Retrieving Property [John, Revi]

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc was glad to be free of the castle. Law-abiding citizen he may have been, the government facilities always struck him the wrong way. Whether it was the paper pushers or the sheer volume of men walking around with blades, in all his time in Syliras this counted as one of two, maybe three visits into the tiers. Somehow the rest of the city just felt safer. No matter, though, Rhuryc kept pace with John as they walked, clearing the few tiers below them as they headed out into the streets. As was common in the noon hours the crowds were out in full, merchants, peasantry, all involved in their daily routines of consumption and labor. Rhuryc began his usual scan of the passing bystanders, his hands tapping idly inside their assigned pockets, keeping a slow, steady beat that he referred to as the music of the city.

"Blacksmith." He responded curtly, precise. The man's tone had changed now to a more civil, jovial expression, one he might take with a friend. "Nothing so much as exciting as Knighthood, I'm sure, but it pays enough to keep me fed." He was quick to continue their budding conversation, not one to deny a new ally. A knight, after all, was a good friend to have.

"The boring bit, really. You know. Horseshoes, nails, hitting random metals with hammers." He grinned and turned a rather strange corner, cutting across some of the heavier traffic. "Short cut."

[John Griffin]

John noticed the change in Rhuryc's tone, and appreciated it. Ever the peacemaker, he preferred to hash things out in a civil manner whenever possible. Better to have as many friends as possible, and fewer enemies. One was more likely to stay alive that way. And John liked living.

"I think you overestimate the excitement involved in Knighthood. Why, our little spat was the closest thing to exciting in half a season of patrolling. Mostly I give people directions, or lend them a hand with a quick task. The exciting posts are the ones on the edge of Syliran territory. The fringe posts, who fight of bandits and animals, or the men who patrol the Kabrin Road, or the road to Zeltiva. Those knights probably lead exciting lives." He sighed, longing for such a post. "I need a knightly quest, something to get my blood flowing." There was a thought. Maybe he would visit the Windoak and ask for a quest. It was worth considering.

John turned and followed Rhuryc down his shortcut, the thought of an ambush playing in his head for just a moment before being cast off. After all, an hour ago who would have guessed they'd be headed for drinks? The shortcut led out the street that the Stallion was on, and John smiled. One could wander the halls of Syliras for a lifetime, and hardly know all the twists and turns.

"A shortcut indeed." He made for the entrance of the tavern, the two miza burning a figurative hole in his pocket. "Ale? Or beer?" he asked his companion as he pushed through the door into the dimly lit establishment.

[Rhuryc]

"In the walls, I suppose." Rhuryc frowned, recalling his past exploits beyond the city proper. As if to taunt him the wound in his thigh burned, reminding him of how those adventures usually ended. Always a price. "I met a few like that. Outside the city. Can't you just put in for a transfer or something? Or do have to pay your 'dues', so to speak." Just like his own profession, Rhuryc figured there was some kind of seniority system, first prove yourself than perhaps you would find yourself in a beneficial position. He almost scoffed at the idea.

Once they cleared the doors Rhuryc's shoulders slouched in relaxation. Familiar territory was always a welcome sight. With a well practiced cant the man weaved his way through the light patronage of the noon hours, side-stepping tables and misplaced chairs with a subtle expertise. His made a bit of a ruckus on the wooden flooring, but the chorus was half drawn out from the idle chatter that rose from the already complacent inhabitants. A few strides and Rhuryc found a seat at the counter and set his considerable girth down on a stool near the end, one hand finally leaving a pocket as he motioned to the tender in a common gesture. Apparently Rhuryc was having ale.

"I prefer hops." Of course he would be a fan of the bitter drinks. Somehow that just made sense.

[John Griffin]

"Eh, it just depends. A knight out there might make Sergeant, and need to be transfered to a wing that needs a Sergeant, which leaves an opening. But generally the Order prefers to have the more experienced knights out on the flanks. Less than a season, that's how long I've been knighted. I have some skill with a sword and shield, but my other knightly skills are lacking." He sighed again. "Another season or two of training, by my guess, and I'll be ready for such a post."

John was comforted by the inside of the Stallion. Being his favorite haunt, he followed Rhuryc deftly through the smattering of customers to the bar, and took the stool next to the taller man. He motioned for the barkeep to double that order, one for each of them, and pulled out one of the gold pieces, sliding it across the bar. "Keep them coming till that runs out," he instructed the man across the counter."

John was intent on keeping the conversation going. "So, do you like being a blacksmith? Or is it one of those, 'for the time being', kind of things?"

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc listened intently. Not to the blacksmith question, no, he essentially ignored that - what interested him was the bit about the Knights. The gears of curiosity began turning in his head and the man found himself intrigued in the system, if not overwhelmed. Only a single season, then? Somehow that did not surprise him. John, while surely no slouch, seemed too young to be a warrior of experience. For a moment, though, Rhuryc wondered just how the proficient his new-found companion. He considered starting a brawl. Perhaps he would be allowed a degree of leniency from the city. Testing the stock, right? Hardly.

With a light touch Rhuryc grabbed the mug set before him and took a hefty gulp. By the time the mug hit the counter again a quarter of the liquid had vanished. Say what you wanted about the man, but he could drink. And drink well.

"It's a job. Really. I'll take something better if it comes," He said, waving the line of questioning away with a free hand. Somehow he seemed even more casual now, like the ale had suddenly solidified friendship. All they had to do now was headbutt one another and the ceremony would be complete. "If you haven't been a Knight for that long, have you ever had to really fight anyone? I don't mean training, either. Actual combat?"

[John Griffin]

John grabbed his own mug and began drinking, preferring smaller sips to larger gulps, but drinking fast nonetheless. He set his own earthenware down, slightly more ale left in it than his companions. While he was no great drinker, frequent trips to the Stallion had made sure he was no lightweight either.

His head bobbed in a nod, even though he didn't understand. John had been bred to be a knight. For eight years he had trained with that one purpose, the sole goal of joining the Order. And before that he had learned his letters, and been taught some of the basic tenets of Knighthood. He had no inkling of something just being 'a job.' Being a Knight was his job, he supposed, but it was also his life.

John's cheeks flooded with crimson. Rhuryc had just hit his soft spot. The young knight was pretty good with a sword, but he was just that. A young knight, and he had never been in a fight in which his life depended on his skill. "Um...no." He looked Rhuryc in the eyes. "I wish I had, sort of. Just to know. Here I am a knight, and I have no idea if I'll freeze in battle or not. I came close, once, last year. But other than that it's just been training." He looked away. Likely Rhuryc had shed blood and had his own spilled. Maybe HE should be the knight, not John.

At that moment John resolved to do what he must to test his mettle in combat, even if he had to patrol the outskirts of Syliran territory in his free time.

[Rhuryc]

Another draft. Rhuryc seemed intent on using the gold as fast as possible. That or this was just how he drank. Quite frankly, it was. With a nod he turned in his stool and set his back against the counter, his mug held aloft in his one free hand while the other remained in his pocket. He glanced aside as John started to speak and he hid his grin at the the young man's dismay. The question was answered far before he had even opened his mouth to speak. Rhuryc did seem amused, though, and memories of his own conflicts flooded to the front of his mind; well, that and wounds. With a grumble he absently itched at his thigh, the blasted scar there a recent one. There would be no comparing battle damage, though, Rhuryc was not found of embarrassing those of whom he wished to befriend.

"I wouldn't be in so much of a rush myself." His head bobbed and he raised the mug once more, pausing the clay construct before it reached his mouth. "Blades hurt." He punctuated his words with another gulp. Perhaps he would be drunk enough to swap stories, soon.

"It's a bit different, though. Than training. First off, you'd be amazed what you can get away with." Rhuryc belted out a single laugh, his mug lowering in the process. "I remember back a while, at the lake west of Syliras. I ended up beating a man with the frying pan we used to cook our catch. Little bastard was some of the best iron I ever laid hands on." He shook his head, remembering how proud he had been to defeat that one particular opponent. "Petcher was mounted, too. I don't think I'd ever been that scared in my life."

[John Griffin]

A meek smile managed its way onto John's face, and he looked back towards Rhuryc. "Yes, so I've heard. My father tells me similar things. He was crippled a few years back fighting bandits." He took a solid slurp from his mug. "I'm no stranger to pain though, I can assure you. I've cut myself and been cut training with live steel, broken pains, sprained joints. Eight years of training, five of it heavy combat training...it takes its toll, even if its not real combat. No, it's not the pain that worries me. It's the courage. Any man can say he has courage, when he's never faced a man that intends to kill him. But one never knows what they'll do until they've had that encounter, that dance with death. I should like to think I will acquit myself well, but...but I won't know till that moment." Another slurp.

He chuckled softly. "Yes, so I would imagine. In training we stick to the regimen, not wanting to truly hurt anyone." Another chuckle, this one louder. "A frying pan? Really." His meek smile was now one of mirth and humor. "My mentor, Sir William Erindale, he once told me of a brigand he captured using wagon wheel. A wagon wheel against bare steel, and he came out on top."

"So then, you've been in many fights? What is it you fight for?" He asked, interested. All men fought for a cause, but just how worthy the cause was differed from man to man. Often it was money, sometimes it was that or die, and others, like his fellow knights, fought for peace, and freedom. He was curious what this Rhuryc fought for.

[Leviathan]

From the darkest corner of the tavern appeared a figure, cloak, clothing, and even a mask, all in a solid ink black color. He must have been there for a while, since phasing through walls wasn't possible. The man, as soon as he made himself known, walked over to and past John and Rhuryc's table (he approached from Rhuryc's back), placed a hand on Rhuryc's shoulder as he did so and spoke. "Good day Naravane" The voice was low, raspy, almost sounded painful, but was most likely masked, hidden, mostly to avoid recognition. The man, without stopped, continued to walk briskly, leaving the tavern, and once into Syliras would seem to vanish. From the angle he came at, only John would have been able to note any features. The hood, the clothing, the mask, which covered everything except his eyeline and above, made recognition impossible, but if that wasn't enough, his face had been painted a charcoal black. The only visible trait was the eyes, deep, dark, brown, peering directly down at John for that split moment that he placed his hand on Rhuryc's shoulder, then was gone.

[Rhuryc]

Fight for? What did he fight for? Rhuryc's brow furrowed at the question. None of the scrapes he had been in held much meaning. On almost every occasion he had been the victim and fought to protect himself; then again, the other ventures were all for the sake of rescue. Saving Tristan from his fate, a young girl from bandits. Could he say there was one, solitary reason that he stood for? A cause, perhaps. He mulled that over or a while, his mug idly swirling in his hand. All the while movement caught his eye - he was facing the lobby itself now, his back having been turned toward the counter previous, but he ignored it, shoving it off to the various motion of the other patrons. Seemingly bored with the lot, he turned back toward the tender, his back exposed once more.

"You know, I don't think there's any one-..." Rhuryc cut himself off, a singular brow quirking to the side. What the hell was that about? He felt the hand on his shoulder and he quickly turned a head over his shoulder, his body turning with the motion. He caught the tail end of the individual, the back of his cloak, and raised himself from the stool. Something was familiar about the voice. With narrowed eyes Rhuryc lifted himself up, his boots hitting the floor one after the other at a heightened pace

"Sorry. Need to check something." His tone was scattered, not quite all there. Within a few moments the man cleared the doors and glanced around, hot on the trail of whoever the hell that was.