The Gilded Flagon: Setting

As far as taverns go, the place is a little more upscale than what you would find elsewhere in Divinity's Reach, but not a great deal so. A decidedly middle-class tavern, there's room for commoners to hobnob with some of the nobles, who aren't afraid to rub elbows with the common folk. The food is more or less good, and the drink hardly ever watered down. The tavern is known as a good haunt for folks trying their hand at the entertainment business, or for anyone who wants to find a good time and has a little coin to throw around. There are a few dark corners where shady deals may take place. A few women, who aren't quite obviously the kind with negoatiable affections, seem to keep their eyes on the various folk who enter the building.

On the whole it's a pleasant enough place where one can go for a refreshing drink after a hard day's work, or to get caught up on the latest gossip. The tavern keeper is a balding, middle-aged man named Dren, whose remaining hair falls thinly around his shoulders. His apron, tied around his not insignificant waist is stained with patches of spilled drinks and food.

A thin barmaid with a long, blonde, french-style braid weaves her way around busy tables, bringing food and drink to the guests. Someone calls her name, Tessa, and she glides across the floor evading the uninvited hands of mostly half-drunken patrons as she goes to take another order, somehow managing to avoid dropping the platter of ale steins she carries.

It was one of those days, you know? It had only been a few years since I had left home, and even in that time a lot had changed. Sure, the streets were fairly well the same, and I recognized most of the shops, but it was always a little disheartening seeing a different family in a home, or a counting house where a family bakery had been. Times changed, they always did, but when you don't get to see it happen a man can feel a little left behind. Damnit, even though I'd been gone, this was still my city.

I didn't have any work today, which meant I'd left my armor back in my room. It probably would have been best for me to be seen out and about in some of the nicer clothes I wore, seeing as I was supposed to be working on a career, but I'd been wearing armor for so many days now I wanted nothing more than to wander aimlessly in light pants and a light old training shirt. I still wore a sword on me – a guy can't be too careful.

Anyways, I could have gotten over the changes, but there was something new entirely. Something that stuck out right at me. It was a sign, hanging from a wooden post a lot like you see on taverns or old shops, and it read “Corussa Embassy: Residence of Duchess Mealla Aislin.”

A duchess. Sure, that was a thing. But Corussa – that was news to me. I'd been all over the world, but one of the biggest lessons I learned in my travels was that you never learn everything. Apparently, I'd missed a pretty big piece of the map. Under most circumstances that was just fine, I could accept that. It wasn't the good Duchy's fault, but it was a little like the the place was pointing a finger right at me, reminding me just how much change I'd missed.

“This a good place?” I asked one of the two decorated guards, hooking a thumb at the tavern behind me. I'd always felt comfortable with guards.

When they didn't answer me I just shrugged and turned, shouldering my way into the building. It wasn't a bad place. It sat in a comfortable place between fine and common, which made it feel welcoming and accessible. I was taller than most of the people here, if not all of them, which always made me feel a little awkward entering a new location. I sort of stood out. With a vexed sigh, I made to the bar and elbowed up on it, giving the balding barkeep a wave of my hand. “Whatever's handy, pa,” I said.

What came to me was ale. Good ale. The kind that is just sweet enough to make the common folk okay with it, for it's still a man's drink, while still being a solid choice for someone with a more selective pallet. It wasn't bad at all.

“Maybe I've found a good stop,” I told the 'keep. “I'm just back in town, glad to see a new place worth discovering.”

His grunt and nod was enough, and I quietly went back to drinking. I turned slowly in my seat, hooking my elbows backward to lean on the bar as I took a glance around the room. I didn't recognize anyone, but no one seemed a rabblerouser – not that appearances tell the whole story, but they do tell a lot of it.

“Better ready me another one,” I told the 'tender, and knocked back the rest of my ale in several long gulps. I deserved this.

She slipped in through the side yard-- a tall, rounded young woman with diminutive posture and garishly bright attire. Blues, greens, purples, and white, all of the brightest single-tone intensity across a tunic vest, undershirt, and layered skirt reaching her ankles. Loud clothing for such a quiet entrance, an entrance intent on making minimal impact- always yielding her path with an off-kilter smile should it intersect with a patron or serving maid.

She seemed out of place.

Yet, none of the patrons were particularly surprised by her presence. The buzz of conversation stayed constant and, save the nod-and-smile from Tessa the barmaid, no one seemed to heed her muted pad to the edge of the bar. Once there, she waited, as incongruous to the setting as rain from a sunny sky, and just as unconcerned.

Only after Dren had pulled a second frothy ale for his latest patron- setting it down beside the tanned newcomer with another of his monosyllabic acknowledgments- did the woman get any notice: Another grunt with a palm out, to which the blonde responded by conjuring a coin from her sleeve and placing it there.

The transaction completed in silence: the barkeep leaning down and resurfacing with a plate of orts, the woman's smile naturalizing as she took it from him. The interaction had a distinct feeling of routine, until the man swung a chubby finger accusingly at the side yard door, ajar.

“Hey, I said keep them out of here.”

She looked.

Three cats, caught frozen as they seriously considered sneaking all the way indoors, looked back. Without apology- or much of any response- she flicked a scolding finger their direction and turned back to face the barkeep. Behind her, a stark white butterfly flitted through the gap in the door, drifted teasingly in front of three pairs of eyes, and fluttered out again. The cats bounded after.

To the barkeep, she stated quite matter-of-factly: “You're going to get mice."

I was relatively pleased to sit and enjoy my drink in peace, when a set of woman's clothes came screaming into the room. I hadn't seen an outfit this confused since the circus, and even then, at least the person beneath it was just as colorful. This woman, on the other hand, seemed willing to be swallowed by her clothes, despite her height. Even odder, she seemed to have at least some established position. No one so much as glanced at her, her routine seemed entirely practiced and she acted in a position to talk down to the bartender. You never talk down to a bartender. That's a man's first rule. But, I suppose that's the thing about a man's rule, women just don't follow them.

“Seems to me this is a clean establishment,” I told the woman, leaning back and angling myself so I turned toward her while I considered her. “I'd say the fellah has it under control.”

I sipped quietly at my mug, though I took a long pull. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he's drinking, and I suppose the way I was drinking said I was feeling a little out of place, and trying to relax. I shifted again, returning my gaze to the whole of the room. Were these people also from this Duchy? Maybe – but it seemed way too likely a joke setup to be right. A whole nation fit into a tavern

Well, it wasn't that good.

The look that swiveled on the man was not unfriendly. If anything, it was a curious one, with dark eyes blinking guilelessly as they unabashedly took the man's attire, figure, and posture into consideration-- a thorough evaluation, without apparent motive.

Whatever her assessment on Janto, it reads out in an enigmatic smile, oblivious to the insipid seed of doubt she's planted in the poor innkeep's mind. He, rather than taking huffy offense, skirrs his own beady eyes to the far reaches of his tavern with a paranoiac's attention.

“It is clean,” She states, “And it's safe.” Upon announcing the latter- which earned her another wary look from the barkeep for the apparent non-sequitor – she pulled herself atop the barstool next to the man, fingers lacing in an arch above the counter top, almost cushioning a chin pointed Janto's way.

“I've never seen you before. Are you a mercenary?” The interest, posed in that cordial, direct question, seems backed by nothing other than affable inquisitiveness.

Are you a mercenary, she asked. It was a blunt question, and a question I got asked a lot. I suppose any man who carries around a sword and isn't dressed in Seraph armor is asking for that question. It made me miss it, a little.

“Not really, no,” I told the woman. “I suppose if you wanted to be technical, I do take money for contracts that involve fighting, scouting and war, but I consider myself more of an adventurer. I take the jobs because I need to survive, but that's not what I'm in it for.”

I wondered just how crazy I sounded. A few had looked at me funny – okay, a lot had looked at me funny. But, a man needs his principles, and I stuck to mine.

“Just trying to do the right thing is all,” I waved a hand. “I shouldn't be getting all long winded about it.”

I took another pull from my mug. The stuff really was damn good. Finishing it off, I leaned against the bar again, elbows sliding back far enough for me to be in a full slouch as I considered the woman beside me.

“A mercenary with a conscience.” She confirmed, phrasing tinged with a Krytan accent. The woman didn't look like she thought what he'd said was crazy in the slightest, but then again, she didn't seem to have a very wide range of expressions- she'd only been entertaining a slight smile with him and it was thusfar unchanging.

“You must not have been at it for very long.”

If the woman had any inkling of how brusque her manner was, she either didn't know how to be otherwise, or just didn't care. Eyes matched his, forefingers steepling before the sideways cant of her chin.

It held a syvlarin quality, her conversational method. Straight forward and artless, but without any judgment.

“There are many ways to do the perceived right thing without having to take up a blade. Is it the adrenaline? The sight-seeing? Fulfilling a wanderlust?” After the barrage of questioning was unleashed without so much as a 'by your leave', she tugged her attention free for a smiling glance at Dren.

“A shandygraff, please.”

And her attention was back, shining that odd smile on him as she resettled herself, pulling a heel to rest on the edge her seat and linking her hands about the knee. The lowest layer of skirt, in all its bright blue glory, is not a skirt at all, but a pair of extremely fluid trousers that keep the scene 'odd' but not improper.

She picked up where she left off, as if she hadn't interrupted the line of questioning in the first place. “The sense of contributing to a greater purpose?”

The woman reminded me of a squirrel. A tall one. She just had all sorts of reasons to chirp on about, and tons she wanted to store away. It was actually pretty endearing, and I found myself perfectly willing to go along with her line of questions. Though, not without waving a single finger back at the 'tender, and thumbing at my empty mug which I set out beside me on the bar.

“Been at it ever since I signed up with the Seraph at fifteen,” I told her. “And that was seventeen years ago. When I went my own way seven years ago, some doors were closed, but more of the world opened up to me. I suppose thirty-two isn't all that old, but I wouldn't call seventeen years experience 'not very long.”

This bartender was my hero. No sooner had I finished my sentence, than another drink was set for me. As I reached for it, the woman spoke again with further inquiries, this time to my motivation. Motivation had always been an interesting thing with me, mostly because I didn't have much of one. Serve the Queen? Sure, but that was rather lofty, wasn't it? It's why I did what I did, but that hardly feels tangible in the day to day.

“None of those things, really,” I told her. “I tend not to get too excited about much. Sure, I enjoy seeing the world, traveling, and challenging myself. But I don't particularly like fighting, it's a bad thing. A horrible thing. I just happen to be pretty good at it.”

As she ordered herself a drink I took another long pull at mine, savoring. Three ales in, I was already feeling a lot less cross at my home for changing so much. As I was forgiving the city, the woman finally hit it head on. A greater purpose.

“Yeah, something like that,” I said. “But I don't think about it that way. I fight, and I adventure, because I want to help my people. I want to do the right thing – I want to see humanity alive and well in a hundred years. I guess that's a greater purpose, but to me it's pretty simple.”

It had been a typical day thus far, with correspondance of all kinds taking priority in the early morning, from the time the sun's first rays had crept over the horizon. Now, with the sun climbing closer to the noon apex, and a mountain of signed letters and reviewed petitions behind her, Mealla peeked her head out of the modest drawing room. The coast was clear, or so it would seem. Nobody sat on the chairs that had been set to the side of the door, where people seeking an audience or visiting on business might wait for other matters to be concluded before taking their turn with the duchess. With no further matters to attend to, it seemed as good a time as any to get some lunch. The cook had been given the day off to visit her sister, who according to the panicked look upon the messanger's face was finally having the child she'd been expecting any day for the better part of two weeks. The Gilded Flagon lay just across the street; it would do. Mealla donned her ultramarine blue cloak, and strode through the door, past the pair of guards, who immedaitely stood at rigid attention as she passed, and made her way across the cobbled street.

Mealla managed to just get her foot across the threshold of the tavern's doorway when a spindly man in his late thirties trotted across the street calling, in as dignified a manner as he might,
"Duchess! Duchess! My lady!" She stopped just inside and turned to look out at the man as he hurried across the cobbles, which glared brightly under the sun. "This just came for you, my lady," the man offered her a letter, sealed with a red wax crest. She cracked the seal with a finger nail, and took a brief moment to read the letter before offering it back.

"I'll see to this in a couple of hours, thank you."

The man departed with a subtle bow, and a quick "my lady," and then returned to the building across the way, in much less of a hurry than he had been. The young woman breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped toward the counter where the tavern keeper stood, the fall of her feet inaudible over the din that permeated the tavern. She leaned on the counter, propping herself up with her elbows and letting her head hang relaxed for a moment before speaking to the tavern keeper.

"I'll have whatever the special is today, so long as it's hot and filling," she said with a smile.

She was garbed in a deep blue silk gown, and black bodice, obviously tailored by a professional. The ensemble was belted with a thin silver chain, one end of which dangled down the front of the skirt to about knee height. Her hair was done up in a heavy bun with a long braid trailing down her back. Her clothes said she was associating below her station, but her manner seemed to fit the place. She didn't seem to be paying much attention to her surroundings; possibly avoiding the curious glances from a few of the other patrons.

Brows inched upwards as she tracked his vocal timeline and worked the math- for naught, as he summed it for her and won a little nod as guess matched the actual. And she agreed: “Seventeen years is certainly longer than 'not very', but evidently not long enough. To rid a sellsword of his integrity, that is.”

Sellsword. An ugly word, applied as easily as if she'd called him a knight.

She sipped quietly at her shandy on his talk of motivation, collecting and storing her commentary until after he'd found himself at a conversational lull. The conjecture that came then was posed as everything else, in an unconcerned candor:

“You'd have to turn to necromancy to see it alive and well, come one hundred years. And even then, I'm not sure how many people would call that 'seeing'. Yes, there's undoubtably sensory input, but the cognition behind it would be lacking...Ah, now I see. You meant it metaphorically... I hope.” Nevermind that it was she herself who interjected the thought into his side of the conversation. In fact, she almost appears to have forgotten he's there at all, musing at her own reflection on her drink's surface.

“A metaphor meaning that you fight for a future, if at the sacrifice of your own. But do you really have to fight, if you find it so horrible? Horrible enough to make comparison to a necromancer's thrall, at least... The soil still needs tilled, the beasts still fed, goods made, families raised. Plenty of things to do to keep humanity's line alive without ever raising a sword.”

From behind the bar, Dren might just be trying to share a look of commiseration with his newest patron-- a look very quickly lost as the Duchess herself strides into the tavern. Rulon, for her part, merely watches as Mealla strides to the bar, eyes locked from the more tactfully garbed woman's first step inside to the now, where she stands beside them.

I scratched my jaw line as the woman spoke. I needed a shave – It'd been a day, and I was feel scratchy. At first it seemed the woman had completely misunderstood me. I thought I must have completely misspoken, when I realized she was going way, way off the path. Necromancy – helping with a brighter tomorrow? Ho-boy. I kept trying to open my mouth to correct her (or myself) but on she went, until finally, she seemed to sort the whole thing out for herself. I gave a sigh of relief, but just a second after, she was back on the necromancy idea before, finally, making something like a point.

I smiled at her. What else was I supposed to do? In the end, she had a point, anyway, one with conversation.

“It's not just me who finds it horrible. Plenty do, but right now, fighting is the solution to our most immediate danger, and someone has to hold the sword,” I said. “And don't you go thinking this is some martyr ideal either. everyone does things they don't like. That's life. I'm happy to pitch in, even if I don't like the act of it.”

As we were speaking, a woman came to the door. A lady came to the door. She wore silk, black and tailored just right to make a man appreciate what she had to offer, without giving ideas. She carried herself in that familiar way, too. Just outside, beyond her, someone was shouting for her. Duchess? Gods, what kind of bar was this?

I cast a glance back at the bartender and grinned.

“Guess I'm not your only fan,” I told him. “You always get to boast this kind of clientele?”

As if the scene wasn't audacious enough already, the woman came up to the bar and propped her elbows right up.

“Moment, miss,” I told the woman I was speaking to, and slid right up off my stool.

Either there was a theme and a joke here, or this woman was a Gods' truth duchess. Either way, she seemed worth meeting. Not every day you meet a duchess, and it's even less common you meet someone just playing that par. I took the few steps around to her and bowed my head.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “My name is Janto Adega Cadell. From what I could hear, it's my pleasure to meet you.”

She had just closed her eyes to settle into the relative peace of the tavern, to get into a mindset free of work and responsibility for a couple of hours before getting back to the hectic humdrum of officiality when the introduction came. With a deep breath, she straightened, blinked open her eyes once more, and looked at the figure next to her. Though tall for a woman, she still needed to glance upward to look the man in the eyes, and this she most certainly did. Her gaze carried with it a strong sense of spirit as well as the distinct sense that there was always some manner of calculation going on; a critical eye which weighed, balanced, assessed, and categorized.

"A pleasure for me as well, Mr. Cadell," her voice was a mild alto, of a tone often associated with seductresses, though it lacked any hint that such was intended, and merely carried a tone of familiar friendliness. "I'm Mealla Aislin, Duchess Aislin, as you no doubt heard from Mr. Harcourt." She glanced toward the doorway she had come from then returned her gaze to the man before her, and that critical eye scanned him from head to toe. She was silent for a brief instant. "You look to be a bladesman. Sellsword perhaps, or more likely a soldier, given your manner." It was not a question, simply as open assessment. "How can I help you?" Her question was direct, to the point, and possibly reflected the subject of the majority of meetings the young woman engaged in with those she had just met.

From the other side of the pair, Ru laughed- a swallowed chortle as she slipped to her feet and flanked the poor man between the two of them-- tall women, both.

The noble's effect on Rulon's mien was substantial. It seemed to focus that oddly distanced curiosity to a point where she no longer seemed to be just watching the world, but willing to actively take part in it, change it, touch it. She leaned, folding her arms with elbows propped to the counter, and peered around him at the subtle catalyst.

“I was getting to that, you know.” She was not addressing the bladesman. “If you'd like, I think I can entertain Mister Jac long enough for you to eat your lunch unhindered, Aisling.” It was a fond, familiar nickname, not one you'd expect to be uttered for a Duchess in so public a place.

She turned a much more earnest smile on the man now, encouraging a temporary relinquishment of the Duchess's time. Yet though she was looking at him as if she had just laid eyes that instant, her conversation still favored the other woman.

“Granted, not as easily as with the cats, but certainly more easily than yesterday's meeting. Provided you don't start stabbing the furniture, sir.”

Whatever story lay there remains buried, for the woman's sharpened air blurs again during the social pause, and three words interrupt whatever his response may be.

“Oh. The cats.”

Abruptly she stood, collected the plate of scraps, and, without so much as an 'excuse me', drifted her un-intruding way back out the side door.

It was with an amused chuckle that Mealla watched the other woman pick up the plate and leave with the suddenness of a startled jay, though no doubt she would return momentarily. The young duchess once again looked at the man before her and spoke with a dignified expression and tone, likely learned through years of strict tutoring until it had become second nature, "It will take a little while for my food to be ready, so I am happy to speak with you to pass the time."

Her eyes did glance past Janto briefly as the other woman left the room in a whirl of garrish skirts, but no more than hinting at an idle curiosity, or simply having her eye caught in that way familiar to those who see a sudden flash of coloured plumage in an otherwise monochromatic forest.

Either there was an incredible lack of mercenaries in the Duchy, or they were just worth a lot more attention than they were in places I usually visited. My first reaction was to ask what the big deal was. It certainly isn't uncommon for a man to carry a sword, and it hardly means he's a mercenary. But, of course, I am a man after all. And what man minds a couple of pretty women making a big deal out of his profession? I've seen those novels. I know what women think of men like me. At least that's what I tell myself.

“None of those things, really,” I told her. “Though you're close with the soldier. I used to be Seraph. I adventure now, it's not quite the same as...”

I considered for a moment, reflecting on the conversation I just had.

“You know, just think of me as a sellsword with his heart in the right place. That's close enough.”

I offered her a smile.

It was unusual to me, that she seemed so devoid of custom. I'd never met a noble – or Gods, even a merchant's daughter – who didn't just love the whole bow and kiss the hand drill. Hey, even I liked it. Some people scoff at formality and tradition, but it really is what lets us feel we're part of a society. I'd never met a Duchess, maybe they were above worrying about that sort of thing. Or maybe there was a different set of formalities I was fumbling over and insulting her by missing.

That's about when the other woman left, the one with the wild clothes. She said something about cats, and you know, I couldn't even tell you exactly why she was leaving, or what point she was making. Maybe it made sense to her – but I don't really think so. I watched her go with a long look, and when I glanced back at the Duchess, I tried to wipe the look of complete befuddlement away.

“Well, I'd be a right fool to turn down a Duchess,” I told her. “Why don't you tell me about your home. In return, I'll answer any question you might have. We adventuring types know a lot more than we let on.”

The young woman seemed slightly intrigued, at least so far as the single raised eyebrow might let on, but her response was frank,
"I'm accustomed to people having a request of some form when they introduce themselves to me. It's not often one takes the time for a chat," she paused, a possibly amused smile playing across her lips. "Very well. I'll share a bit about my home. My father was Krytan, and my mother's family could trace itself back to Old Ascalon. My family, on my mother's side, had established a small community at the base of the Shiverpeaks in a coastal valley that boasted a favourable growing season, and mild winters because of the waters. The community had been thriving for several generations before the centaurs showed up the first time. My father was a captain of the Krytan royal guard, and was sent by the queen at the time, along with a small contingent, and a delegation to help the Ascalonian settlers deal with the centaur threat. Eventually, this led to my mother and father falling in love and getting married."

The duchess looked Janto in the eye as she continued speaking, "You may wonder what exactly this has to do with my home, but in a long roundabout way, it's leading up to why that home isn't there anymore. I was eight when some of my father's closest friends and advisors turned coat due to some political maneouverings in Kryta, and engaged in a plot with the centaurs. They allowed the centaurs to take some of the key defenses, and that sparked the loss of my family, and the lands we had settled. So, as for my home, I'm in the process of getting it back."

The young woman simply stood there with her hands clasped behind her back, giving Janto time to take it in. Perhaps he had expected such an open and direct response, and perhaps not.

“I'm not the sort of man who asks for much,” I said. “I live under my own means, and work to get what I need.”

I listened as she spoke. I hadn't heard of any Ascalonian refugees hiding out at the base of the mountains alone for a few hundred years, but the world was a big place and you never see it all. It's no surprise that Krytan politics would have gotten involved in a small place like that, especially considering they were, technically, living on soil belonging to Kryta and the royal family. What was surprising, though, was why those maneuverings would have a goal of the land being claimed by centaur. It certainly didn't make any sense as far as I could see. The Centaur were Kryta's enemy, and simply handing over a plot of apparently valuable land seemed to benefit no one. Maybe the goal was for Kryta to take over their rightful lands once reclaimed from the centaur, and avoid looking bad for bullying a small, defenseless group of people? That would make some sense, but who would complain about Kryta occupying her own lands, unless their really was concern about Lion's Arch? Chances were there was more to the story, and the woman was only being so open as to keep me from questioning the real details.

I let it slide for the time being, and nodded my head; it was possible I was simply overanalyzing the whole thing. The Shiverpeak Mountains stretched a long ways, and there might have been some inhabitable land down the coast far enough, out of Krytan territory, but not so far that centaur would ignore it. It still begged the question, though, why cause the place to fall into centaur hands? What good did that do anyone?

“It's never good, betrayal,” I said. “I'm sorry about what happened to your family. But, now here you are. I hope you are at least enjoying our famous Krytan hospitality. Refugees of all manners are welcome here in the city.”

And that's just what she was, a refugee, now merely a commoner without any lands, same as I. Was she lying about people coming to her asking for things? Or was there really so much more to this story? I had a feeling I wouldn't get the right answers by asking so bluntly just yet. Otherwise she'd have just been honest about it.

“If you are ever in need of a swordsman, don't be afraid to call for me. I like to think I do good work,” I said. “But now, I think I owe you a question answered.”

Mealla took in the offer of the man's sword with careful consideration. Many men claimed skilled swordsmanship, and almost as many men who had claimed such ended up dead when push came to shove. Yet, he did have the physique of one who lived the life he claimed. He might just be worth his salt, but this remained to be seen.

"A question indeed," the young woman was silent for a very brief moment before asking, "have you ever travelled lands where borders blur, and lawlessness is commonplace?" It was a simple enough question to start, but she followed it with a narrowing of the subject. "Specifically those lands where Norn, Asura, and Centaurs, sometimes of the Modniir variety tend to overlap?"

I found myself wishing I hadn't worn peasants clothes today. Sure, they were comfortable, and I was trying to relax, but it's not the best thing to caught in if you meet a duchess. If that's what she really was (I still wasn't entirely convinced).

“All four at once?” I asked with a chuckle. So far as I knew, such a place didn't exist, unless there was some out of the way Asura laboratory in the east. “No, I don't think so. I've been through much of the Norn lands with a friend, and I've gone to battle with Modniir before, though they're usually keeping themselves out of the way of things and letting the Harathi do the work.”

Asura were a group of people I probably had the least contact with on their home lands, but I'd been once or twice. Usually to drop off information or escort someone. I didn't find staying around their lands particularly pleasant, namely because nothing was built in my size. I even made a lot of other humans look short.

“I've been to Asura lands, but I wouldn't be able to map them from memory, same as I would a lot of other places I've been,” I said.

"All four at once? No, I wouldn't expect to catch all of them together unless there was truly something memorable happening. However, there are places where the lines become fuzzy, you might say. The Norn do not build nations. They build communities. The Asura aren't usually interested in what humans are doing unless it will affect their research."

She paused for a moment, glancing over at the tavernkeeper as he was off to fix her food, "My family's lands lie in a small valley nestled against the Shiverpeaks. For the most part, they are out of the way, but are near enough to water to provide good shipping. They are also close enough to Krytan territory that in the past it has been beneficial to keep up friendship with Kryta. I have been preparing, for some time, to reclaim the lands and re-establish the town that was once there. I've even taken steps to secure its legitimacy with the Queen, in making sure that Kryta had no previous claim to the territory, nor would in the future. To put it simply, I am coming to a point where I hope to lead people to resettle the area, and it's entirely likely I'll need the services of experienced guards, soldiers, and others who know how to handle themselves in a dangerous situation."

The woman stepped away from the bar and gestured to the doorway, more specifically to the streets outside.

"You've seen how many people live in Divinity's Reach, and how many refugees continue to pour in. Logistics dictates that the city can only support so many before sickness and starvation begin to set in." She returned to her place at the bar. "Humanity has been pushed so far, I believe it's time to spread our wings again." She placed her hands on her hips, and stood looking at him in such a way that she almost seemed to come across as some kind of resolute commander, or stalwart farmgirl, rather than a lady of noble birth. "If you would offer your sword to me, that's the cause for which it would be used."

Asura. That was the moment when Ru slipped back indoors, just as the sellsword mentioned Asuran lands. She eased the door closed behind her and observed the posturing of the two at at the bar counter with an askance tip of her chin. She listened and watched, both of them and the barkeep beyond, until the duchess's speech paid tribute to the reign of logistics.

Then the blonde started at an undecided drift across the room, as if waiting for some circumstance to change her destination. Yet, there she ended up, stepping in beside Janto and taking her half finished mug of shandy in hand.

“Of course, such a sword would be paid as worth its quality.” Casually phrased, but perhaps surprisingly cunning given the speaker, as the quality of Janto's swordsmanship had yet to be established.

It was reassuring to know that this woman – if she really was what she said she was, and I was starting to believe so – wasn't going to be tripping all over Krytan holdings. It made talking to her easier almost immediately, and even I could feel some tenseness leave my posture.

The woman certainly had some fancy ways to explain some basic concepts, but that was the luxury those of higher station had. I couldn't really fault her, either. When I played and sang, I was often given to fanciful speech and vocabulary myself.

“If you have centaur to slay and homes to return to people I'm happy to help,” I told the woman. “It's about as simple as that. That's my life right now.”

I had noticed the other woman return during our conversation. It was hard not to notice her, considering her clothes and particularly... odd way of moving. When she approached us, I offered a polite smile and nodded my head to her, stepping a bit closer to the duchess to give her space.

“Pay isn't my first concern,” I told her. “Or my second. But, if you're implying you'd like me to prove my worth, I am willing.”

Willing, but I never really liked it. A lot of people had egos and something to prove, but I didn't. Test usually put me in contact with the former.

"Truthfully," the young duchess said as she looked him in the eyes once more, "pay isn't my primary concern either. No, it would have to be trust that will be the primary currency. If all goes according to plan, there will be a lot of people, common, poor, wealthy, civilians, and soldiers, who will be putting their lives in my hands, and the hands of any I trust to keep them safe."

She crossed her left arm across her stomach, and rested her right upon it, her right index finger tapping across lips pursed in pensiveness. "I could always use a common strong-arm, but I can always find those too. What I could use; what I could really use is a person who understands discipline and order, as well as responsibility and warfare. You say you were a Seraph. That's a noble background, and a good reference. It would also imply you are more than a mere hired blade. Regardless, your skill with that blade will need to be determined. If you would indulge me, there is a training court at my home. I believe Rulon can arrange an adequate interview if you are still indeed interested in a job."

Beside him, the woman perked at the mention of the name. After an exchange of knowing looks with the Duchess, she quirked an all-too-willing smile on Janto.

“Something that could be done now, if you like. Later will be inconvenient.” As an afterthought, perhaps an incentive, she adds with peculiar emphasis, “Lunch, will be on the house. Afterwards.”

With the duchess's promise to join them 'shortly', Rulon Havely led Janto in silence out of the tavern. She went on faith that he followed, with nary a glance behind after announcing that they were setting off, and though the trip was short, she managed, somehow, to take them the long way around before leading him through the well tended hedging and past the stone-faced guards. Her presence, and that of her companion, were acknowledged only with a formal nod...and a hint of a smirk from one, having been witness to the trek from tavern to embassy.

Janto looked around, a bit suspicious as they finally came to a stop somewhere even he - not knowing the layout - was certain didn’t require even half as complicated a path as they had taken. Maybe she was only buying someone time -- he liked to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Her directed meandering came to a halt in the courtyard before the well tended abode- without the welcome sign, the manor would have been simply a sizable city estate. She canted her chin hither and thither, as if listening for something, then veered to the right, leading him further inward and around to a grass courtyard, enclosed on three sides by the grey stone building. There, she flourished a billowing sleeve and said, “Tell the first person you see what you're here for.”

“Alright,” he said in response to his instructions, giving the woman a slow look before moving forward. The peered around the courtyard, rubbing his chin in uncertainty before deciding it was best not to waste anymore time, and just see what awaited him. So, he strode forward.

Behind him, in a few quieted steps and the sound of twanging steel, the woman disappeared from view, leaving him alone to the song of unseen birds and wind across the grasses.

He would not be so for long.

“Hyup.”

The northeast corner, from the other side of the privacy wall.

A hand slaps at the top of the stone and slips, then reappears with its pair partner. One exertion grunt later, and a woman's head pops into view, puffing stray strands of the short brown hair out of her face as she looks in the direction of the unseen guards.

Then, she notices Janto. A grin comes first, then one brow hikes as she looks him over, and finally a request for his silence with a finger to her lips and a thumb jerk towards the entrance path.

This was... unconventional. Janto watched the woman, brow raised, a hand on his cheek. He remembered vaguely that he was supposed to be relaxing. A little spar was alright, but this was -- he wasn’t even sure. As the woman gestured at the entrance path, wanting him to be quiet, he eyed it warily. Did she want him to do something? Janto raised his arms in question.

A quick shake of her head and the woman hauled herself up. She slung a leg over the wall, then the other, scooted forward on faded trousers and shimmied down the other side. There she froze, crouched in the cut grass and focusing on the path with a finger once more at her lips.

She was notably shorter than Janto- about average for a woman- around the same age, tanned, presumably fit under the loose clothing. Now, half a minute after landing, she cocked a victorious grin and stood to her full height with the self-assurance of someone who belonged there.

“That proves that, then. Hullo.”

Janto looked the woman over, in the careful way a man inspects something that might pounce on him. And not the good way. The way with fangs. Sharp ones.

“Proves what?” Janto asked, slowly offering his hand to her.

She took the offer with a firm grip and pumped his arm a few times. Her grin was toothy, but fangless.

“That my guards need to clean the hair out of their ears. They won't be so lucky in the dead of night to have some bloke loungin' about t' catch some thief or assassin. Who're you, then?”

“I’m Janto,” he said. “Not a thief. Or assassin.”

He paused a moment, glancing around.

“And... I’m supposed to spar with you, because you’re the first person I’ve seen here.”

That statement elicited a stare from her, handshake going limp as she gives an open assessment of just how crazy he might be. Judging by her expression, he's at least halfway there.

“..uh-huuuh.”

Now someone was looking looking at him like he was crazy. Janto slowly withdrew his hand and gave her another look.

“I didn’t make the rules, I’m just cooperating,” he said.

She matched the look for a breath longer then shrugged off her bemusement as the handshake fell.

“Whelp, I guess if you're supposed t' be sparrin' anybody, Janto, it's me. Bakshi'baal Ryva, Captain o' the Guard.” A wry grin fired off in the direction of the gate. “All five of them.”

Tucking her thumbs to her pants pockets, she stepped back for a different type of assessment, lingered at the weapon on his hip. “Just the one hander?

Janto glanced down at his belt, hanging loosely on his pants. The longsword there was a basic weapon, without any bother being put to decor or fashion. It was just a well-forged tool.

“That’s right,” he said. “It will have to do.”

“Roight. Gimme two shakes then.”

And she's off the way he'd come, slowing to a stalk just before rounding the corner and out of sight.

Seconds later, there's a shout (from her), and a yelp (probably a guard). What follows is a loud bout of constructive criticism, as is a captain's right, wholly deconstructed with interjected vulgarity colourful enough to make a man blush. Apparently one did, and from the sounds of it, the woman is thoroughly amused.

There's some blessed silence, but it isn't long until she's returned bearing two dulled practice blades, the larger of which she tosses towards him.

Janto caught the weapon with his off-hand, and looked it over. The weight felt about right, but it looked like it had been dulled. Fair enough. He unstrapped his sword belt and walked to the corner of the courtyard where he sat it down carefully. He paced back to the center again, flipping his wrist a few times to test the balance.

“Thanks,” he finally said, when he was sure it suited him.

The woman hiked up from a brief leg stretch, hefting her practice weapon upwards and snatched it from the air with a theatrical swipe.

“You might be takin' that back inna moment.”

She was all grins as she shifted into a guarded back stance, blade poised before her. Despite the cocky, self-assertive opening, her posturing was defensive-- a wait maneuver, contrived to counter.

Janto nodded his head and fell into his own stance, balancing his weight toward his toes as he narrowed his form, similar to a fencing stance. The blade was a bit longer than his norm, but it was a weapon he’d learned to use all the same. He looked along the blade, eyeballing the crossguard thoughtfully before he edged forward. The thrust he gave was hardly a commitment.

Bakshi'baal did not even grace the attempt with a parry. She just skidded back a foot, weapon still readied and brows hiked.

“What was that? I thought y’ were here to spar!”

She began to circle, slow sliding steps to the left with her weight returning to her hind leg, prepared to spring aside. Her smiling concentration was trained on his face, but the attention spanned, watching weapon, arms and legs all within periphery.

Janto let out a cool breath through his nose, bouncing back with equal relaxation. He seemed unvexed by the woman’s retort, and he simply moved with her, steps matching her own as they circled. He could feel his emotions drip off of him with that exhale. He let them go, made them no longer a part of him, instead imagining them billowing out around him in a steady roll, painting the courtyard that had become an arena. The emotions attached to the grass, the stone, the woman and her weapon, painting them different ways, each vivid in their own respect. He sprang at her again, in much the same way, though this time he angled at the end with his wrist, pushing the rest of the way with intent.

An intent she tested to the raw edge of barely-- barely sidestepping in time to barely knock the strike the rest of the way aside.

His blade sawed through air, sending a chill to her sleeve, and approval flared in her grin before winking out with a set jaw of concentration She carried her side step's objective, closing the space between them while his momentum was still committed to the lunge.

The trick to fighting an opponent with a longer weapon was to not be there at all, or close the space entirely and render the advantage ineffectual. Her intent was the latter, skirring the edge of her blade along his with the hopes of a cross-guard lock, applying enough leverage to keep the heavier blade from swinging back on her as she slid up against his form.

“S'more like it!”

As she rocketed alongside his blade, Janto released another breath and continued to move in the same direction, body still narrowed away from her. He moved backwards with the motion, but at a forty-five degree angle. Content with her aim to lock crossguards, Janto angled his own weapon into it while turning his wrist to try and bring his blade high and around. He continued to apply pressure, so he’d still be able to shove her off if she slipped out more quickly than he could account for.

Of course, the risk of negating a reach weapon advantage by moving to close quarters is that it might just be trading one advantage for another- Ryva was not a physical match for Janto. A fact proven as she tries to break off just before their rain guards slam and he, anticipatory, throws her back.

Landing heavily with a grunt, she stumbles a step or two before lunging right back in from a crouched angle, flipping her grip for an inverted hold on the sword and swinging the pommel like a hammer towards the man's legs.

As she backed off, Janto pressed. Another thrust wouldn’t get him anywhere; he switched stances, feet planted together as he took the rest of the grip with his other hand, taking his weapon in a hard horizontal swing, putting his strength in this time. It wasn’t the right call. The woman was quick, and as she crouched, evaded and took the pommel toward Janto’s legs like a mace, he was first to do little more that stumble to keep from being completely bowled over. The weapon still caught bone, toward the front of his shin, winning a hiss of pain behind Janto’s teeth.

His opponent didn't stick around to enjoy the small victory. That longsword training blade- however dulled- loomed, and all it'd take was a little gravity-- nevermind the damage a little effort could put into it. Betraying just how unfamiliar she was with the execution of her little trick, the woman scrambles awkwardly for her footing around the left of him, gripping the blade in one hand and pushing off the ground with the other.

Janto responded just as rustically. As they each regained their footing, he moved forward again, planting a boot out to catch the reverse-wielded blade and push down while he swung down toward his opponent’s shoulder.

The man's boot unexpectedly pinned her weapon to the ground, giving Bakshi'baal's arm a wrench as she refused to relinquish it. She yanked, and when it didn't budge, she applied both hands and yanked again, throwing herself on her back as it finally slid free. Janto's downward swing was met with steel and a yip as her elbows buckled beneath the horizontally braced weapon, holding his own off a mere foot from her face.