Interesting Times (Ulric)

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

4th Summer, 510 A.V. After work, Sam had dunked his head in a bucket of water to wash off the worst of the sweat and grit, washed his hands, and then headed out of the Stables to see what was going on in the rest of the City. Horse was content to graze and eye the mares on site, so Sam left him to it. Sam was thirsty for something harder than water, and wondering when he would get paid so he could maybe stop by the Golden Dragon for a night with the lovely Merris. That thought made his pants a little uncomfortable and tight, though, so he tried to focus on the idea of ale. Syliras rarely disappointed when he was looking for something interesting to do, but sometimes interesting followed along with that old curse: May you live in interesting times.

[Ulric]

Ulric sat cross-legged on the bed, peering at the simple wooden flute in his hands. He was bored – the type of desperate, perilous boredom he dealt with in either of three ways; sleep, brawling, or mutilating beloved tunes. On rare occasions he experienced all three in reverse order, although such occurrences were dependent on wall thickness and the time of day. Raising the flute to his lips, Ulric blew into the aperture with a hair-raising squeeee! Clearly, he needed more practice… although he had a sneaking suspicion that the instrument was defective in its own right. Only an experienced flautist could provide a measure of closure, yet – alas – Ulric had none in his acquaintance. Exhaling, he directed a thin stream of air into the flute and attempted a scale. His large, callused fingers felt awkward on the tiny holes. Midway through, after the occasional mangled note, the flute emitted a painful tweeeee! as it decided to alter the pitch. “Bollocks!” Ulric glared at the flute. Honestly, he wasn’t certain why he kept it; wooden flutes were five silver mizas apiece. How much irritation might he save if he tossed the damned thing into the fire? It was an immensely satisfying image. Gazing mistrustfully at the flute, Ulric raised it to his lips again and played the first notes of a familiar ditty without incident. Already, this was shaping up as one of his better sessions. Ulric closed his eyes and allowing the music to saturate his senses as he played the next part of the song, He could feel the notes dancing down his spine and into his nether regions. It was weird, but oddly enjoyable – at least until Ulric became aware of his neighbor’s muted hollers. Focus lost, his fingers tangled with each other and the flute released a despondent squeee! “Shut up, you bastard!” Ulric shouted back. He wasn’t making any friends in Traveler’s Row, but to hell with all of them. Music was intended to be a balm, not an irritant. Returning to his practice, Ulric found the damage had already been done; he was unable to produce anything more than a few, angry notes and an ominous hiss. Uncultured prick, Ulric scowled as he stormed from the apartment, stuffing the flute into his belt alongside his knife. Shykes like that would probably shout down a master, given the chance. Fuming, he strode through the streets – and abruptly came face-to-face with a man he hadn’t clapped eyes on since late spring. “Petching hell,” Ulric’s eyebrows rose, “just look who it is.”

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Utterly unaware of Ulric's attempts at music-making, Sam was brought up short by the familiar voice and the familiar bulk of the renegade appearing before him. Weeks had whiled away since their strange meeting in the wilds over the corpse and fleeing from the bear. They had come to the gates of Syliras and then parted ways. Sam had assumed that the man had quickly gone elsewhere, as he himself had been there long enough to begin to recognize several faces. There had been no sign of Ulric until now. He grinned suddenly, though he wasn't sure why. At least here, perhaps, he wouldn't have to be quite so on guard against possible treachery. There was little reason for Ulric to double-cross him here. He didn't have enough in his pockets to make it worth the while. Then again, perhaps he was still being unjust. But distrust kept a man alive. "Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here. Hunting knights?"

[Ulric]

“Squires, actually,” Ulric managed to keep a straight face. “They’re tenderer and easier to catch off guard – although I seem to have misplaced my crossbow. Not that I’m much of a shot, mind you, but weapons like that tend to come in handy. I see you’ve resumed your work in the stables,” he remarked, noticing the wisps of straw that clung to Sam’s trousers. Either that or the lad had engaged in a more enjoyable diversion – which, come to think of it, might explain the smile. Surely, he couldn’t be pleased to see Ulric again. Not after their harrowing encounter. But then again, Ulric was terrible at understanding the thoughts of others. “At the moment,” he ventured, “I’m feeling wistful for Ravok. Say what you will about the Black Sun, but they certainly kept the place interesting. Here, it seems the knights want some kind of quiet, industrious society of law-abiding cobblers, metal smiths, and weavers. It’s not exactly my thing,” he said with a sour look. Hopefully he would find a caravan or trader heading to Kalea before the season was out, otherwise Ulric knew he would have to seek gainful employment. Nets and lines, how I have missed thee…

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Perhaps you should become a knight, and show them how to have a good time... Speaking of good times, I was going to get a drink. Would you care to join me? You can tell me how the Black Sun kept things interesting, though perhaps we should come up with some code words so people don't get suspicious and report us to the authorities." He smiled, imagining perhaps the feel of conspiracy between them, even though there really hadn't been anything they could do for the corpse in the wild. They hadn't killed them and they were unequipped to do battle with the wildlife in order to bring the body back to the City. It was best to let sleeping corpses lie. And sleeping bears, most likely. "Come on, I'm off work and we need to find you some tender squires to feed to Rhysol."

[Ulric]

“A drink, you say?” Ulric grinned. He liked that idea quite a bit. Life always seemed more enjoyable when he had his head in a barrel of ale – albeit much stickier. Plus, he could see if Sam had any interesting tales about slavery. Wait... what the petch am I thinking? “Very well, then,” Ulric inclined his head, “let’s get shitfaced and cause a ruckus. Or perhaps, a minor disturbance that won’t see us in chains come morning.” Clapping Sam on the back, he began to stride down the street, casting a mock-lecherous look at an elderly woman. It was time to bring the crazy.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Well, as far as I know, I'm the only one gainfully employed, so they might go easy on me for a first offense. But you... Well, I hear there are people who pay for men in chains..." He shrugged, then snickered. Apparently Ulric was already harassing little old ladies; he assumed things could still go downhill from there, but at least he didn't have his crossbow on him. He fell into step with Ulric, assuming he would be able to sniff out the nearest alehouse. Sam himself hadn't been partaking of all that much, rather saving his coppers for a new bow. A short bow would be preferable for shooting from horseback, but he was much more in practice with a long bow... But that was neither here nor there at this point. "Find us something to drink, you useless bastard." He grinned.

[Ulric]

“Snot-nosed runt,” Ulric retorted good-naturedly, ignoring the fact that Sam was taller than him. Certainly, the lad would be a bruiser if he ever put on some muscle, but he’d probably not reached his full height. Shyke, but I feel young, Ulric thought as he navigated the few rings of streets outside Stormhold’s solid, towering bulk. After spending much of his life in a floating city in the middle of a gods-damned lake, Syliras felt rather confining. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Rearing Stallion, a favorite among the locals, where the ale was cheap and plentiful. Ulric pushed through the door and entered the dim, smoke-filled chamber where the tavern’s motley patronage was already deep in its cups. Ah, the familiar redolence of puke and ale, he inhaled deeply, then sidled up to the bar. “A jug and two cups, if you please,” he tossed a pair of silver mizas on the bar and leered at Sam. “As my foster-father used to say, why drink a little when you can drink a lot?”

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"It certainly adds a little something to an evening," he agreed, adding for color: "you fish-petching bastard." That was a game he knew how to play, and he had heard plenty of blue-streak talkers in his time and in several languages to boot. "Thanks." Let it not be said he had no manners, horse-boy or not. It was not his first time at the Rearing Stallion. It came highly recommended, and his little Drykas heart was warmed by any establishment whose name celebrated his favorite animal. "If I pass out, just drag me to the Windmount Stables. Dunk me in a trough or something and I'll sputter my way to a place to sleep. Where are you staying, if not the dungeons?"

[Willow]

"that's her! someone catch her! THIEF!THIEF!!" Not even bothering to run, willow merely briskly jaunted further away from the lard bag that called himsel[i]f a vendor, who insisted on screaming profanities after her instead of getting off his backside to actually do anything about her snatching a few silver mizas and an apple or two.[/i]

While rounding the bend,hungrily crunching into the stolen fruit, A wooden sign came upon Willow's sight, it read"The Rearing Stallion"

"hmm.." taking a look at the now ravished apple, the thought of actually sitting down to have a drink or two seemed quite appealing, and thus with her stomach growling, along with the rising roar of the angry vendor approaching she enters the Rearing Stallion.

Upon entering pub and eatery, the little nuisance began to stir in her locks, "behave ya snot bug pixie.."

there were two men drinking and conversing about this or that, deciding to observe her surroundings before becoming social.Willow settles herself by the lone table and chair to the left of the men, grabs another apple from her pocket, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand,and begins loudly crunching, stopping now and then to pick at her scabs or to adjust her boots upon the table.