15th Bell - 23rd Day of Spring, 517AV - Pridesun Pavilion
"Ruros' Balls, I should start petchin' chargin' f'this..."
The Drykas just gawped at the scarred man, watching him scratch around the road map of puckered tissue and torn flesh, comprehending maybe half of what he said. Konrad glanced at his face, noted his incomprehension, and rolled his eyes.
Pavi, remember? Got to stick with that around these people.
"Said maybe I should ask people to pay," he repeated in lilting Pavi, the young Horse Lord who'd fetched him nodding eventually in agreement. "Thank you for get me."
Rakesh signed that it was "no problem", and Konrad believed him. There wasn't much for the Pridesuns to do nowadays, other than scrape out a living and stare into the distance, still mourning their prophet and ankal Jonas. Konrad's spat to the side a the mere thought of the man.
Good sodding riddance, he thought, stretching his sore body and taking in the sight of the flame-haired woman whose presence had dragged him from both his tent and his afternoon nap. Useless, lying prick.
He forced the man from his mind and focused on the here and now... or, in this case, the standing and waiting. He didn't have to think too long to put a face to the name, or at least a memory to the face. The girl with the red hair and fierce eyes - hells, didn't they all have those here? - had shown herself to have some small skill with a blade when they'd ventured into that blasted crater to the far south. Even now Konrad felt a quick shiver chase up his spine and then vanish. A sore night, that one.
"Lad say you want spar," he said in his usual halting Pavi, gesturing at the Drykas boy who was already moving off to do... something else. "Say looking for walahk with scars."
Konrad snorted with amusement and took off his wide-brimmed hat, as a gentleman would for a fine lady he passed on the street... only this time, it was to give her an unblemished view of what his father had done to him nigh-on thirty years before. How the gladius had rent and tore and gouged and unsteady hands had only barely sewn the damage together.
Yet still, he smiled. He smirked. He scorned the world and her, it seemed, just by living. Like it was mocking all creation for not having the balls to kill him and make it stick, damnit.
"Well. That sound like me."
The Drykas just gawped at the scarred man, watching him scratch around the road map of puckered tissue and torn flesh, comprehending maybe half of what he said. Konrad glanced at his face, noted his incomprehension, and rolled his eyes.
Pavi, remember? Got to stick with that around these people.
"Said maybe I should ask people to pay," he repeated in lilting Pavi, the young Horse Lord who'd fetched him nodding eventually in agreement. "Thank you for get me."
Rakesh signed that it was "no problem", and Konrad believed him. There wasn't much for the Pridesuns to do nowadays, other than scrape out a living and stare into the distance, still mourning their prophet and ankal Jonas. Konrad's spat to the side a the mere thought of the man.
Good sodding riddance, he thought, stretching his sore body and taking in the sight of the flame-haired woman whose presence had dragged him from both his tent and his afternoon nap. Useless, lying prick.
He forced the man from his mind and focused on the here and now... or, in this case, the standing and waiting. He didn't have to think too long to put a face to the name, or at least a memory to the face. The girl with the red hair and fierce eyes - hells, didn't they all have those here? - had shown herself to have some small skill with a blade when they'd ventured into that blasted crater to the far south. Even now Konrad felt a quick shiver chase up his spine and then vanish. A sore night, that one.
"Lad say you want spar," he said in his usual halting Pavi, gesturing at the Drykas boy who was already moving off to do... something else. "Say looking for walahk with scars."
Konrad snorted with amusement and took off his wide-brimmed hat, as a gentleman would for a fine lady he passed on the street... only this time, it was to give her an unblemished view of what his father had done to him nigh-on thirty years before. How the gladius had rent and tore and gouged and unsteady hands had only barely sewn the damage together.
Yet still, he smiled. He smirked. He scorned the world and her, it seemed, just by living. Like it was mocking all creation for not having the balls to kill him and make it stick, damnit.
"Well. That sound like me."