate.
"Line up at that yelow liza--dragon!" the colorfully clad man instructed her as he pocketed her copper with a flourish.
The yellow lizard looked to be a little round to be racing, but a glance at the others suggested they also feasted well. Probably food at the other end to encourage them in that direction, she thought idly as she gave the scaly creature a pet. A few others lined up behind their own lizards, all looking as amused as she felt.
"Alright, contestants! You shall test your will against that of your assigned dragon and encourage it to the end of its lane before the others! No touching or magically moving the beast! Use your wits, not your muscles! On your marks!" the host called. "Get set! Go!"
"Go on!" she encouraged the lizard. "Think ferocious, winning thoughts!" The lizard licked its eye. "..."
"Uh, please?" Okay, working with animals was not her forte.
She gave an exasperated sigh and the lizard began pondering forward.
Abrielle's eyes lit up as the lizard continued moving along the track, making good pace for such a round-bellied creature. Beside her, the other 'dragon handlers' were cheering and groaning as their 'dragons' moved and not moved as they pleased.
"Just a little more!" she called to the lizard. It glanced backwards towards her and for a moment she thought he was going to turn around and go the wrong way.
But it didn't! She gave a squeal of delight and clapped her hands together as it crossed the finish line. "Atta' boy! Girl? Whatever, you're a lizard."
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Tall. Proud. Attentive and bright. Dressed in traditional robes of white, red and gold as they make to prepare for the more sacred and ceremonial aspects of the week's festivities, these are the qualities of St. Clydwell's finest. Qualities that Private Koschei--tussle-haired, armed, and lazily draped over a plaza bench--is only barely managing to present.
To her credit, Gwyneth's Armasse had not exactly started on a high note. The yeoman's left side had seen fit to spasm as she dreamed, the old scars throbbing like fresh wounds rolled in salt, stopping only after she'd fallen square out of her bunk and cracked her head on the garrison floor. Gwyneth's first prayers to Iomedae this morning were certainly...colourful, to say the least.
'Hnnn...No, definitely not my proudest moment,' she admits, a scale-mail gauntlet rising from her sword hilt to disguise a yawn. Technically her patrol shift wasn't due to start until the sermons, but the Paladin took great pleasure in seeing the too-often grim city of Kenabres in rare form. A positive one, so full of promise; a glimpse into what this place should have been; with the sound of children, joyous peddlers, and the resolute march of Crusaders whose only difficult choice that day would be whether or not to take that pretty redhead to dinner.
Her yawn finished, Gwyneth rubs off the last of her tiredness, foreign rays of warm sunlight burning in her eyes; halos of something more divine than mortal taking command of her sight--flooding the world with marbled shades of white and grey.
Getting the hint, and accepting that she's hardly of much use to the Inheritor as a bench-warmer, Gwyn dismisses the divination, pushing off her knees and rising to her full height, right arm lifting her own pack of supplies up from beside her. As she turns to consider her chances at the "Dragon" races (choking back her amusement as she wonders what Kenabres's resident dragon must think of that)--
*THUNK*
The shadeless crusader lets out a silent yelp as something connects sharply with the tender bruise at the back of her skull. Looking back across the crowds, Gwyneth barely registers the beanbag and its owner as he comes to collect--she's far more concerned about the free-standing glaive that seems to be...swinging? Floating?
With a groan and her good arm properly shouldering her gear, Gwyneth makes to push through the crowds, finding the glaive's wielder not to be an overenthusiastic Sheylnite or some manner of rogue and/or intoxicated templar--but an over-encumbered Tiefling carrying way too much f~*!ing stuff and attempting to throw...beanbags.
Because of course she is.
Gwyn's brief sigh rings of silver and relief.
"Hey, Miss?" she calls, her voice taking on an authoritative tone as her eyes track the edge of Naali's lofted blade. "Can I give you a hand? Preferably before you cut off someone else's?"
Naali, far too distracted by watching other contestants throw their beanbags, doesn't hear the clinking sound or the sigh that preceded an important looking woman talking to her.
"Hmm? What? Oh. Oh, oh no! I'm sorry! Oh no!", she stammers in response. With a frazzled expression, she starts stuffing things into pouches and her backpack. Clothing hangs out of her backpack as she holds a handful of tiny statuettes of animals, patting herself to try to find a place to put them.
"Uhhhm... Here, hold this for a second," she says, removing a dark leather pouch that bore burn marks and a peculiar smell, and pushing it into the woman's hands.
As she's stuffing baubles into pockets, she adds as an afterthought, "Don't drop that, it will explode."
A few small wisps of orange smoke escape the pouch.
A big half-orc wanders the crowd, slightly ill-at-his-ease. Kenabres is a bustling metropolis, by his standards; Daggermark is bigger, but he's only been through Daggermark once, and he was just passing through. He's been in Kenabres a week now, and the twelve-thousand or so souls that fill the city are a far cry from the relative solitude of the travel to get here-- to say nothing of the the last half-a-year of his life before that, spent in the swampy woods, rarely seeing another person but Janayya. Even before then, the small towns and homesteads and river crews of his youth had contained nothing like Kenabres: Kenabres the fortress-city, the bastion against the Abyssal hordes, with walls thicker than a man is tall, and buildings of solid stone that tower like trees.
Lots of noise. Lots of people.
He rubs at the back of his neck with one big hand, squinting around at the crowds and standing with his back to a wall whenever he can. Least everyone seems... happy, he supposes. More so than he'd have thought, from a city at constant war. But they're having some festival going on, he caught that much... He wishes Janayya was here to see it.
The food's good, though. That's one thing he does miss about the comforts of civilization; meals cooked on something other than a campfire. Fresh bread, for instance. Cheese. Ales. The domesticated meats, like chicken and beef...
"This chicken?" he asks a street vendor who's selling kebabs with delicious-smelling fried meat. "Nah, pork," the man replies, and Therrik grunts. "Good enough."
A few coppers are parceled out; Therrik wanders off, stripping the meat and onions from the stick with his impressive dental equipment. His eyes never stop scanning the crowd as he walks, hunting one particular face and figure.
He comes up short before the high striker, watching people take their swings. He stands out a little less right here: he's hardly the only tall, muscular person to be drawn to this particular amusement of the fair, after all. Therrik finishes his kebab before shouldering off his pack and weapons, setting them down just a few feet from the booth.
"I'll give it a go," he grunts to the barker, who grins and hands him the mallet.
Therrik gives it a few test swings in mid-air, testing the heft of it, and then steps up to the target. He can let his muscles do the talking for him, he guesses... just like most of his life.
DING! goes the bell, to some light applause from the spectators, which turns into disappointed noises when Therrik can't make good on his next two attempts.
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Thusly informed, Gwyn's eye draws a bead on the dark leather pouch in her palm, a brow raised as it spews small puffs of orange smog.
'It will explode.'
Because of course it'll explode.
"Well..." The Paladin holds the container steady in her right hand as the other takes a firm grip of the cold-iron handle to her left. For a time she remains silent, her face twisting into something more disappointment than distress as she struggles to find the proper word for the situation. Eventually she settles on a familiar four-letter curse and leaves it at that, opting not to make a fuss for the sake of the surrounding civilian population.
"Not a Crusader, are you?" she asks, trying to take her mind from the thought of spontaneous combustion. At the very least, Gwyn's certain she hasn't seen a 'Cross exchanged among the many bits, bobs and knickknacks about the Tiefling's inventory."The armour's too new...and I'm fairly certain I'd have heard of someone with that bad of a throwing arm."
After a further moment of thought, the Paladin's spine straightens, her head dipping in a slight introductory bow.
"Private Koschei, Armsman of the Inheritor and Yeoman of St. Clydwell's...though seeing how this might be my last conversation, I'd really just prefer 'Gwyn'." When she raises her head, her face carries the guise of a Mendevian soldier who has long grown tired of her own suspicion and bias. A small grin works its way onto her lips as she speaks. "Being blunt: what brings a Fiendblood to Kenabres? Other than to toss beanbags at unsuspecting guardswomen."
There is a curious man - yes, a man, although one could mistake him for a boy at the proper angle - weaving through the games on display. He has the sure-footed movement of one who knows the streets well, and has perhaps been forced to scamper down an alleyway once or twice in former days. Yet there is a lingering oddness to his steps, almost hesitant, and his eyes fall upon every cart, crier, and cobblestone within view. He is both an aimless child and a road-weary traveler, though neither life has been particularly fruitful.
A pair of cropped Elvish ears jut through his blonde hair, but nothing definitively suggests that the cuts were made to resemble a more Human form. There are only two ragged strips of scar tissue, pink and darkened with time, to attest that anything happened at all. His backpack, clanging with assorted metals and glasses and all manners of devious instruments, does a respectable job of hiding his thin frame. Perhaps not starved enough to warrant coins from merciful passersby, granted, but so thoroughly and inexplicably hungry that one would feel guilt for eating in his vicinity.
Across his shoulders lies a wiry (though not quite underfed) mongoose, its tiny arms splayed out and skyward to allow its belly the rareness of sunlight. It hardly stirs at the crack of strange alchemical mischief or the nudging of small children running past, far too content to rest in the haze between wakefulness and sleep. Its dark eyes flicker with the barest hint of dreaming.
In his hand is a piece of paper, crumpled from habitual fidgeting and folding. He has rolled it into a thin tube to prevent further destruction, and now carries it like a weapon in its own right, searching for old faces in a place that feels so new.
Naali continues packing her pockets, her face briefly twisting into a disappointed frown as she decided that the tiny silver frog sculpture would have to risk being bent if she was to fit everything.
"Crusader, bad throwing arm? You didn't get to see the other two throws I made!" She points in the general direction of the series of buckets, the ground littered with bean bags from various other patrons.
With her bag finally stuffed with her new purchases, she takes the smoking pouch back from Gwyneth. "Ooh, orange, that's new," she says to herself as she peers into the pouch, before replacing it on her belt. Maybe this one won't explode!
The tiefling runs a hand through her dark hair before remembering the question and extending a hand in greeting "Oh no, I'm not a crusader. Sorry about the bean bag."
"Not officially, I suppose," She continues. "That is, not officially about the crusader bit, not not officially about the bean bag. I don't think that can be officiated. I came for some herbs, but now I'm staying because I'm looking for someone. As long as I'm here, I wanted to help out however I can."
"Hi, sorry. Naali Almdottir, nice to meet you Gwyn." She extends her hand in greeting again.
Amidst all of the shouting and cheering, only two lizards manage to pull ahead and appear to be close to winning. In the final stretch, though, while the yellow lizard takes a moment to peer back at the technicolor haired, the red lizard spots a fly. And what ensues is a frenzied lunge to the finish that pulls red just a tiny bit ahead of yellow.
Despite her best efforts, Abrielle only manages to come in a close second. Amusingly, the other two "dragons" amble about in the center of their track as though lost. Their handlers shout derision and encouragement, but to no avail. The man in the brightly colored patchwork cloak shouts to all who will listen, "And we have a winner! Congratulations, young sir, and let us get you your prize!"
Rather than hopping down from his pedestal to retrieve such a prize, he simply turns back to continue shouting for more to come play. Behind him, a young girl whose age cannot be into the double digits yet hurries out to place a flagon into the first place winner's hands.
That done, she quickly hurries over to Abrielle with a giggle and offers out a small slip of parchment. It looks to be a voucher for a free meal at a nearby inn, the Defender's Heart. As she passes it up to the aasimar, a gap-toothed smile is offered and she mumbles, "You're pretty! I wanna be as pretty as you one day..."
Overburdened by the mass amount of patrons as the beanbag tossing station is, it takes the proprietor several moments to get over to Naali. The middle aged human man offers an apologetic smile as he passes over a small flask with the icon of Iomedae emblazoned on the center of it. It seems that this is her prize for doing so well on the beanbag toss.
"Sorry, lass. We're a mite swamped at the moment, as ye can see." the booth owner offers sheepishly, "Good throwin', I ain't seen nothin' like that in years! Not since my liddle lass got growned up and went to Blackwing for learnin'." He pauses to get a bit weepy at the thought, clearly not having seen his daughter in some time. Her "learnin'" must have taken her far from the district he resides in.
"Awww, lookit me getting all choked up. 'Scuse me, miss, Crusader, I oughter get back to work." With that, he scurries back to his post, scooping up beanbags and trying to sell the game to passersby.
The cheers from the crowd at Therrik's first go at the high striker are loud and boisterous, but he sadly cannot follow through. The second two swings barely crest the halfway point on the height marker. As the barrel-chested man bearing no shirt steps forward to take the mallet back from the half-orc, he nods politely.
"You had a good go at it, lad. Better than most men who give 'er a try. That'll get you a free drink, over at the Heart there!" He nods back over Therrik's shoulder to a particularly large inn; it is actually the largest in the area. Despite being so squat, its stone construction looks to be made to weather most any tide that should wash over it. "Grand place. Met me girl there, don't you know!"
He passes over a small slip of parchment that has the details of the promotion in question scrawled across it in black ink. It seems the man was not lying; a free drink awaits!
Therrik rubs at the back of his neck, a little chagrined at his second and third blows failing to impress. Perhaps it was just as well Janayya wasn't here to see it, he thinks.
"Thanks," he mutters to the big chap who hands him his ticket for a drink. "Maybe I'll be back."
For now, he shoulders his pack again, checks that all weapons are secure, including a heavy, curved blade that straps over his back, and he turns his feet towards the large inn, his parchment scrap clutched in one big mitt.
Therrik takes a half dozen steps and nearly bowls over a much smaller, much more slender figure who has emerged from the press of bodies to intersect his own path, their trajectories colliding at the wrong moment. "Hey! Whoa!"
Therrik reaches out to steady the kid. "Watch yourself there--"
Green eyes stare down at Hendron, as Therrik registers the particular slim build of a half-elf, even skinnier on this guy, the ears-- what the hell happened to his ears--? and the fact that he's probably not actually a kid.
"You alright?" Therrik grunts.
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Abrielle is taken by surprise. Not only because she hadn't expected to win a thing for coming in second, but also because of the compliment from the small girl. Abrielle's face breaks into a warm smile and she sinks down to one knee, putting herself at the child's level.
"Thank you, miss," she said, tucking the girl's hair back behind her ears. "Now let's see you. Mhmm... mhmm..." Abrielle lifts the girls chin and peers down her nose at her face as if giving a thorough examination. "Mhm, see now, the problem with that wish is you already are. But, for a few minutes, let's help you light up a room."
With that last word, Abrielle gently boops the child's nose and a soft glow of teal light shimmers around the little girl. Abrielle gives the girl a wink and ruffles her hair as she stands back up.
Clearly fate has decided that second breakfast, as the halflings call it, is a meal I shall partake in today, she thought as the girl ran off in a glow of teal light. With well practiced and memorized steps, she makes her way through the crowd towards the Defender's Heart for a free meal.
On her way past one of the other games, she spots a vaguely familiar face, a Paladin employed with the Cathedral if she remembered correctly, talking to what she could only assume was a tiefling child. Had it been an actual demon like she had thought before doing a double take, it'd have already lost its head. As it was, people shifted nervously around it anyways, startled eyes only relaxing when they see the demon-spawn speaking with the Paladin.
Of course, Abrielle wasn't going to associate with such riffraff.
To her other side she saw a rather large orc, well half-orc anyways, collide with an elf. Half-elf. Whatever. She cringed at the impact; that slight little fellow didn't look like he could take a full body check from the half-orc.
Hendron straightens himself up, having lost most of his already-tenuous footing upon impact, and tries on a crooked half-smile. He reaches up to his mongoose and straightens the creature back into its standard resting place, although nothing suggests it was even jarred beyond an askew set of hind legs.
"Quite alright, thank you," Hendron manages, despite a sudden absence of air in his chest. He slips past a few revelers and sidles up to Therrik, his tube of parchment clutched in both hands. Aside from a barely-perceptible limp, he looks as nimble as ever. "Do you know anybody in this district?" He widens his smile, bringing out a pair of deep dimples. "Just basic information. Nothing too offbeat, I promise."
Before the Half-Orc can even answer, Hendron's eyes dance across the crowd and linger on a wash of blue hair. More than that, perhaps, he's drawn to the amethyst eyes that merely flash in his direction before being consumed by a press of bodies.
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Thinking the better of offering a wrapped fist, Gwyneth tugs free the scaled covering from her hand before taking the Tiefling's own in a firm grip.
"For the Heart, Naali," she greets, letting loose as the proprietor arrives, glad of the man to show such courtesy despite the swathe of patrons taking to his stall. Gwyn did not need to see the gawkers in her hypothetical shadow; festivities or not, Kenabres is never without its prejudices. His praise of "Not seeing nothin' like that in years" draws her to cringe in agreement.
That's certainly one way to put it, she thought.
Bidding the gamesman farewell and a fair Armasse in turn, the Paladin muses aloud, "Man's got a girl in the Librarium?" She replaces her gauntlet, arms crossing in clear approval. Short though it was, Blackwing had served as Gwyn's sanctuary for a brief time in her youth; her memories of black-bound books draped in emerald runes and their associated addenda had done more than simply lay the foundation of her demonic studies. It gave the enemy a name.
...Which was more than what could be said for the cerulean-haired Aasimar at the corner of her vision. The familiar tress of blue hair had been a sight the yeoman had come to recognize amid the cloisters of St. Clydwell's, however rare and far between the occasions, though Gwyneth hardly remembers ever striking conversation with the divine scion. Or a greeting, come to think of it, but she had always put that down to their respective duties to the Inheritor.
She'd plans to fix that of course--maybe over a cask of Brevian Ale and tales of a brighter future--but all that would require Gwyn to have more than five minutes of free time. And for her to fully understand the concept of free time would require a life scrubbed of abyssal stains, unshackled by the binds of Heaven.
Aaaand that, if the uncomfortable twitch to her brow is any indication...that would be bad.
But with the technicolour crusader gone from her immediate vision, Gwyn's mind promptly lodges itself back into the here and now. Though she's not paid enough mind to the amusements to care for their prizes, a cursory glance at the embellished flask in Naali's hand is enough to draw out a long, slow whistle in turn.
"So what's this, the 'smack an Iomedaean' bonus prize?"
The tiefling's face flushed again in embarrassment, turning a darker shade of purple.
"Sorry."
Naali traces Gwyn's gaze to the woman with the dazzling blue hair. "Friend of yours? I've been wondering what color her hair was before she dyed it, I've never been able to make a hair dye that bright."
"Not that I can even dye my hair, really. Too dark. Have to lighten it. Sun bleaching would take to long, too dark. Hmmm." she mumbles to herself, eyes glazing over as she thinks about pigments, paints and various herbs.
"Well anyway, you're a crusader of Iomedae, you should take it, as an apology for hitting you. I think I have got enough knick knacks from today anyway." she holds out the flask to the soldier before a sudden look of worry crosses her face "Unless you want a frog statue, because you could have that too. I hope it's not bent already"
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"A friend?" She gives a proud snort. "She will be."
The way she talks, you'd think Gwyn had just written a piece of history. Sadly Naali's spiel on the topic of hair dye succeeds only in soaring some few miles above the Paladin's head. At Iomedae's name she gives a nod but makes no further motions to the flask, suspecting trickery--as if this too were some manner of explosive--or, more rightly, that the detailed flask was worth a great deal more than a relatively harmless crack to the head. Not to mention she doesn't especially need it. Iomedae's symbol graces her armour, her Cross; if you cut open her chest, she assumes you'd find it there too, effigies of the Inheritor's sword and sun entombing the walls about Gwyn's zealous heart.
Of course that totally...does not stop her from wanting it.
Damned accursed mortal sins.
"I'll do you one better." Her hand clinches the base of the decorated container, but not yet pulling it from Naali's grip. "I've still a while till the Cathedral calls. You said you were looking for someone?" She takes the flask, stowing it into her own pack as her second hand retrieves a polished silver coin from her belt. "You can tell me about it over brunch."
At least then she could convince herself the time had been spent productively as opposed to simply stuffing her face with food.
"Oh, and your apology's accepted. Free of charge." She laughs, poking Naali square on the forehead. "I just wanted to see what colour you'd turn next."
Naali smiled at the paladins surety in her friends making capabilities, but couldn't deny that she was indeed quite capable in that department.
The combination of the festival and Gwyn's straightforward greeting made her feel much more welcomed than she had been in most cities she visited.
"Brunch sounds nice. The person I was looking for? I was -"
Naali pauses for a second. She'd already gone through enough telling and interrogation when crusaders had found her past the ward stones, but didn't want to lie to her new friend. She walked towards the nearest tavern with Gwyn.
"Well I was out past the ward stones..." she continued sheepishly, "I got trapped in some ruins and there were cultists outside. But a woman found me, and helped me escape, and stayed with me until crusaders found me and brought me back here. I never got her name. I really want to thank her and get to know her better, but no one seems to know who she is."
She shrugs. "I figure if I don't find her in a few years I should give up."
"Quite alright, thank you," Hendron manages, despite a sudden absence of air in his chest. He slips past a few revelers and sidles up to Therrik, his tube of parchment clutched in both hands. Aside from a barely-perceptible limp, he looks as nimble as ever. "Do you know anybody in this district?" He widens his smile, bringing out a pair of deep dimples. "Just basic information. Nothing too offbeat, I promise."
Therrik shrugs large shoulders. "I've been in this city a week," he says. "'m not exactly well-informed. But you can ask whatever you've got-- if I can ask about someone in turn."
"I'm looking for... a half-elf, like you. About your height. Brown hair, she wears it in a braid down to the small of her back. Got a scar on her right cheek. Probably got a bow. Janayya by name. Don't suppose you've seen anyone like that?" he asks, the same gruff recitation that's become practiced by now as he's bored every shopkeeper with it.
Hendron's face sours a bit upon hearing the Half-Orc's reply, but most of the disappointment lingers in the curve of his lips. His eyes are bright, beaming, although the source isn't quite known - perhaps not even to him.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, then. It's a pretty obscure matter. Which is not to say that you don't look knowledgeable, but..." He pauses, scratching at the film of scruff beneath his chin. "Oh, it's just convoluted."
As Therrik asks his question, Hendron rifles through the faces he's seen in Kenabres and beyond. The faces of those camped beneath drooping willows and smeared with soot, and the angular faces of those who see little foul in the art of violence. Faces that came and passed as a murmur on the wind, just like all of his other leads.
"Sorry," he replies at last, his stare thick with the empathy of a man who takes no great joy in communal fruitlessness. "It seems everybody's looking for somebody these days, hey? Can barely find ourselves sometimes." He shrugs. "That was in an old tome I read. A tad beyond my scope, but it makes for more interesting table talk."
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Gwyn listens to Naali's tale with increasing dread, walking in silence if not for the rickety clank of her armour with every other step. Inheritor forgive her, but no amount of piety and prayer could help the jitter and grind to her teeth at the thought of yet another civilian finding their way beyond the Wardstones while she--devout, gifted and loyal--stood wasteful in the shadow of The Kite, trusting that the Heavens had drawn plans on her behalf.
Gwyn's upturned expression remains on her lips but not in her eyes.
She nonetheless resolves to let the Tiefling finish her story. Lectures are far from her forte, and the irony that she is perhaps the most qualified of her Order to comment on the likes of cults is as unwelcome a scar as the Worldwound itself.
"Lucky," is how she summarizes it, the word leaving her lungs in a huff. "Very lucky. You considered a lottery ticket?" she jokes, trying to inject some jolliness back into her mood as they descend upon the indomitable Defender's Heart. A hand to her chin, Gwyn thinks for a moment, wondering if there isn't something more concrete that she can offer from her tentative experience among the military--perhaps who first to ask, or what records to cite, if any...
Sadly, she comes up short.
"It's not the Oath, but I think your goal's worthy enough, Naali. Have faith." Gwyn shrugs. "O'course if I get some report saying you've gone back out there without a contingent of soldiers and a solid lead...well, then I'll be forced to march into the Worldwound and drag your ass back myself. Waste of a perfectly good life and all that."
Her tongue clicks, as if that were all the justification she would need to launch a Fifth Crusade all on her own. Gwyn marches on regardless, pushing into Defender's Heart with a certain familiarity; the stout establishment's grandeur utterly lost to her after so many years of same.
"So. Brunch. What can I get you? This place has everything."
Ignoring that Gwyneth's definition of "everything" consists largely of bacon, honey, and the occasional coffee shipment, the Paladin looks about to grab a table or some spare spot at the bar.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, then. It's a pretty obscure matter. Which is not to say that you don't look knowledgeable, but..." He pauses, scratching at the film of scruff beneath his chin. "Oh, it's just convoluted."
Therrik takes in the revelation that the half-elf hasn't seen... the other half-elf with unsurprised resignation. Not like he was really expecting it, he admits privately.
He does arch his brows though at the withdrawing of the half-elf's own curiosity. "Well... if it's obscure, maybe you ought to try the priests or the wizards or the like? City's got enough of 'em," he suggests with a shrug. "But suit yourself."
With that last word, Abrielle gently boops the child's nose and a soft glow of teal light shimmers around the little girl. Abrielle gives the girl a wink and ruffles her hair as she stands back up.
The little girl giggles as she is poked on the nose and lifts a hand to brush her brown hair away from green eyes shyly. The moment she spots the shimmering glow on her hand, though, her eyes go wide and she gasps in surprise. A quick look over herself drops her jaw practically to her knees before she abruptly starts laughing giddily, the sound echoing through the packed square like silver bells. Without so much as a thank-you, the child turns and zooms off into the crowd, shining like a miniature blue star the entire way.
On Abrielle's way back to the Defender's Heart, she might also notice that very few people give Naali a second look. It seems that, this close to the Worldwound, those who looked down upon the fiend-blooded were few and far between. Still, there is the occasional dirty look slung in that direction. Old habits die hard.
The inn itself is a wide, squat building with thick stone walls that have weathered more than a few hard times. For denizens of the fair city of Kenabras, it is an icon amidst turmoil. A fixed point among so much mutable city and citizenry that has barely changed since its founding. Within are precisely what one would expect from any typical inn: well used tables, a worn bar, serving wenches, and a great many available rooms. At the moment, it looks to be mostly drunkards within who are enjoying the holiday as best they know how. However, there are a fair few folks who are certainly not regulars where, simply enjoying a free meal or ale by virtue of winning a game.
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The Defender's Heart was as she remembered it. She wasn't exactly a regular, but living in Kenabres her whole life meant she was familiar with most of the landmarks. The smell of wine and ale seemed to have permeated the walls at this point as the smell seemed to have a rather stubborn cling to every inch of the place.
Abrielle sat at the bar rather than taking up a table all for her lonesome. A large platter of ham, sausage links, bacon, eggs (sunny side up of course), hashbrowns, and a side of fried tomatoes sat in front of her, all coated with a generous helping of syrup. Yes, the second breakfast of champions!
Her posture was straight and proper and her table manners impeccable as she ate, but a bouncing leg gave away her inability to sit still.
Hendron takes in Therrik's suggestion with a long, hesitant nod. He knew more than enough about the priests and wizards and brawlers packed into the stone hives of Kenabres, and there was little to be found there beyond extortion for the uninformed. Nevertheless, he smiles and shrugs.
"Who knows, maybe we'll both find our mysterious wanderers? If it's all the same to you, maybe we could traipse about together for a while. We don't have to talk much, if you don't want to. But it's a festival day, and I suppose that having company makes it feel a bit more special. What do you think of that?" Hendron tilts his head to the side and mellows out his smile, waiting.
He's always held firmly to the divine law that unintended meetings promised the most success. But now, he's not so certain of where he even learned that concept. Had it been a mystic, or advice scrawled on a decaying stone wall?
Ignoring that Gwyneth's definition of "everything" consists largely of bacon, honey, and the occasional coffee shipment, the Paladin looks about to grab a table or some spare spot at the bar.
The 'clock clock clock' of Naali's hooves on the cobblestone is muted by the wood flooring as the pair entered the Defender's Heart. She had never visited the tavern before, and marveled at the grand architecture and stopped to inspect some of the Iomedean embellishments strewn across the wall. Busy servers ferried plates of delicious smelling food to and fro, effortlessly weaving their way through crowds and around her as they avoided their newest obstacle.
She rushed to catch up with the paladin that expertly navigated through the sea of tables and customers, as if it were dreadfully obvious which routes offered the least resistance."Sorry, I'm sure you've had enough stories of people wandering past the wardstones for their own reasons. What brought you to Kenabres, did you grow up here?"
Naali stretched as tall as she could to try to peek into the kitchen and find out what 'everything' really meant. She grimaced at the fact that it would make her look even more like a child to everyone around her, but was pleased when the smell of freshly cooked ham wafted towards her from the kitchen.
"Have you ever tried ham with honey on it? It's really good! My mother used to make it all the time when I was a kid."
...
As they wait for their food, Naali looks about the room and spots the same blue head of hair across the room. She elbows Gwyn and says jokingly, "Hey, it looks like your future friend is stalking you. Is this where the history books will say you met?"
"Who knows, maybe we'll both find our mysterious wanderers? If it's all the same to you, maybe we could traipse about together for a while. We don't have to talk much, if you don't want to. But it's a festival day, and I suppose that having company makes it feel a bit more special. What do you think of that?" Hendron tilts his head to the side and mellows out his smile, waiting.
Therrik hesitates a moment, then shrugs again. Why not? He's been too long out in the woods, seeing nobody but Janayya. If he's going to regularly start working with others again, in the war against the demons... better that he remember how to socialize, again. And the half-elf seems pleasant enough company.
"Sure," he says after a pause, and extends a large, callused, battleworn hand to the shorter man. "Name's Therrik. I'm headed over there--" he jerks his thumb at the Defender's Heart, the large inn next to the square, "because I've got a free drink waiting. I'll stand you one."
Therrik hikes up his pack and starts striding that way, then shortens his steps a little to not leave the half-elf in the dust. "That a weasel you got there?"
Abrielle sat at the bar rather than taking up a table all for her lonesome. A large platter of ham, sausage links, bacon, eggs (sunny side up of course), hashbrowns, and a side of fried tomatoes sat in front of her, all coated with a generous helping of syrup. Yes, the second breakfast of champions!
The jovial bartender who locals would know by the name of Daros wisely waits until Abrielle has begun tucking into her breakfast to ask about payment. Not that he looks particularly concerned; most people here are mercenaries or veterans of some sort and a citizen that tries to run from their bar tab never gets far. Especially with the one-armed owner of the Heart, Kimroth, moving from table to table to chat up customers. Fortunately, most currently here are too drunk or too virtuous to even try and the food is absolutely delicious. Just greasy enough to be bar food while still keeping a fair amount of nutrients not to weigh the diner down.
More than a few tables are taken up by what look to be crusaders, soldiers, or general mercenaries idling about. Everyone gets a day off from time to time, and no day is more requested than Armasse within Kenabras. Even so, the mercenaries and soldiers here are almost a constant fixture, as this inn is a favorite among travelers.
As Gwyn and Naali meander through the arrayed tables and stools, they catch snippets of conversation here and there. "...this beast that was as big as a house and stronger'n ten men combined just broke right through the stone wall!"
"...plannin' on asking for her hand this evening near the end of the festival. Can you believe it? Me and Talesse, tyin' the knot, finally! It's like a dream..."
"...and that's when I said, 'That ain't an 'orse, that's me wife!' The crusader lass gave me a look like she'd been suckin' on lemons, I tell ya'. Funniest thing I ever did..."
These and many more little bits of chatter hit the ears of anyone who takes the briefest of moments to listen. The air within the inn has lost none of the charged delight of outside, though it is a tad muted by the constant reek of ale and wine.
As Hendron takes the Half-Orc's invitation to shake hands, he's a bit surprised at two things. One, of course, being the sheer size and heft of the hand, which dwarfs his without much of a contest. Second, and far less predictably, is the similarity in calluses between the two men. Hendron's hand hardly seems to meet his, separated by layers of ground-in dust, metal shavings, and grit.
"Hendron," he says cheerfully, offering a slight bow in tandem. "I'd love a drink, actually. But I do insist on paying, if it's fine by you. Not to turn away kindness, surely."
As Hendron approaches the Half-Orc, trailing behind with a haze of wanderlust in his eyes and examining the festival, he grins. "Actually, it's a mongoose. Quite vicious, at times. His name is Sir Oakpeak, and though he hates to hear it, he's the second best-dressed in our motley crew. The first in eating matters, no doubt."
"Suit yourself," Therrik says again, in response to Hendron's insistence on paying his own way.
He snorts a little at the description of the the little furry animal. "Fancy name for a little critter."
The noise and ale-smell of the inn hits like a wave inside. Therrik is taken back mentally to the many taverns of the River Kingdoms. Drink was hard to come by with Janayya-- a rare bottle of wine they would save to celebrate a hard kill, perhaps-- but common and easy to come by in the years before that...
Nostalgia has little bearing here, though. Therrik pushes through the crowded taproom by merit of his size, leaving a little gap behind him in which the slighter Hendron can easily follow. At the bar, Therrik tries to get the attention of a server, profferring forth his little slip of paper, crumpled now from having been in his grip.
"You work with your hands?" he asks Hendron as he waits for a server, having to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor in the taproom. Though his words are aimed at the half-elf, his eyes dart restlessly around the common room, because there's a lot of armed folk in here, and noise that would cover anyone's approach... and habits of vigilance die hard.
Hendron keeps close to Therrik with his arms folded and pack tight against his cloak, ensuring that he occupies as little space as possible while the taproom bustles around him. He glances at the servers, the patrons, the mugs, wondering how Kenabres had become so vibrant in his years of absence. Perhaps it was only this district during the festival, he reasons. Or perhaps it was only his faint recollections of alleyway chases and rooftop escapades struggling to mesh with the sounds of merriment around him. Either way, he didn't protest.
He smiles at Therrik's question. "Of sorts. I do odd jobs, mostly, but I like to keep moving. I used to work with armor, actually. Mostly mail, but plate, cloth-woven, and boiled leather have crossed my table before. Plate tends to take its toll." He offers a warm smile, patting at his wiry bicep and demonstrating the extent of its decay. It's clear he hasn't worked with heavier projects in a while.
Out of inability, most likely.
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It takes a frightfully small amount of time before Gwyn finds herself inadvertently working the room, her eyes meeting the assortment of crusaders and comrades in subtle greetings that most are already too intoxicated to recognize.
Once or twice, however, the Paladin stops in her gait, her heavy hand briefly gripping at the shoulder-blades of particularly familiar patrons whose tall tales have caught her attention for one reason or another, offering jovial congratulations for victories in love, life, and combat. Most are genuine, as Gwyneth has seen off far too many faces to harbor something so menial as a grudge...but alas, she is only mortal, and some of the louder barks of Mendev's dogs of war are clearly not to her taste.
"Sorry, I'm sure you've had enough stories of people wandering past the wardstones for their own reasons. What brought you to Kenabres, did you grow up here?"
Naali's voice rubs off the sneer creeping over Gwyneth's face, but it isn't until well after they've thrown an order at the kitchen--honeyed ham, bacon, bread, and as much butter as they're fit to spare--and taken to a table that she gives an answer, removing her gauntlets as she speaks.
"Kenabrean as the ground you're stood on. It's not all that bad, once you get past the demons. And the bickering..." She fiddles with the clasp of her left gauntlet with some obvious difficulty but eventually succeeds, revealing a hand whose colour does not match with the rest of Gwyneth's fair complexion. A mix of burnt flesh and flayed skin, the gruesome scars are nearing a decade old and yet somehow appear painfully fresh. The limb lands on the wooden table with a slightly-heavier-than-intended thunk. "...and a constant rotation of command as your brothers and sisters march off in Our Lady Inheritor's name without you..."
Luckily Naali gives her something else to focus on before that train runs its course, and the glint of blue mixed with the Tiefling's words draws a heavy laugh from her chest, slowing to a hiss as some dangerous idea seems to take root in her brain. Her good arm dives beneath the table, rustling about her pack to retrieve a plain parchment and a well-sharpened bit of charcoal.
"I've no idea," she says, folding and tearing the sizable piece of paper into two. She tosses one half back into her goods. The other she sets her charcoal upon with ardent glee. "Guess we're gonna find out."
I mean anything within reason. What do you think I am, Abadaran?
Grabbing the attention of one of Kimroth's servitors, the Paladin counts out a set of coins and folds the note over, finishing it with a simple cross in the vein of Iomedae's sword of valor. Against her better nature, Gwyn's voice thickens as she speaks. "Now excuse me pretty miss, but d'you mind me troubling you for a favor? Pass this to the miscoloured lass at the bar, would you? Get 'er whatever she wants." She hands over the note with the coins, all-in-all totaling some 5 silver. "Keep the rest."
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Abrielle was lost in thought as she mindlessly ate her food. Idle conversation snippets found her way to her ears, though none of it was particularly worthy of note. The usual gossip and chatter one would expect at a tavern on a festival day. Her eyes darted from face to face as if she may have to remember them later should anyone decide to cause trouble. Not that policing was her job, but she was around enough people who kept vigil over the city that they had imparted the habit onto her.
Of course, her observasions were a little too intent and a little too narrow, which probably explained why she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"WHAT?!" she said a little louder and a little more aggressively than she had intended when her eyes settled on the serving girl who had assaulted her shoulder with her dainty finger. Abrielle cleared her throat and a light blush colored her cheeks. "Sorry, I mean, can I help you?"
The serving girl was almost as startled as Abrielle was and set the note down silently beside Abrielle's plate before darting off to work her own tables again.
What's this? Abrielle unfolded the note and found the five silver inside. She gave the note a quick read then peeked over the half-sheet of parchment. Her eyes scanned the crowd for anyone looking at her, or at least anyone she recognized. The only people she'd seen before were...
Oh no.
There, just a few tables away from her spot at the bar, was the Paladin she was sure she'd seen around the Cathedral before and that tiefling child.
Please don't be from the riffraff...
She glances towards them, hoping they aren't staring back. If they were, she'd have to join them. Social niceties would demand it...
He smiles at Therrik's question. "Of sorts. I do odd jobs, mostly, but I like to keep moving. I used to work with armor, actually. Mostly mail, but plate, cloth-woven, and boiled leather have crossed my table before. Plate tends to take its toll." He offers a warm smile, patting at his wiry bicep and demonstrating the extent of its decay. It's clear he hasn't worked with heavier projects in a while.
Out of inability, most likely.
Therrik duly looks with some not-really-hidden skepticism at the half-elf's lean limbs, trying to imagine the scrawny guy wielding a blacksmith's hammer, even if just to flatten thousands of rings of mail. He grunts. Maybe the guy used to be a little... bulkier, he supposes, judging by the self-deprecating pat at his own arm. Well, not really his business either way.
A young woman at the bar-- an elf by Therrik's judgment, but he's never seen an elf with blue hair-- says a loud What?, earning a glance from him. But he sees no threat to justify the outburst, so he shrugs mentally and looks back to Hendron.
"You could probably run a pretty good business as an armorer here in Kenabres," he observes. "Everyone wanting armor... well, I'm sure there's no shortage of odd jobs here outside of armor, too. If you've got a good hand with animals," he nods a little at the mongoose, "there's work in the stables, I gather."
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With brunch delivered and a knife laden with butter firm in her good hand, the Paladin begins dressing one of the many floury rolls brought alongside the platter of sweetened and fried meats, rather impressively managing the task without ever once deriding her stare from across the inn.
Less the image of total confidence however, Gwyn's brow appears to furrow as she counts down the seconds to when, inevitably--as with all her amusements--the Paladin would suffer rejection or...
Aaaand there it is.
...That.
Twenty years of ostracization among the Crusaders--and ten of those as a suspected harbourer of demonic influence--had given the Paladin a reasonably decent instinct when it came judging how much distaste was being thrown in her direction. It was just that, for the most part, Gwyneth didn't care. She had Iomedae, and the Inheritor's light, though sometimes frustratingly distant, had shown her more love than any single person could dare to dream of.
However. Today was Armasse. And right now was just about the only time in the last year that she'd taken time to walk the city and see what her beloved Kenabres was supposed to be like, without the shadow of duty and abyssal stains to blot her vision. Once the Cathedral called, Private Koschei was back to business as usual--a prim and proper soldier of war.
Thus so does Gwyn continue to assemble her sandwich, throwing the technicolour outsider a look that speaks more to the Paladin's self-loathing for assuming the better of an ally of the church.
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Oh for the ever burning love of-- Aargh...
It was the riffraff. It was always the riffraff. When the Paladin caught her eye she offered forward what she hoped was a sincere smile, though the look she received back suggested she had missed the mark by a mile. Abrielle heaved a sigh and dutifully picked up her plate and drink, balancing them as she skillfully wound her way towards the tiefling and the Paladin. Those dance lessons her mother had insisted upon all those years ago paid off if for no other reason that she rarely ever stepped on people's toes in the literally sense of the word. The figurative one on the other had... well, she trod on those more than she cared to admit.
"Am I to take it you are my mystery benefactor?" she asked, her voice confident and clear. She kept her eyes on the Paladin, studiously avoiding eye contact with the tiefling for as long as possible.
Hendron offers an appreciative smile to Therrik. "Yes, those are very good suggestions, thank you." Of course, Kenabres was always the one place he actively avoided work. The organized, drill-like nature of the city was his bane in younger years. But now, returning on a day of happiness and drunken lapses in responsibility, it seems less daunting.
Even so, it seems like a fine place to dodge any half-formed notions of finding work.
"I've built a small nest-egg of coins during my travels," Hendron notes, patting the drawstring of a leather pouch tucked into his coat pocket. "It's quite liberating to travel without worrying about your next meal, but I suppose that if one travels without purpose, it can seem insufferably boring. Like wasted time, after a fashion. What did you do before you came here? Anything exciting?"
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"Mystery would imply you found difficulty with the answer, Cerulean." Burying her casual manner of speech in favor of one better reserved for church sermons, Gwyn trades her as-yet untouched (but expertly assembled) sandwich for a tankard whose wine is so thin with water that it's a miracle it holds any flavour at all. "Victory and Valor, sister. I trust we haven't intruded too heavily on your morning?" It's a hard call to know whether the question's entirely honest or just the smallest bit vindictive, but Gwyn means no harm by it all the same. "Yeoman Koschei, armsman, though I suppose you might know that. Please, pull up a chair, grace us with your benevolent presence before the Varisian wallers get wise to your plate."
Veiled wishes and sarcasm aside, the Paladin gives an empty chair a nudge with her boot, offering the space to the blue-haired compatriot. Talking now to the disregarded Tiefling at the table, Gwyn weakly waves her damaged hand back and forth between them, the other busy putting her drink to her lips. "Cerulean, Naali. Naali, She-Of-Incredible-Hair-That-Does-Not-Stay-For-Evening-Prayers."
Therrik scratches at one ear, his other hand wrapped around his free stein of ale. "If you know how to hunt," he offers a brief, very toothy grin, "then you don't have to worry much about your next meal either."
As for exciting... Therrik snorts a little into his mug. "I'm up from the River Kingdoms. A friend told me there were demons around here needing killing."
He pauses, then gestures around to the busy taproom. "Seems like half the rest of the population of the Inner Sea had the same idea. I dunno. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to come."
He weighs the Half-Orc's reply carefully, now certain that Kenabres, in spite of its colored ribbons and songs, has not changed at its core. His smile darkens a touch, but only from the reality of it all. Only from the necessity of it all.
"I think it was a fine idea," Hendron replies, an edge of regret in his voice. He fishes a few coins from his pouch and slides them across the table, waiting for his drink. His hands move like a cautious spider upon the web, crawling forth and skirting back. "This city has made a name for its demon killing, and demon butchering, and demon destroying. And I suppose in turn, the people who live here have earned their own names. It's a good place for that."
Therrik nods in turn, a little pensive. Despite his words to Hendron, demon-killing for its own sake... what's the appeal of that? Sure, he guesses in some big, abstract way that that's-- important. They say that if the demons aren't driven back, they'll take over the whole world... and he doesn't want that, no more than anybody does. The though of the evil beasts in the 'Briar running loose over the rivers where he grew up, of boats and barges burning, or choked under foul, noxious vines... sure, he doesn't want that. Nobody wants the world to fall to demons.
But you don't travel all the way to the northern edge of the world, and join a war, because of a generalized, abstract belief that demons are bad. Or maybe some people do-- maybe the shining knights, the Iomedan worshippers and so forth.... his gaze wanders around the room at the many people sporting a Crusader's Cross, including the table where the blue-haired woman's gone, which holds someone decked out in full church armor.
Yeah, okay. Some people like that exist, he guesses. The people stories get written about. 'Heroes.' And Janayya: Janayya would fit in there at that table... here in the city. Janayya can talk, unironically, of taking the fight to evil, for the sake of the world...
But that's not really him. He's just... someone getting by. That's all he's ever been, until Janayya said he could be more.
You also don't go around saying Well, I'm here because my lover told me I ought to come.
Therrik snorts to himself, running a hand through his hair. It all seemed a lot more plausible when Janayya was talking of it. Now that he's here-- without her-- well, he doesn't know what business he has with all these noble, sacrifice-themselves types.
Come to think of it, he doesn't know what business the guy next to him has either. He says as much. "So... not to pry... but if you're really just drifting and looking to make comfortable coin... why here? I mean, you could take the Sellen south, to anywhere else. Someplace not, y'know, bordering a war zone."
Hendron's face is half-buried in his mug when the question crosses his ears, the distinctly urine-sour bite of Kenabres ale reaching the back of his throat before his tongue even has fair chance to judge. He finishes the draw with ease, simultaneously disgusted and pleased with the consistency of the taproom's lowest-quality drafts. After all, the better brews were reserved for those who came for dressed-up days like this. They were reserved for those who could afford to run up and pay a tab that a Crusader might die before finally settling.
Hendron tilts the mug for Sir Oakpeak to take a draw. The mongoose stirs slightly about his collarbone, roused - or perhaps smacked, judging by his reaction - from the world of dreams to a wash of acrid, near-spoiled barley. Without hesitation, the mongoose bats at the rim of the mug and sticks its entire head into the beverage, drinking and drowning in the same swig.
"I'm an open book, I suppose." Hendron smirks, but there's weariness in his eyes. There's too much of the world's heft in the way he admits it. "I'm originally from Kenabres, though not this district. Not too far from it, either, but the scenery's rather different. I left the city a long while ago to look for some people I never knew, and never heard much about. And, though it may sound silly, I find myself here once again for the same reason. Have you ever paced up and down your bunkroom looking for something, only to find it beneath your pillow?" He shrugs, perhaps to himself, and notices how much of the ale Sir Oakpeak has drained in his generous musing.
With a growing frown, he yanks the mug free of the mongoose's grip, nearly toppling the creature in the process. Several of the mongoose's lower chin hairs are spiked outward in frothy clumps, and another dreamlike gaze - this one far less peaceful than earlier - crosses the animal's face. It slumps back to its standard neck-rest position and returns to sleep.
Therrik booms an abrupt, big laugh at the sight of the mongoose sticking its little head into the mug: there's something he doesn't see every day. A few nearer heads turn at the volume of his laugh.
He takes another deep swig of his ale (if it's terrible quality, Therrik doesn't appear to notice; maybe he's just never had the good stuff for comparison), and loses the laughter in favor of a sidelong look at Hendron's next words. Grown up here? Went away... came back? Hunh.
"Hnh," he says. "Can't say I have. Course, spent a lot of my life on boats, and you've got to stow your gear pretty tight, like that." Not that the metaphor really extends to whatever, or whoever, Hendron's talking about.
Therrik turns around to put his back to the bar, elbows resting on it, eyes wandering the room. "Grown up in a city on the edge of the Abyss, huh... can't imagine living like that, raising kids here. Though I guess there's plenty who'd say the same of the Rivers."
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Abrielle slid into the chair Gwyneth had kicked out for her.
Why yes, you have disrupted my peaceful morning.
"No, no! Of course not. I welcome the company. I thought I recognized you from the Cathedral," she said before giving the tiefling a sidelong glance. She wasn't sure if it was an overdeveloped child or a under-grown adult.
Was your father an imp?
"A pleasure to meet you both. When not being referred to by my hair color, I'm known as Abrielle. I'm not often found within the city's walls. More often I'm campaigning in the Wound. You'll have to forgive my absence for evening prayers on account of it."
Wait-- Was the Paladin being sarcastic and snippy with her? Ballsy. Not too many people even dared look at Abrielle funny. She had a certain... lack of social graces? Well, that wasn't true. But she did have a bad case of resting b%~#% face.
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"So I've heard." Gwyn settles down her drink, her half-lidded, brassy eyes flashing with a touch of gold as she habitually scours Abrielle's form for even the slightest hint of darkness--and, unsurprisingly, finds none. Instead there's a crook to her brow as the Paladin notices that the aasimar's eyes a little dusky, surfacing memories of a sergeant blinded by the abyss.
Unkind though it might seem, the imperfection settles her mind. Gaudy crosses might speak of frauds, but an unmarked crusader--especially one who so regularly passes beyond the 'stones and returns--reeks to her of suspicion.
Whether or not that particular crusader has an expression you'd want to punch off is, by and large, not Gwyn's concern.
"It's not me you'll want forgiveness from. Embodiments of the Inheritor though we are, the garrison suffers gossip like rust on a blade. Something you'd probably know if you'd bother to stick around for more than a standard blink." Her fingers reach for her sandwich, tapping off excess flour from the bun. "O'course I've no complaints myself. Not all of us march the Wound, so I suppose occasional word of a cerulean angel on the field does do wonders for morale. Not sure they do you justice though."
With that the Paladin gives the briefest of pauses, mouthing Celestial words in a moment of pristine piety, before ruining the image by clamping down on her food. Several long chews follow, belying a life typically supplemented by hardtack and bone-dry fruit, before Gwyn drones with a vaguely satirical shrug, "Too many wings."
Hendron senses some of the heft in Therrik's words, and in some indecipherable way, it stings. Pity's never been something he collects and carries with him, much less prizes. There was some truth to the notion that every area had its share of its malcontents, and violent wanderers, and attacks from nasty creatures at the edge of lamplight, but there were oddities that made the people of Kenabres more of survivors than citizens.
Hendron never really counted himself among the former group.
"Life can be difficult all over, I imagine. What kind of work did you do on a ship? Did you row, or fight, or just use it to move around? I can't say I've earned my sea-legs quite yet."
Therrik brightens at the question of what sort of work he's done, nautically. "Bit of everything," he says amiably.
"Lot of poling, on the rivers, especially if you're not on Grandma Sellen herself-- you can hoist sail for stretches on the Sellen, she's big enough for it in places, but not on the feeders. So mostly you're poling and rowing, if you're headed upstream. Done my share of time on oars and poles... hell, a few times I've even helped tug a boat upstream from shore," he says with a flashed, toothy grin.
"Most of what's on the Sellen is trade. River barges, carryin' cargo. Big and slow. I've worked as a barge-guard, deckhand, done land portage..." And exacted river tolls, and raided those barges sometimes too... but that's the work he's not as proud to mention, so he doesn't.
"Whole different set of sailin' from on the open sea, from what I hear. Never been on salt water."
Therrik's enjoyment of the boating life is evident in his more animated face and tone.