[Windward Boardwalk] Contemplation (Open)

[Rhuryc]

Snow was not new to him. It was the quantity that was peculiar. The ever drifting flakes, even in spring, never released their hold this far in the north. No matter the season winter was eternal here. Cold, but never miserable, from what Rhuryc had seen of Taldera he was entranced. Amazed. The white deserts held more beauty than he thought possible of a landscape, so it was not unusual for him to walk in solace within the confines of the Windward, lost in his thoughts and machinations. With such a hazing day the northern newcomer expected no less than absolute quiet, the grand serenity of the nostalgic park allowed to work its magic to perfection. The sounds of combat were most unexpected. Would he ever be free of this nonsense? Drawn as he was Rhuryc stomped through the snowy terrain, his boots crunching with every hastened step. Beyond some sort of iced sculpture he made out two, distinct men. Both armed. Fah. From a distance the details were impossible, one bore a white cloak that obscured him further, but Rhuryc knew fighting. He knew blood. The spear's edge was dipped in red with what he could assume belonged to the combatant with two blades. Instant brought his hand to his sword. White knuckles gripped the ancient weapon with an intention to draw, but this was not his fight. He knew nothing of these men, nothing of their quarrel. Was he just to stand there and watch? What would an honorable man do? And who was he to be honorable. One of them spoke. Was that Vani? Bah. Rhuryc was able to make out a few of the words, but the weather made it all the more difficult. He closed the distance between himself and the others with a few, bounding steps, coming to a quick halt just out of reach from that spear. In all he was an impressive sight. Built like a warrior, he was tall, imposing, muscled, and obviously foreign. Blond hair, green - unchanging - eyes, and a style of southerner, he bore a long leather coat and beneath a simple tunic and breaches, heavy boots and a bastard sword that held close to his left hip. In his momentary poise he took a moment to examine both combatants. Both were young, but only one held himself as a warrior. The bastard was big too. Maybe not very much of a tactician though. The reach of that spear explained a great deal of why the larger man was losing the encounter, albeit the poor, white cloaked lad looked dazed. He should have been dead by what Rhuryc saw. "Problem, gentlemen?" His thick, heavily accented baritone cut through the stray noise like a knife. Neat trick that. He spoke in Vani, at least what he knew of it. He could keep to simple phrases for now and maybe just puzzle through the rest. At least he hoped.

[Amondaris]

Blood seeped from the slit in his side, oozing out from the narrow opening in the otherwise pristine leather armour that shielded his otherwise vulnerable flesh. It dripped from the wound at a steady, relaxed rate, spattering across the snow with each slight movement the large warrior made. The contrast between the stark, utter purity of the fresh powder and the vibrant, chaotically arranged spots of red was quite striking, and one Amondaris would have appreciated, were he not the source of the fluid so decorating the blank canvas upon which he stood. Still, his mind took a moment to note the injury that so marred the smooth skin of his flank, filing it away as a minor inconvenience, for the time being. Turning his head to regard the bard as he struggled upright, he spun his right sword about in a slow, languid circle, the metal edge hissing through the air lazily. It's mate followed suit a heartbeat later as the hunter continued to watch his sparring partner dispassionately, not so much as a flicker of concern showing in his wintry gaze. In contrast, Berus had just asked him if he was alright, despite the obvious pain the man was experiencing. Clearly a man that was either so submissive he had to put himself last, or one of such a warm heart that he chose to put the welfare of a stranger above tending to his own concerns. At any other time, the hunter would have found this laudable, but Amondaris fighting was an altogether different creature from the man in any other situation. Wreathed in armour as white and cold as the tundra he so loved, the attire held as much symbolic meaning as it did practical use. Fighting with a heart of ice was preferable to fighting with one capable of emotion, after all, was it not? He took a single step forward, his weapons rising up, tips turned outwards, wholly intending to refrain from showing the compassion the bard himself had just displayed, when, for the second time today he was interrupted by a stranger's voice. This one, however, was clearly not that of a native of Avanthal, with an accent thick enough to cut with a dull spoon. Slowly, Amondaris shifted his gaze from Berus, turning gracefully to face the newcomer, with all the fluidity of movement one would expect from a dancer. Cocking his head at the strange male, his chill eyes studied the man, roving up and down and noting the man's obviously foreign attire. Anyone that stayed in Taldera for any length of time adapted their wardrobe to wear clothing more suited to the biting cold of the Northernly region. Blonde hair, as well, a rarity among the Vantha people, and tall, almost as tall as Amondaris himself. That was in and of itself exceptional in this area, where even the tallest native fell far short of the two giants that now faced each other across the snow. A fellow warrior, judging from the way the man was poised, every line in the man's body veritably screaming of experience in the path of war. In his own way, the man reminded him of his surrogate father, Rhanor. This, perhaps more than anything, served to defrost Amondaris' glacial demeanour enough to lower his blades, and favour the foreigner with an elegant, formal bow. Straightening, and visibly relaxing, the huge man spoke. "Not at all, sir. Myself and my new acquaintance here are simply conducting a friendly sparring session, as we are both mutually lacking in suitable partners with which to do so."A flicker of his right blade served to draw attention to the wound in his side. "He was fortunate enough, and intelligent enough to blind me with snow, hence the wound. Nothing to worry about, I assure you. I am much used to such things." Canting his head to the left, his features almost completely obscured by the combination of his hood and the scrap of fur covering his nose and mouth, he continued, vibrant blue eyes taking on a bright lilac hue. "Might I ask as to your name, and where you hail from?" Poor Berus seemed to be entirely forgotten, the newcomer taking up all of the hunter's attention.

[Berus]

Cold eyes. Colder than the snow that numbed his feet and bit at his face. Berus paled under that gaze as the hunter advanced toward him and he subconsciously stepped back and away. For the bard, this was very alien and assaulted his very existence. He fed on his emotions and the emotions of those around him. He was a performer, sometimes thrill seeker, and one who pursued his desires and dreams with all he had simply because his emotions dictated it. The warrior advancing toward him had erased all emotions and came toward him with the singular, deadly purpose of taking him down in their little sparring match.

The man was passionless.

Berus grabbed his spear and brought it up, keeping the sharp point between himself and the large hunter. The only defenses he had against the big white warrior’s quick, skilled attacks were the longer reach of his spear and his agile dodges. The man whirled his blades around as he walked toward the bard with no visible signs of compassion for Berus’s fall nor any indications of fear, nor worry, nor excitement. The man just came.

Then, suddenly, the hunter turned away from Berus as another man approached. This man was tall; nearly reaching the hunter’s gigantic, imposing height, bore an sheathed, deadly looking sword, and carried himself in the easy fashion of a composed, experience warrior. The hunter turned away from the bard, seemingly captivated by the obviously foreign warrior. Berus refused to transfer all of his attention to this new man and instead flicked his eyes back and forth and he considered by the revelation of the passionless hunter and the new, strange warrior.

Berus looked him up and down, noting that he was not wearing the proper cold-warding gear worn by most of the Vantha of Avanthal. The man was also certainly not a Vantha as evidenced by his blond hair, odd facial features, and solidly green eyes. Nor was he familiar with their language as the man roughly managed to push a few words of Vani through his thick accent. To Berus, the man was a curiosity to learn about and from. He wondered where this man had come from and how he had come to the frigid northland of Taldera.

When the man spoke, Berus was about to answer but was cut off as the hunter, apparently discovered the kindred spirit of a warrior, answered the man. The hunter seemed far more relaxed speaking to this warrior than he had with Berus only a few minutes earlier, he noted. The hunter also seemed to turn his attention completely away from the small bard, not something that Berus hadn’t totally expected. The man seemed to lose the passionless face he had born as a warrior and instead seemed responded with some emotion to the stranger.

Berus, contented to watch the exchange, stepped back a pace and planted his spear in the ground to help him remain on his feet. The back of his head still sent waves of pain throughout his brain and his legs complained every second, but he stubbornly remained on his feet.

[Rhuryc]

OOCRhuryc never unsheathed his blade =P

Rhuryc's hand lowered from the hilt of his blade. His shoulders visibly relaxed - when had his muscles tensed? - and his posture seemed somehow less threatening. The man was poised to kill. Only when he lacked that willingness to kill was it apparent that the aura even existed. There was experience in those eyes, a taste of death, a hardened exterior that could view an enemy as was necessary and carry through no matter the cost. It was not the sword that made this man dangerous. Yet he was calm. Collected. With that same will to draw blood came the wherewithal to know when to hold back, to favor words over weapons. Not to mention he had been in Avanthal for less then a season, that last thing he wanted was to get kicked out for killing some high standing citizen in a misunderstanding. Or to kill anyone, really. Now. Those words. Like great, grinding gears Rhuryc's mind turned. He mulled the Vani over once and twice again, taking the musical quality of the language and piecing it together over his own understanding. There were subtleties in the way the man spoke. His dialect was almost a stranger to the other locals, more formal perhaps, a might easier to understand. He was able to pick out titles, a respectful tone even. On a haunch he guessed the would-be assailant was being polite. Thankfully the other man remained silent. Two explanations at once may have been too much for him. His response was slow in the coming, but his countenance told much of the story. Although his eyes were narrowed it was a look of concentration, not of hostility, his mind working tirelessly to formulate the proper response. "Forgive me." Rhuryc started, his Syliran accent still thick over the flowing, light Vani. There was something harmonious about his voice at least. It fit in such a small manner. "My Vani is harsh. I am still new to this place." He nodded. That was correct, if not the most tactful. "I am slow. Do not hold your speech on my failings." He paused. The words were not perfect, armature, but the ideas were solid. Besides, Rhuryc was a great deal more vocal in his manner. His attention was focused on Amondaris, but a part of him felt as if he was somehow keeping an eye on Berus. Like a watchful guardian, his mind worked on those around him, the terrain, the weather, even the mural from the corner of his vision. He was aware of all of it. "Rhuryc. Well met." He nodded. In his mind the bow was reserved for those of a higher station, his own gesture was to signify that he held no such rank. "I hail from Syliras. Is this not important, now? You are bleeding." The word for 'hail" was new to him. Best to just repeat words and see if they worked. Why not?

[Amondaris]

The soft lilac suffusing his irises intensified as his curiosity rose in tandem with the more the man said. A Syliran. He had not encountered a Syliran in quite the span of time, since..Well, since his father. This newcomer was fast proving to be a most interesting fellow. Turning his head to Berus, he waved his left sword at him in a dismissive manner, gesturing with the deadly weapon as if it were his own hand. "Our spar is over, for the time being. You fought crudley, and without skill, but you show ingenuity and promise. Though, the next time you enter into combat, set aside your compassion. Stopping to ask after the wellbeing of your foe could well get you killed." His soft purple gaze gradually became mixed with a dark, rich yellow, the two colours swirling lazily about each other like two different inks poured into the same pot. "You look like you could use the attentions of one of the Whitevine healers. I would advise seeking them out immediately. I've been told sleeping with a head wound is strongly advised against, so make certain you attain aid before heading off to do anything else." Once more the weapon was raised, this time to beckon the young bard onwards, indicating for him to hurry on. "Shoo, before you collapse. I do not wish to carry you to get patched up." Turning his attention from the battered looking man, he focused his gaze upon Rhuryc once more. Reversing his grip on the twin blades grasped in his fur-strapped hands, Amondaris gently slid the meticulously cared for weapons back into their sheaths, the hilts giving a minute click upon reaching the metal rim of the scabbards. His weapons now out of the equation, the young hunter shifted his weight to lean upon his left leg, his armour rustling faintly with the motion. He was a big man, Amondaris. Very tall, but not too broad. Lean of muscle and limb, yet clearly not in a manner that indicated a lack of strength, the warrior was slimmer than the foreign warrior opposite him, and likely lighter. The younger male held himself in a peculiar fashion, his every movement and gesture light and measured. He combined the natural grace and elegance of the swordsman, so like that of a dancer, with the savage and feral limberness of a wild animal into a distinctive stance, the man's posture and gait easily recognisable as that of a hunter and warrior. The eyes, too, spoke of time spent far too often hunting, or alone in the wilderness. Always roving when not in conversation, keeping tabs on everything and anything in his immediate viscinity, vigilant for so much as the slightest sign of trouble. Yet, when he spoke, his gaze fastened to whomever he talked with, the stare direct and bare, holding in it a natural challenge for dominance. The man didn't even notice he did such, unfortunately, and some would understandably get annoyed by the constant staring. How this foreigner reacted to his peculiar manner would remain to be seen. Syrlias? He hadn't encountered anyone from the city of Knights since he was a child, a mere pup. His father had hailed from Syliras, though he was no Knight. He studied Rhuryc again, noting the large blade sheathed at his side. Could this man be a Knight, perhaps? Did they ever leave the city? If so, what was he doing here? Perhaps the man had heard of his father...Well, there was only one way to find out. He would, unfortunately, have to dust off what fledgling social skills he possessed, and actually talk to the man. This, would be interesting. Approaching the man with a long, loping stride that looked as if it could devour leagues in very short order, he extended his hand, the appendage almost entirely covered in straps and swathes of fur and leather of the purest white. "I am Amondaris. I'm from around here myself, though I spend all my time in the tundra." A slow dip of the head indicated his understanding. "The fact that you can speak Vani at all is a good thing, Sir Rhuryc." He nodded at the attire the foreigner was clad in, a faint smile quirking the lips hidden behind the length of fur. His eyes, however, betrayed his amusement, taking on a deep, dusky gold hue, reminiscent of the setting sun. "You should consider buying furs or something more suited to the cold." In response to the query about the bleeding, the hunter merely shrugged. "The cold will cause the flow to either slow to a trickle or stop, and after that I can stitch it up. I've sustained worse, don't worry." Dismissing the topic from both conversation and thought, Amondaris swiftly moved on to other matters, the young man becoming surprisingly loquacious since his initial appearance. "May I ask what brings you here? Just seeing the sights, or here for more important matters? I don't mean to pry, of course, but you seem to be a man possessed of an interesting path in life. I don't exactly get to talk to many people." He paused here, tilting his head to one side gently as if in thought. "Hm. In fact, I think this is the first time I've spoken to people in a very, very long time..So forgive me for any lack in social graces. I am somewhat rusty." Reaching up with his left hand, he pulled down the covering of his face and drew back his hood, giving himself a quick shake to settle his hair into some semblance of neatness. His face was handsome, albeit in a cold, hard manner, and was possessed of strong, stubborn features. Yet the easy, warm smile that now graced his lips softened the otherwise harsh appearance of the man, lending him a surpsingly friendly, affable air. The man could almost be mistaken for a different person, such was the contrast between this smiling, charming individual and the passionless warrior of but a few moments before. Raising a hand to absently rub at his stubbled cheek, the callouses of his fingers rasping against the roughly shaven facial hair, he spoke once more, the voice soft and strangely gentle for such a large man, the tone thoughtful, almost ponderous. "My father came from Syliras. It is unlikely, but perhaps you knew of him? He and I have..Matters to discuss. Went by the name Darinius Stoneblade?"

[Berus]

Berus frowned when he was so quickly and absentmindedly dismissed. It seemed that now that there was another warrior a little inexperienced chap such as him was no longer wanted around. Kind of like how a child was dismissed by an adult at the approach of one of similar age. It was a little disheartening for the young bard, yet he still wanted to stick around to see the meeting of the two warriors, both of whom were very strange by the area’s standards.

He nodded to the hunter, smiling to dispel any lingering fears the hunter might have that he was hurt, and hobbled away a bit, leaning heavily on his spear. It dawned on him that perhaps he was using the spear more as a staff than an actual spear as of late, for he’d only made one pass at the skillful hunter before their duel was interrupted by the arrival of the interesting newcomer. Berus looked back to see if any were watching and then suddenly deviated from his path, heading toward a rapidly rising snowdrift so that he would disappear behind it.

Once out of sight, he immediately fell to the ground and crawled to a point where he could just barely see over the snowdrift. His eyes narrowed as they peered through the snow. He could barely make out the forms of the two warriors, the foreigner easier to make out because of the hunter’s white clothing. Neither had drawn any weapons and, in fact, the hunter seemed far more relaxed with the newcomer than he had with the young bard. It struck him as a little odd; the bard posed not a threat while the warrior looked as if he had enough experience to certainly challenge, if not best, the hunter.

The wind carried the words, even the more quietly spoken ones, right to the bard’s inquisitive ear. Luck was with him, for he was afraid that the hunter might sniff him out if it had been blowing in the other direction. He wasn’t too afraid of the consequences of being caught eavesdropping other than a few condescending looks, and he was far too interested to simply let the meeting slide without knowing everything that transpired.

OOCFixed the whole sword thing -_- sorry! Also, I’m sort of eavesdropping so if you wanna catch me you can? If not, just skip my posts as its boring to simply sit here and eavesdrop.

[Rhuryc]

Odd. Rhuryc was unsure of what transpired before him. From his perspective it was as if the master had discarded an apprentice, a poor sod dejected and cast away with little remorse. The taller man spoke to fast to decipher his speech in full. From the tone it was a chastisement. So they were sparing? With live weapons. What idiocy was that? The smallest wound could fester, catch infection, leave the host dead within days if it was not taken care of appropriately. With a furrowed brow his attention flickered between both Amondaris and Berus, the split keeping close tabs on the one that departed in such an unsightly manner. The crunch of snow echoed with the 'thump' of the spear's end, the rhythm a pleasant distraction to the ever-churning gears within Rhuryc's mind. Deciphering Vani was no such delightful task. Amon's stare was met with a similar gesture. Rhuryc did not back down nor did he rise to the occasion with hostility. He was calm and complacent. He held his ground, steady, his body still and exterior smooth. While his countenance was plain it was not bereft of emotion. The moods were simple. Contemplation. Curiosity. There was something honest in this man's demeanor. Trust was easy to come by, deception an unknown quality. If he was a Knight then he very much embodied the theories within his order. "Ah." Rhuryc blinked. So much at once. Why did that rhythm stop so soon? With a quick glance over his shoulder he risked a quick departure to check on the other soul. Gone already? Strange. "One question at once, please?" The baritone did what it could to lessen the accent, but that thick, southern dialog did little clear his words. Fortunately his enunciation was legendary for a foreigner. "I do not wish to be rude. That wound? May fester in spite of cold. Wound will kill you. Go inside?" Rhuryc turned and motioned back toward Avanthal proper, though he was more interested in his own cabin. There at least he had bandages and supplies to clean the wound with. His knowledge of medicine was limited but he was familiar with similar, superficial cuts. Without much ado he started to walk. No was not an answer he was willing to stomach. Besides, this way he could satisfy his curiosity concerning their wayward companion. "Syliras is large. Do forgive. I do not know the name." Not even the last name. Rhuryc spoke as he walked - a task more difficult then he imagined. "My purpose is not special. This is just where I am. Looking for. Ah. Something?" How could he explain in a language he was not all too familiar with?

[Amondaris]

The distinctive crunch-crunch-thumf that accompanied Berus' three-pronged gait shuffled off into the distance, growing faint as the bard made his way to, presumably, the healer's. Still regarding Rhuryc with that unwavering stare, he cocked his head much the same way a dog might upon hearing something out of the ordinary. Listening intently, he could not for the life of him hear the unique rhythm of Berus' treading, despite the fact the sound hadn't emanated long enough for the battered bard to have gone far at all. Peculiar. Perhaps this bard is more skilled than I originally thought. The bumbling show may only be a facade worn to obfuscate his true intellect. If so, clever. If not..Well. Bumbling is bumbling. Returning his full attention to Rhuryc, he gave a quiet, gruff grunt of assent, simply falling into step beside the foreigner as the man made for the general direction of the city proper. The Knight, he admitted, had a point. Without a healer to tend to it, even the merest scrape could prove to be a severe risk to a warrior's health if left unattended. The fact that the man seemed decent enough to insist that he attend to his injury, despite not knowing him at all suggested that the Syliran was possessed of respectable qualities. He was easy to get along with, compared to most people Amondaris had encountered. No airs or graces, and he sensed this man lacked the arrogance and spite of some vile specimens he had encountered in the past. The spoiled brat Amireh came to mind. Suppressing a shudder at the mere thought of that witch, Amondaris cleared his throat and began to hesitantly speak, his musical, gentle baritone lending the Common he now spoke with a lilting touch. "I thank for your concern. You look like a good man, Rhuryc." He paused, a mild frown creasing his forehead as he chewed through the words he sought. It had been some time since he had spoken this language, and switching from the Vani he was so accustomed to was far easy. Still, he persevered, forging ahead, his accent thick but his pronunciation clear. "I have never left Avanthal. Been here always. I seek to leave. Need companions. Need more skill with sword." The frown deepened, the young man's eyes darkening to a steely grey as he stubbornly continued to speak, despite the difficulty of using the foreign language which tasted so terribly odd upon his tongue. "Did not really expect you to know of my father. He was, ah..." He raised a pale hand, bound in straps of fur and thin ropes of white fabric, gesturing in a circular manner out of a sense of mild frustration, the words he sought eluding him. "How do you say..Uhm. Nonreliable? He was sellsword. I, too, want to be sellsword. Found small group of them, grow large, win many battles and earn much respect. Coin not important. Respect and honour very important to me." Nodding at himself, and appearing much pleased with his butchery of the Common tongue, his gaze drifted down to the marks upon the snow which indicated the way Berus had walked from the secluded area with the sculpture. The regular appearance of a circular hole in the white powder beside the imprint of someone's feet was a clear giveaway as to whom the tracks belonged to, and made tracking the man painfully obvious. Arching a brow as his gaze followed the tell-tale signs, he raised his nose to the air and sniffed, as if seeking the scent of something. A gesture the young hunter had come to affect to amuse himself whilst on particularly long sojourns in the wild, it had become something of an occasional habit. He slowed, nodding his head at the snow bank where the tell-tale shaft of a spear peeked out from the large gathering of white powder, in order to alert Rhuryc to the whereabouts of the wayward bard. Sinking down to his haunches, the hunter scooped up a large handful of snow, promptly setting about compacting it between his fur-clad hands to form a solid, sturdy snowball. Rising, he squinted towards where he assumed Berus lay, took careful aim and, drawing back his arm, launched the projectile forward, the ball sailing forward to land either atop, or fairly near to the hiding Vantha. Not waiting to see if his missile struck true, he turned and strode off in the direction they had been headed, continuing the conversation is his stilted Common. "You search with something in head, or do you search for purpose? Know anyone in Avanthal? Maybe talk to Morwen.", he asked, his head tilted towards the bearded man to his left, expression curious.

[Berus]

Berus slid as low in the snow as he possibly could when he heard the footsteps treading nearer. He had already decided that attempting to stay and eavesdrop was a poor decision as the two men apparently decided to taunt him further by moving their discussion to the privacy of the foreigner’s dwelling. Their words suddenly started to become clearer and clearer as the wind changed favorably to bring them directly to his inquisitive ears.

Berus heard a soft crunch and nearly jumped as his blood surged cold. Then he realized that the wind hadn’t changed, the hunter and the foreigner were simply getting closer! The path to the foreigner’s residence apparently included an area very, very close to his hiding spot. He frantically considered his options to get away and avoid the embarrassment of being caught eavesdropping, though not one solid thought could connect out of the scores bouncing around in his head.

If he jumped up and ran he would instantly be recognized by the two and might even set off one of the two warriors’ survival instincts, getting himself accidently slain by a sword thrown in self defense. Crawling away was far too obvious and left far too great of a trail for it to be much of an option. His third thought, flying away, wasn’t even possible… Come on, I’m getting more ridiculous, he reflected, suppressing the urge to smack himself in the face for the fanciful thought.

The next moment the back of his neck felt a slight impact and a great wave of cold washed over his exposed skin. He yelped loudly, leaping to his feet and hands frantically swiping at the snow that was now evilly trailing down his back. His impulsive leap to his feet proved foolish immediately as the ice received assistance by the ever present enemy gravity as it steadily charged down his small back. Resigning his back to its fate, Berus surrendered that territory to the biting cold as he redirected his efforts toward revenge against the one who had assaulted him so.

Eyes flashing blue and a hard, frozen ice pellet already in hand, his gaze flicked back and forth between the two retreating warriors. Indecisiveness clawed at him as he attempted to discern which of the two had the humor and vicious streak to throw a snowball on a poor little unsuspecting bard’s head. From what he knew of the hunter, he had just a pinch of humor thrown in with a lot of pragmatic sense and a warrior’s mindset gained from years out on the frozen tundra. The foreigner was completely alien to Berus, who had not properly met him and knew little other than the fact that he was kind enough to offer to patch up the hunter’s wounds.

Berus made a decision then, trusting on his impulse, and chucked the snowball as hard as he could directly at the back of the foreigner’s head. The snowball flew with amazing accuracy born out of blind luck rather than any real skill and Berus smiled with wicked glee. He imagined the man grinning ear to ear as he congratulated himself on his prank and thought of how that face would rapidly transform to one of deep anguish as the cold assaulted him.

The little bard turned and ran then, quickly climbing to the top of the snow mound and virtually tackling the ground to get behind cover so that he would not be seen. Though he was considered a fool by some, he was no idiot and wasn’t about to wait around to see what the man would do next. Hopefully, they would think he had run as fast as he could out of the area and just go about their business.

However, his eyes widened as he noticed his spear was still lying in the snow at the bottom of the mound.

[Rhuryc]

Aha! Common. The relief of hearing his native tongue was palpable. Despite the slew of questions and comments Rhuryc found himself more patient then ever with this newest companion. The choppy, childish speech was no doubt similar to his own failings in Vani. At least he enjoyed talking. Whether that was a good thing Rhuryc did not know. In all the exchange was pleasant. If strange. The addition of the snow ball brought some questions, but he ignored the projectile and instead focused on what he could remember of the dialogged onslaught. "Ah. Mercenaries." He spoke in common for now. The words suited him. The heavy baritone no longer thick, but prefect for the dialect. Without stumbling over his words Rhuryc presented himself in a competent manner, well behaved and direct. Efficient. "I've only just arrived this season. I can't say I'm in much of a hurry to leave, this country is magnificent. And slow. It's like everyone knows their place here, has some kind of purpose." He smiled and nodded, thinking. Search with something in head. He could not have put it better himself. But to talk to Morwen? More divinity. Rhuryc already had enough trouble with the Divine, seeking the attention of another was far beyond his scope of ideas. "I don't be-" Pitunk! What the hell? The man felt the snow impact the back of his head. Although at first his adrenaline kicked him, his senses heightened, he was quick to realize that was no lasting pain. A joke? A hand rose to feel the back of his neck, the calm, unmoving demeanor some kind of strange reaction. The man had not budged. When the snow hit him he was perfectly still as if he knew it was coming and as he turned his head to glance over a shoulder his countenance was one of quiet contemplation. What a strange fellow. "Believe Morwen and I have anything to speak on. Although I know little about her." Turning, Rhuryc started off toward the mound. Slow, deliberate, he stopped at the discarded spear and picked it up. An interesting weapon. His own experience with a spear was limited and brief, but he could not say he disliked the choice. Rhuryc peeked over the snow. He quirked a brow at the hidden bard and stared for a few moments, giving the fellow an awkward moment or two. Without a fuss he lightly tossed the weapon over and switched back to Vani. "You forgot this."