With Freedom Comes Responsibility (Rothyr)

[Basha'ir]

Summer 74, 512 AV


Basha’ir paused to straighten her dress and readjust the veil about her head. Both were of as plain a make as she possessed, which was still too showy for the task she was attempting to carry out. But she had nothing less ornate. Her life, her existence had but one purpose, to be a literal showpiece, a siren to attract, and even Theodoric had wanted her to dress the part, for his own pleasure. Though he had kept her hidden away, thinking to learn from the mistakes of the other men whose hands she had passed through so quickly, he still wanted her garbed like the exotic, expensive, infinitely sensual seductress that she was meant to be.

Eying the faded door to the pub, Basha’ir thought she might have to go buy some more appropriate clothing if she ever hoped to get a job, here in this guarded city.

But for today, she would keep on trying her luck with what she had. Pulling the veil up more securely about her lower face, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open, all that she now possessed in the bag that she carried in her other hand. Pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior, she looked about for someone who might seem to be in charge. There was a middle aged woman behind the bar counter, and, seeing no-one else who had a more proprietary air, Basha’ir steeled herself and moved towards the bar. This would be her third attempt in as many hours and her tolerance for rejection was wearing a bit thin. But with literally no roof over her head now, no bed to sleep in, no-one to take care of her any more, she just had to keep trying.

Her skills were limited. Oh yes, she could have probably gotten taken on at a whorehouse as easily as sighing. But she was done with that, done with being a plaything for men to drool over, fight over, kill one another over. The veil was there, over her face, as a sign that she was leaving that life behind. Now that she had a chance, living in a city where slavery was not allowed, she was determined to step forward into an entirely different life. To do so, she was as equally determined not to use her gnosis to help her along, to make her irresistible, not even to secure employment. If people knew she was marked, it would only be a short matter of time before someone had once again claimed her for his own, whether she willed it or not. She was never going to allow that to happen, if she could help it.

Coming to the bar counter, she didn’t hesitate, but said in a pleasant, lilting voice, “Excuse me, mistress. I’m looking for work. Do you have any need of a server, or someone to clean, or wash dishes? Anything really, I can even cook a little.”

Did she sound as desperate as she felt? She hoped not, already seeing faces turning towards her, as curious patrons looked and wondered about this young woman swathed almost head to toe in gaudy, bright cloth, asking for a job as a drudge.

[Rothyr Windbourne]

What a day it had been. He could feel the bruises already, and the wounds he had stitched up had not yet stopped bleeding. Rothyr would have to take a step back from hunting, he thought. He had seen no game for some days now, and today all he saw were predators. He rode north, for a spell, towards the Pavi, and found himself chased by a Kriital. It had snatched him up out of the saddle, and Rothyr had to near hack it's leg off to free himself, only to be dropped in the forest canopy. He managed to hit almost every branch on the way down, and he was a ways up there. He had hardly no time to wonder how curious it was to find a Kriital so far out of the mountains, than some other unknown beast came charging for him. He ran from the creature, screaming, “Are you kidding me?!” in Pavi. Luckily enough, Windlass was able to find him, and they made their getaway.

'That was enough excitement for one day,' Rothyr thought, rolling his shoulder backwards as he sat at the bar, wondering what happened over a mug of ale. He had signed up with the Sylirans for a campaign to reclaim Eventide after he made it back to town. He wasn't much the soldiering type, he preferred his freedom to hunt and ride around the wilds, but such a populated area left little wildlife nearby, and he had saved enough money to get by, so why not go on an adventure? He doctored up his wounds, and covered them up best he could before stopping in to throw his lot in with the Knights. They seemed to need fighters, it looked like they were sending quite a few, and the local wildlife would want time repopulate. Or maybe someone would go out there and hunt the predators, who knows, but two close calls in the course of a half-day were enough for Rothyr to step out.

They had issued him armor and a weapon, but his ax and loaned spear he left with Windlass, and only kept his knife on him in his boot. They insisted he wear the armor to become accustomed to the extra weight, which was necessary considering he hadn't worn armor in two seasons. So, there he sat, with his mug of ale, beat-up and bruised, wondering how he would pass the time till the campaign embarked for Eventide.

Then she walked in. Even with the veil over her face, she had an aura of extravagant beauty about her. He saw many of the men in the tavern ogle her, but he paid no mind. She was just another patron of the bar, in his eyes. He looked over his shoulder at her when she walked in. He couldn't deny she looked very pretty, and pretty out of place in this pub with its smoke and stale ale smell. He paid no mind, still, it was none of his business. Normally, he might fall out of his chair for such a woman, but he was having a rough day, and didn't plan on setting himself up for another beating.

He listened to her asking for work, and thought to himself 'Really?' flabbergasted that such a well dressed specimen of how a goddess of beauty should look was not married or spoken for, 'Didn't see that coming.'

“Looking for work too, eh?” He said, looking up at her from his seat, speaking in his ever-friendly welcoming tone, “I am Rothyr Windbourne, pleased to meet you. You may join me if you like, if your hunting has fared as mine has, today.”

[Basha'ir]

With her eyes focused on the woman behind the bar counter, Basha’ir was a little taken aback by the voice that sounded off to her side. Momentarily distracted, her veiled face turned towards the ruddy faced man that had spoken to her, and she was just about to politely decline his offer, when the rather surly voice of the bar keep brought her head swiveling back around. The look of hopeful expectation on Basha’ir’s face, though, died with those far from dulcet tones.

“Nay, we’ve no need of anyone of your type,” the older woman practically sneered. “Though I dare say you’d do well enough, with this lot.” She leered, nodding at the assembled rag-tag group of customers, and then chuckled, a sound far too deep for any woman to rightfully possess. It matched the random black hairs sprouting from her chin and upper lip though.

Basha’ir felt the blush rising on her cheeks, though it would have mostly been hidden from anyone else’s view. Despite the insulting innuendo, though, she was determined to make it clear that that was not what she meant.

“No, mistress,” she said, keeping her own voice calm and steady, though it was hard to do, as belittled as she felt. “I was asking after a real job. One for pay. From you, or…your husband? The owner of this establishment? Perhaps if I could speak to him…”

The lady almost snarled, shoving her finger in Basha’ir’s face. “Oh no you don’t! You think you can charm your way around behind my back, do you? Well, listen here, my precious darling, that man is buried deep these past ten years and ‘twas because of one of the likes of you that he met his end, gods rot him. I don’t have no needs for the likes of you in my place! I know your type!”

For a moment, Basha’ir’s eyes widened in surprise, not only at the vitriolic reception she had garnered, but also as she wondered if in fact the woman really meant that she did know, about the gnosis, the gift of Nikali, the scarlet chain that ran across her lower abdomen.

“You foreigners! Think all you need do is bat those dark eyes at a man and he’ll come crawling! Well, go ply your trade elsewhere, little floozy. I’ll have no truck with you!”

Basha’ir breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed her exotic looks, derived from her Benshira-Eypharian breeding, were what had set the woman off. Still, she realized full well that there was no chance in hell that she would be finding employment here, not that she would even wish it now.

Her shoulders sagged a bit but she held her head up steadily, refusing to let a harridan such as this make her feel small. She turned to leave, and her gaze once again fell upon the blonde man who had offered her a seat. What had he asked? Something about looking for a job, and hunting?

She gave him a small, wry smile, hidden behind her veil for the most part. “Yes, I am looking for a job, and it seems that I must keep on looking. Your hunting sounds about as dismal a venture as mine has been so far. So, thank you, but, perhaps another time.” She gave him a polite nod and turned to leave the wretched place.

The young woman got no further than halfway to the door when a thin rail of a man with a weasley sharp face intercepted her. His worn and patched clothing, and general lack of personal hygiene, bespoke one who was not of the upper echelons of the city. Of course, such were probably not to be counted amongst the regular patrons of such a dive as this establishment. He reeked of ale, both fresh on his stinking breath and stale as it seeped from his sweaty pores. There was a mean glint in his beady eyes and his voice was as thin and sparse as his body.

“Hey there now missy,” he leered, looking uncommonly like the bar keep. “No need to be so hasty in leaving.” He was in between Basha’ir and the door, and now he reached to put a grimy hand on her arm. She yanked it away before he could touch her, which only brought a harsh rasping laugh.

“Steady on there. I thought you was looking for some coin, eh? I’m only trying to help out,hm?” Once again, his hand reached for her, and Basha’ir was obliged to take a step backwards to avoid it.

“Please, sir,” she said, between gritted teeth. “Let me pass. You have mistook the purpose of an honest woman seeking honest employment.” She was so angry that her cheeks were truly burning and her dark, green eyes were almost shooting sparks, but she was trying to maintain some semblance of calm.

Again, he laughed in a horrible way. “Honest? Hear that?” His tiny, dark eyes swiveled about the room, looking for support from his fellow customers. One or two chuckled; most just stared in a passive way.

Like a snake this time, the cretin stepped forward quickly and grabbed a hold of Basha’ir’s wrist, holding her tight. He pulled her close to him, and his breath washed over her as he spoke in a menacing tone.

“Listen, girl. We all know what you are. Don’t go playing Miss high and mighty with me.”

“Let go!” Basha’ir snapped back, trying to wrench her wrist from his grasp.

[Rothyr Windbourne]

Rothyr sat and listened calmly, tending to his mug as he heard the exchange. Such behavior was common enough at these sort of establishments, particularly amongst those who came so early in the day. Rothyr didn't come here often, and much less when the sun still shone above, but today was one of those days. Hearing the veiled woman's plea for her aggressor to cease his unwelcome harassment, he knew it was going to get worse before it got any better. What's a few more bruises?

'Got to be careful, this time,' Rothyr thought to himself, 'Can't ride with the Sylirans if you're broken.'

He rose from his seat, finishing his mug to numb his aches and sore muscles, maybe get some spring back in his step for what could only become a bar brawl. He took a look at the man and his company, nothing too intimidating. Plus he wore the armor of the knights, so likely just walking up could diffuse the situation. Wait, the knights!

He quickly pulled the knights colors over his head, as not to be mistaken for a Syliran knight. Who knows what trouble he could get in to if he besmirched the honor of the knights by wearing their colors in a bar brawl? He'd likely have to leave for another town! Syliras was about as far from Cyphrus as he cared to go, so he pulled off the tabard and folded it nicely.

“Keep a close eye on this coat, miss,” Rothyr said to the barwoman, “If it goes missing, so will you, understand?” She nodded, losing the gumption she showed the veiled woman with the stout warrior.

“Good,” he said, turning towards the group, “Now to our business.”

He approached slowly, giving him the opportunity to be seen, and intimidate. His chainmail rang with each step he took, the plate and leather made little sound, but the chain was enough to be noticed. He made sure to walk with proper posture, as not to slump like another scoundrel, and stood proud like a Drykasman ought. He carried no weapons, still, save for the knife in his boot, and he prayed that's where it would remain this day. Rothyr tried to hide the discomfort of the beating he took earlier that day, and used the discomfort to sound more menacing if he could, like the ruffian's antics irritated him.

“Excuse me, miss,” He said, folding his arms across his chest, “Are these... People bothering you?” He searched for the word to call them, and settled for 'people', he didn't want to fight unless he had to.

“I can help you be rid of them, if you wish, for a low price,” He said quietly near her ear, “Your name.”

He turned his attention back towards the scrawny man, and also to the group with him. They did nothing more than sit, but he wanted it to stay that way. He was unsure if they would rise to help their skinny friend, and if they meant to he hoped to intimidate them into staying at their tables.

“I am afraid you mistake this lass's trade for your mothers',” he said, “ I would advise you to let her go, and go back to your table. Besides, such a woman, you think you could afford her? You're done here.”
He used his right hand to dismiss the scrawny man with a wave, before placing both hands on his hips, striking as imposing a form as he could.

[Basha'ir]

With the touch of those filthy fingers on her wrist, Basha’ir felt much more than the shock of unwanted and threatening contact. Skin to skin, her mind was flooded with the disgusting desires that filled the lowlife’s every fiber. Her body under his, another drink, pounding her down to the floor with his fist, to teach her to mind her tongue, and as abhorrent as they were, what was worse, far worse, was that she felt the same desires crawling into her own soul. Like a perfect mirror, she reflected and beautified every lust filled thought in his alcohol soaked brain. The evil worms of his wanting her slithered through her very blood and she had to fight to control herself, to prevent herself from flinging her arms about his neck and smothering that foetid mouth with passionate kisses. Desperately, Basha’ir pulled back, feeling her will weakening by the second, aware that someone else was approaching, hearing that same voice in her ear.

Her name? Gods, she would give her soul at that moment to be rid of this slimey creep who had a hold of her! With a frantic look, she turned her eyes to the tall, blonde man, and whispered, “Basha’ir. I’m Basha’ir…” But she could not give voice to more, as she felt her self-control giving way. And like one who is slowly freezing to death, instead of horror, she was feeling more and more comfortable, accepting, ready to give in and just…let go.

With the approach of the man in mail and armor, the lout’s grip on her wrist tightened, in a possessive way. Above and beyond his own lust, the added affect of her gnosis was definitely having its way with him, creating a more fierce will to have her, for himself. The weasel faced rat tried to pull her closer and this time Basha’ir made far less a show of resistance. As the soldier spoke, the man sneered boldly, clearly less intimidated than he should have been, given the fact that he was both smaller than the blonde and unprotected. But he did drop the girl’s wrist, if only to reach for a dagger dangling in a sheath from his belt.

“Oh, yeah?” he snarled, whipping the weapon up and sticking it practically in the other man’s face. “Think you must be talking about that bitch that whelped you, sir knight, if you even know who she was.” He laughed but the sound was like gravel shaken in a can, rough and harsh. Without taking his eyes from this new sprung adversary, he jerked his head towards Basha’ir, who stood back, rubbing her wrist. “You want her, do you? Well, tell you what. When I’m done with her, you can have a turn, for a price. ‘Cause she’s mine now, see? Mine.” He waved the knife one way and then the other, staring at the blonde soldier with a look that could as easily kill as his weapon.

With that vile contact broken, Basha’ir had backed up, trying to rid herself of any lingering sensation of what had passed through her, because of him. It was like some filthy taste left over in her mouth after a night of drinking too much wine. Horrified, she watched this scene unfolding, wanting to cry. For once again, she was to be the cause of bloodshed, it would seem. Once again, men would fight over her, or, in this case, the one, the soldier, seemed willing to fight for her, on her behalf. Gods, that he not be hurt! she thought fervently.

Her dark green eyes, as large as saucers now, turned to her would be rescuer, and she grasped in her mind for his name. Ross? Roth? Roth…Rothyr?

“Rothyr,” she said, in as calm a voice as she could manage. “Please, do not get hurt for my sake. Please . . .”

But, what could they do at this point? Once again, she was the source of trouble for another. How sick she was of Nikali’s “gift”!

[Rothyr Windbourne]

“I don't want to hurt you, or anyone else,” Rothyr said, his blood rising at having a dagger pulled on him, felt the anger of the grassland wildfire burn in his chest, he motioned for Basha'ir to come closer to his side of the tavern, where she would be farther from the danger of the dagger-wielding man, before continuing on, staring down at the scrawny vermin like the filth he was “But if you plan to use that dagger on me you had better use it well, and you had better use it quickly, because if I get my hands on you, and I will, you will wish you'd been born without eyes that you couldn't see the lady Basha'ir, and I'll use that knife to gut you like a carp.”

He took a step forward, and another, till he stood directly in front of the man, and looked down at him into his beady little eyes, “So what will it be, lad? I'm right here, so try me and see what happens. Or, you can be smart and sit your rancid arse down, shut your trap, leave the lady be, and no one will think less of you.” He gives the man a firm shove, back towards some chairs and a table, before folding his arms back across his chest, “Your move, lad,” he says in a firm tone, asserting his dominance. He did not do this because he felt Basha'ir was pretty, no, but because being a Drykas, he was raised enjoying the taste of freedom. The love and ability to do one's will, to live. Seeing the scrawny scoundrel attempting to force himself onto the woman did not sit well with him at all, it made him near sick to watch or listen to. Of course, it didn't help she had a rare beauty to her. Rothyr only saw something similar when the clans made their rounds about the southern borders of Cyphrus where they'd trade with the desert folk. Still, the women who made those caravan pilgrimages were never so lovely as this one. However, back to the matter at hand. He's putting this troublemaker in his place because he's a bastard, not because Rothyr thought this woman was pretty. That's convincing enough, right? He couldn't see all her face anyhow.

“Don't worry, I'll not be getting hurt,” Rothyr said to Basha'ir, “Nobody gets hurt today, if I can help it. It's all up to our friend, here. So what'll it be?” He cocks his head, preparing for whatever may come: Dagger, fist, or a peaceful solution. He waited, breathing slowly, and keeping light on his toes, ready to strike.

[Basha'ir]

With her eyes glued on the two men, Basha’ir listened intently to Rothyr’s reprimand, and sedate challenge. It wasn’t difficult to hear the blond man’s words, for the whole room had fallen quiet, every eye and ear tuned in to the brewing confrontation. Basha’ir’s gaze focused on the thin weasely cretin, as he made a sort of hacking sound, as if he would spit up a gob of sputum. She feared he would do so and aim it at Rothyr’s face. The masher had that look of brashness about him, rolling his shoulders back and his chest puffing out a bit, his dagger now still, but remaining poised as if he would strike. Basha’ir had noted Rothyr’s gesture, to her, and as surreptitiously as she could, she sidled over closer to him and to the wall, trying to put at least a few more steps between herself and the two men. She knew if she was in the way, it might seriously affect her would be rescuer from fighting as effectively.

The tavern crawler licked his lips and shot her a glance, and she could tell in that instant that he was having second thoughts. Rothyr was bigger, and wore armor. And though he had not yet pulled out any weapon, surely he wasn’t completely unarmed. Beyond that, though he had pulled it off, the tabard was certainly telling about his affiliations. All in all, he made a formidable looking opponent.

Her eyes widened, then, as Rothyr stepped closer still and gave the mutt a shove, that sent him stepping back a pace. This time the dagger did not flash out, the man did not strike, but instead he stared open mouthed at the blonde, bearded warrior. Rothyr gave her a reassurance that Basha’ir herself was beginning to believe. It did seem as if he was sort of invincible. But she had seen tougher men fall. Her eyes darted to him for a moment. She gave him a quick nod and then her eyes flew back to the other, hoping against hope that his brain was not too addled with ale to see that a fight just simply was not worth it. Almost without thought, Basha’ir opened her inner eye and she sensed what was going on with this miscreant. Of course, his pulse was racing, his heart pounding, acrid sweat came from his pores, prickles of adrenalin and fear. Yes, there was a lot of fear. His breathing sounded raspy in her attuned ears, and there was a hazy miasma of indecision about his head.

Once again, the man’s eyes flicked to her and she returned his look, directly, boldly, and thought, Yes, I don't need this trouble. This man looks tough. She's not worth it. Why take the chance of getting my arse kicked? I should just leave him to it. She's not really my type anyway. The thug stared at her stupidly for two seconds, and then his eyes went back to Rothyr. The hand holding the knife fell limply to his side. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

Finally, the gob of spit came spewing forth, but only aimed at the floor, where it splattered and stuck in a nasty glob. He drew the back of his hand across his dry lips, and snarled, “Aye, well, have her then. Here’s hoping you don’t take the pox, mate.” He glared at Rothyr, though there was a fair amount of reticence in that look as well. Then he turned his eyes to the girl but for the briefest moment only, as if he did not care to see what lay in those dark green eyes. With a scoff, he turned on his heel and stalked, in a creeping way, from the tavern.

Basha’ir held her breath, counting to five, waiting to see if he would reappear, or if any of his cronies might jump up and take his place. But apparently he and they were all done with her, and Rothyr. After a few moments more, idle conversation began to hum again at the various tables, and Basha’ir released the breath that she hadn’t even realized she was withholding. Turning fully to Rothyr, she sagged a bit, and gave him a smile from behind her veil.

“By Nikali, I owe you more than I could hope to repay you, sir. You have my humble but heartfelt thanks, a thousand times over, Rothyr.” Her gaze dropped to her sandaled feet, and she looked quite defeated. “I would wish to repay you but I have no means. How can one pay for relief of the type you have given me? Other than to simply say…thank you.”

She tilted her face towards his and gave another small smile. “I would say that I hope someday I could do something as kind for you. But I can not even tell you where you could find me, if you ever did think I could render you a favor in return. I have no job…” She looked with sadness at the bar counter where the rude woman had shot her down so quickly. “And I don’t even have a home at the moment.”

[Rothyr Windbourne]

He felt a surge of relief when the man left. He knew it would be a fairly short and easy fight, but one can always assume if your adversary has a knife: you're going to get cut. He was thankful it didn't come down to that. The way his day had been going so far, that confrontation was only going to end badly. Once he heard the tavern begin to bustle again, he let out a heavy sigh and let his intimidating posture go with a laugh.

“I haven't had to do that in ages,” he says to himself, almost forgetting he was saving a damsel in distress... In a suit of armor... How much more stereotypical could you get? Rothyr was turning into a Syliran fairy tale. That may have to change soon. He'd be riding for Eventide in three days' time, anyways, the next adventure can be figured out while he rides northwards. Maybe across the Suvan sea? Who knows. At any rate, he probably shouldn't have done that. Starting bar brawls in borrowed armor with the gods' knows who? Again, oh well, he'd worry about it later.

Hearing the lady's voice brought him back to it. He turned to face her, now that his adrenaline was dieing down he could feel the aches and pains anew, and moved somewhat stiffly.

“I didn't do it for the pay, or thanks, miss Basha'ir,” he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, “It was nothing, the man was a bastard. If you still mean to leave, I could walk you out. Maybe you'll have better luck and won't be accosted this time,” he finished with a laugh, “I should appologize, really, it wasn't my place to become involved. He came on a little strong, it seemed, and being a Drykas, we like to honor our women a little better I would think. That's just me, though, and I'm not in Cyphrus anymore.”

[Basha'ir]

Rothyr’s offer to walk her out of the tavern gave her pause. It could be that the creep who had tried to get stupid with her might simply be lurking, waiting for her to leave alone. If she turned down this additional kindness, she might be walking right back into trouble. As much as she hated to bother him further, she could see the benefit of being escorted. Of course, at some point they would have to part ways. At that moment, she deeply regretted not being stronger, physically, and not having any skill with even a dagger. That might actually come in handy. But…oh well!

She nodded politely to him, saying, “That would be most appreciated. I’m truly sorry that you have been dragged into my problems. Or, I guess I should say that you amongst all these men…” She nodded at the other patrons. “…were willing to come to my aid. You are right. You owed me no duty, but, I’m very, very glad that you did what you did.”

So saying, she began to move to the door, still looking nervously about. Passing out into the sunshine, she felt cleaner somehow, as if she was leaving some foul mantle behind her. She scanned the street, but saw no sign of the would be rake. Turning to Rothyr, she suggested, “I know that I have disturbed you in taking your ease, and having a drink. Perhaps I could buy you one…some place else? In very small token of my thanks? Or if you are hungry, a meal perhaps? I’m sorry, but, I don’t know of any reputable places for either of those things.”

She was looking him over, out here in the light of late afternoon, and she was put in mind of her original home, now so far away both in time and place.

“You are Drykas? I was born and raised in Ahnatep. I saw some of your kind from time to time. Fierce warriors on horseback, men and women.” Her voice held a small bit of awe at that last thought. Drykas women probably didn’t have to put up with such nonsense, she thought enviously.

“Why have you left your inland sea of grass?” She had noted the tabard, of course, and recognized it for what it was. “Did you come here to join the knights?”

[Rothyr Windbourne]

Rothyr said nothing, but simply bowed his head a little. He figured he may as well let her praise him, as much as he could say 'don't mention it' seemed to make her want to do it more, so why not let her lavish him with kind words? It did not bother him, but he did say it was his pleasure to assist when she mentioned she was glad that he helped her. It was, after all, when was the last time he got into a good fight?

He slowly limped his way out, following Basha'ir as they left the dank, dark, muggy stench of the tavern for the more open air of the city streets. The roads of Cyliras had a stench all their own, but it smelt more akin of people, and animals, than of stale beer and whatever was to be eaten by pub-goers that day. The sun shone, though, and the warmth was welcomed. Rothyr took a deep breath, and exhaled. He would find a way to miss Syliras, if he had to leave, and surely find a reason to return and visit if he wanted to. That was all for future thought, though.

“As far as it comes to drinking or eating, I know little of the area as well. I just happened to ride past here one evening and happen to stop in. That was one hell of a night, from what little I can remember.” Rothyr said with a laugh, 'I should find them again, if I can,' he thought to himself, 'Maybe when I get back from Eventide.'

He continued on, “As far as meals go, I eat what I kill, and make jerky of what's left. Not to mention, the Sylirans like to feed their soldiers, which is a pretty neat thing I think,” Rothyr thought a moment, stroking his bearded chin, “However, if you really do want to help me, I don't suppose you could dress my wounds. I reckon you're a bit more skilled at it than I would be, not meaning any offense, but eh...” He said quietly, “I'm a huntsman, not a healer.”

He watched her eyes looking him over, wondering what she was thinking, when she mentioned her home in Ahnatep. He had figured she came from the regions around there, from the look of her. She was far from home, too, it seemed. She was a welcome reminder of the south.

“Aye, I saw some of your blood as well when we rode through to trade,” He laughed at her compliment on their abilities as horse warriors, “I don't care to brag, but when it comes to riding or things such, we are the most skilled I would reckon,” He was smiling till she mentioned the reasoning he left home, “The reason I left Cyphrus is a long story, one that I don't care to tell, but I was not to join any knights. This I can assure you, miss.”

He sought to change the subject, “What brings you from Ahnatep, if I may be so bold? Was it too hot in Ekytol for you?” He jested with a laugh.