Retrieving Property [John, Revi]

[John Griffin]

What in the...? thought John. He was just about to get an answer out of Rhuryc when a man garbed all in black approached and greeted his companion before rushing out of the tavern. The strangest part was the mask and painted face. Was he an assassin? John looked to Rhuryc for answers, but the tall man's eyes were following the man in black. John stood as well, and leaned over to tell the tender, "Add the rest as credit on my tab." Then he stood straight, pushed his stool in, and followed his bearded companion out the door.

"What's going on here Rhuryc? Who was that?" He looked around as well, trying to spot the black of the cloak. "He had a mask, and black paint on his face. I saw his eyes, but that was it." He wanted answers. What was with the weird people he was bumping into? "Are there people who want you dead?"

[Leviathan]

Despite Rhuryc's urgent attempt to follow the masked man, no such success would become of it. The moment the black garbed man hit the outdoors he fled, and what little time of broken view for Rhuryc he had, he used to get away, blend into the crowd, or hide. Whatever had happened, seemed more likely to be a warning. A simple phrase of "I know you" without so much as a revelation of the man's own identity. There would be no interrogation today though.

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc burst through the doors with a dramatic gesture, his hands sweeping about as one came to rest on the hilt at his hip. He scanned the crowd like a hawk, gaze narrowed and brow furrowed. Sweat ran down his forehead in the desperate foray to find the individual, scanning, searching for that distinct, black attire. Who the hell wore black when they wanted to fit in? Despite his tenacity his effort was to no avail. Fitting. That voice reminded him too much of Tristan - he was dead - could it be someone messing with his head? No. No one but the Knights had survived that encounter, and surely they would not be involved in such pranks. And what more, several people knew him here, in Syliras. His whole life was spent within the walls. He grunted and stepped out into the road, hands falling to his in a defeated gesture. As John followed Rhuryc turned his gaze on the other man, bemused in his countenance.

"No." He said, curtly, his thick baritone ripe with confusion. "Not that I know of. I've killed men, but the only witnesses were those allied to me." His gaze flicked back to the crowd as if the masked individual might suddenly show up and explain his actions. "Perhaps I screwed up his order."

Rhuryc shrugged.

[John Griffin]

John turned in place in a few circles, looking all around. He even thought to look up, but saw nothing. Unconsciously gripping his blade, a habit ground into him by one William Erindale, he realized and relaxed, letting go of the hilt. To his dismay, Rhuryc knew nothing about assassins, or plots of his demise. It was better to know as much of these things as one could. If someone wanted him dead, or to suffer, they might come after John as well, thinking them friends. Are we friends? I just don't know yet. But this was beyond friendship as well. If the man was an assassin, and operating within the city, John was duty bound to foil him and bring him to justice.

"No? A shame." He paused. "Well, a shame you don't know. Hopefully it's nothing." His face scrunched, puzzled. "His order? Who pulls something like that over a deformed horseshoe?" Curious. Curious indeed. John got the felling that Rhuryc knew more than he was letting on, but didn't want to press him. Not yet anyway. But people like that usually didn't just target someone randomly. They had a reason.

"Odd. Very odd." A thought hit him, and he decided to act on it. There was a chance it might pan out, and that was enough. John stepped further out of the tavern into the flow of traffic, and starting asking if people had seen a man dressed all in black.

[Rhuryc]

Ghosts. Rhuryc hated ghosts. Until now the only ethereal beings were in his mind; none had crossed over into reality. He listened idly to Johns machinations, nodding at the right places and ignoring the bit about the horseshoe. Naravane? A clue. With a a quick glance down Rhuryc examined the hilt of his weapon, the tell-tale plain hilt more of a giveaway than it appeared. All manner of weapon retained decoration and very few possessed a make so old as these particular bindings, anyone who knew the sword would know the owner by their family. Whether the fact that the man knew Rhuryc was no longer the question. The issue of past debts, secrets, maybe even oaths, the man found himself cursing silently, reviewing what he knew of his past. So far as family was concerned he knew almost nothing. Tristan, perhaps, that old bastard no doubt still had some unsettled scores. If that were the case than Rhuryc found the weight of his station baring down upon him. Even in death that man produced new ways to torture him.

"I doubt that'll do much good," Rhuryc said, one hand slipping into his pocket while the other hooked into his belt by the scabbard. "I lost him and I was right behind him. I find it's best not to chase people who don't want to be found." He frowned himself, speaking amidst the crowd while his considerable girth forced the peasantry to go around. Say what you wanted about the man, her certainly had his imposing act down. Now if only he kept his beard in better standards.

"Besides. I imagine whoever it was will find me again."

[John Griffin]

John wasn't accustomed to having mysterious people looking for him, or chasing anything more than a petty crook. But it seemed to him as if Rhuryc was. Curious. Did the man have ties to the shadowy but small criminal element in Syliras? John shrugged mentally. He'd probably know a little more if he did. That, or he just doesn't want to tell you, he told himself, You are a knight after all.

The young knight stopped asking people and made his way back through the crowd of traffic, stopping in the empty spot Rhuryc created in the street, much like the spot on the downriver side of a large rock. "You're probably right." He sighed, putting his hands on his hips. "But I'd wager their intent is less than friendly." John glanced around one final time. "Shall we go back to our drinks?" He wasn't sure he was in the mood for such anymore, but he would leave it up to his taller companion.

[Rhuryc]

"Pah." Rhuryc waved the event off. If that man wanted to bring him harm he would have done so by now. And what was more, his focus was undoubtedly on the sword. Maybe even one of Tristan's old goons. Pushing the exchange from his mind the man brought his attention back to John. He gave him a curt nod in silent agreement with his theory. Should he be dead in the morning at least one of the knights would know why. Somehow that did not make him feel any less safe.

"I think I lost my appetite for ale." He said in a matter-of-fact manner. Rhuryc appeared to be on high alert, his shoulders visibly stiffened even beneath the heavy, leather coat that draped his torso. One hand remained dangerously close to the hilt of his blade as well. In truth Rhuryc wanted some kind of action, if just to focus his adrenaline into something other than contemplation. A visible threat he could deal with; it was the waiting that killed him. If Syliras were a less savory place he might have just walked back inside and punched the nearest patron. An old fashion brawl would ease his nerves no doubt.

"I think I need to enact senseless violence on a wall." Rhuryc said as if this were a common event. "Or something. Too jittery to sit."

[John Griffin]

How could one lose their appetite for ale? John certainly couldn't. But it was the middle of the day, and not exactly a normal ale drinking time for most people, alcoholics excluded. Had he known of Rhuryc's desire to start a brawl, the knight might have been uneasy. Instead he was solid in the comfort that if someone tried anything, a dozen knights would be on them in minutes if not moments. "A wall? There's plenty of walls, but I'm not sure about this senseless violence of yours." He slouched a little, relaxing in place. "You could run around the city. That should wear you out. Or-," he eyed Rhuryc's sword, and felt his own on his hip. "Or we could practice our swordplay."

What was he saying? Sure, he was a knight and well practiced with his blade, but this man was near eight inches taller, with some fifty or sixty pounds on him. And a combat veteran to boot. Suddenly his mind was at ease as the words of William Erindale flowed through them. You'll never learn anything fighting your lessers, John. Fight better swordsman, or your peers, and you might just live through your first few battles. Yes, a sparring session was a good idea. "I've got some practice blades in my room, if you want to swing by there."

[Rhuryc]

Practice blades? Oh. Rhuryc was so accustom to training with live steel that he had forgotten that smart individuals practiced with dull iron. The concept seemed odd to him. Logical, of course, but his introduction into the art of sword play was particularly uncommon. Rare. Stupid. Nevertheless the idea was of a firm caliber and John's status would no doubt allow them access to the knight training yards. Now there was a treat. Often Rhuryc found he had to depart the city if he wanted to draw his blade; with any intent to use it that was, and the treks were long and arduous, even if they were just beyond the walls. None of John's ideas sounded that terrible. Some exercise and light spot would ease his mind, take it off the inane happenings of the afternoon. What a day.

"So long as you don't mind taking a bit of punishment." Rhuryc grinned and turned toward John, unsure of how much his companion could actually take when it came to pain. He was sure of his own bullheadedness; he had taken enough beatings to push through the brunt of his own mistakes. This was as good a way as any to tell. "Lead on, friend. I've never been at the mercy of a Knight's swordsmanship before."

[John Griffin]

Lead on John did, with a smile. "Contrary to popular belief, my friend," he started, humor in his eyes. "Training for thee Order is not all courtesy and niceties. It's rough training, making Knights out of boys. I've had my share of cuts, bruises, and beatings." His smile grew. "And I don't mind taking some punishment, so long as you're ready to get as good as you give." John may not have been tempered in combat, but he was still a knight, and well trained with a sword. He led Rhuryc into the heart of the city, where torches burned brightly even in the middle of the day. After several minutes and a half dozen twists and turns, he stopped in front of a plain wooden door, and fished a key out of his pouch. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, leaving the door open for Rhuryc.

The room was sparsely furnished. A bed was stuck in the back left corner with a chest at its feet, and a small table pushed into the back right corner, a plain wooden chair underneath. John made his way to the bed and knelt down, reaching under, groping for something. After just a moment, he pulled his arm back out, a wooden training sword in hand. Another reach, another moment searching with his hand, and another training sword pulled out. "Alright," he said, grabbing both, "Let's go." The young knight stood up and ushered Rhuryc out, locking the door behind them.

More twists and turns, more crackling torches, a set of stairs, and they arrived at a large training ground, clearly meant for sword training. A few others drilled here and there, but it was for the most parts empty. John moved to an empty area and unbuckled his sword belt, tossing it to the ground a few feet away. Turning to his sparring partner, he tossed the second practice sword to him, a light toss that could be easily caught.

"They're metal core, so they shouldn't break, unless you've the strength of a giant. But then my grip is more likely to give before the core. Planning on buying training steel in the Fall, but for now these will have to do." He swung the sword around a few times, loosening up his arms and getting the blood flowing. Finally he took a few steps back. "Shall we, then?" and he raised the wooden blade into the high guard.