A Game of Riddles (Solo)

[Lysander]

The tavern was oddly devoid of its usual patrons, which wasn't altogether surprising. A cold rain was falling outside, coating the cobbled streets in a thin veneer of shimmering moisture. Although pretty, it seemed to dissuade those who didn't need to venture outside their homes. It made for a pleasing serenade for the ears regardless; the patter of raindrops falling on the wood-staved roof produced a hollow noise that provided subtle ambiance for the room. It was not plainly obvious at first, but it trickled through the rafters almost discreetly, like moisture hitching a slow ride on the breeze.

Lysander had already knocked back two drinks - an ale and a generous shot of Bernese brandy. Of course, his liver might as well have been made of steel, for he hardly felt buzzed. The trademark "pull" on the back of his cheekbones, often indicative of tipsiness, had yet to even arrive. While it was not his intention to get blackout drunk so as not to compromise his dignity, he felt that feeling buzzed would dull his senses. Anything to put a metaphorical tourniquet around a limb caked in intellectual frustration. The tome he had read about - the fateful tome, whose power that he'd hoped one day have the skill level to command, was nowhere in sight. He had consulted various libraries, scholars, and archives, to no avail. Perhaps giving up the ghost was a realistic solution by now, but he refused to do so yet.

He was sinking low in the oak-backed seat, scrawling notes on a limp piece of parchment. So enthralled was he in his writing that he failed to notice the hooded man that sat in front of him. It was not uncommon to mingle with strangers in pubs like this. The man had a pointed chin, scraggly red hair that was partially concealed beneath his dark brown hood, and deep chestnut eyes that appeared absent of any malice. He had an inquisitive, pressing look - not entirely contrasted to Lysander's own piercing gaze.

"Pardon the intrusion," the stranger began, prompting Lysander to look up. "I couldn't help but notice that you're writing. You would be surprised how rare it is to find someone who is literate in this gods-forsaken town."

Lysander paused briefly, somewhat transfixed at the newcomer's words. Then he spoke. "I suppose not," he replied flatly, his voice gradually rising in modulation. "But that is hard to dispute, isn't it? Few take the time to enrich their minds with written words. In my opinion, a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge."

The hooded figure nodded. "I couldn't agree more. So what brings you here? Peace? Quiet? Solitude? All three?" He shot a grin expectantly.

"You see right through me," said Lysander, waving a hand dismissively. "I can only suspect that you're here for the same reason. Doesn't appear that either of us will be going anywhere for a while." He gestured at the opposite window, which was still being assailed by the rain outside.

The newcomer grinned and lowered his hood, revealing a tangled mass of red hair. "In that case, I have a proposition for you," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Lysander raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"

"A game of riddles," the man replied. "First one to give up must buy the next round of drinks."

[Lysander]

Lysander eyed the man suspiciously, though he detected no malice present. It was not uncommon to ask for simple methods of passing the time, especially on dismal, rainy nights such as this. Sighing, Lysander nodded. He could do with some semblance of intellectual exercise. Besides, he had made the mistake of not bringing a book, or several. Nodding, leaning in to address the man, he spoke once more.

"Very well," Lysander began. "But let's make a bet too, shall we?" The usual jangle of coins rubbing against themselves in his coin satchel was markedly absent once more. "Say... 5 gold for the winner? Perhaps we could up the ante a few times as well."

The red-haired man grinned a toothy grin. "Yes, that sounds interesting. Let's make it 10 gold to start, shall we?"

Lysander nodded in response. "You have yourself a deal."

"As challenger, I reserve the right to the first riddle. Shall we?" the red-haired man began, a wispy tone meandering its way into his claret. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Lysander smirked. He had known this one for years.

"Because both can produce notes," he said confidently, his smirk slowly tricking its way into grin territory. "The bird sings, and one can make the quill sing if one feeds it lyrics."

The red-haired man smiled and raised his goblet, taking a thoughtful swig. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he noted. "And might I say, this ale is damn refreshing. Strikes the thirst right down to its source."

Lysander did think his new acquaintance raised a compelling point: this tavern was renowned for its ale, which was generally safer to drink than the water found around these parts. The young mage nodded curtly.

"Mm. I agree," Lysander said. "Well, then. My turn? 15 gold for this next one." He cleared his throat. "The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?"

The man permitted a sigh to escape his lips. "Child's play. Footsteps!" he replied, wagging a finger accusingly, albeit jokingly, at Lysander. "Go on then, drink!"

Lysander smirked, then downed a hearty mug of ale down to its halfway mark. As anticipated, the buzz eluded him once more. "Well, you can't expect me to pull out the big tomes immediately. I like to progress more... subtly."

"25 gold for this next one," the red-haired man postulated. "This one's a personal favorite of mine. Think you can solve it? Here goes: I am submerged, yet I am not wet. What am I?"

Lysander nearly snorted. Again, he had heard this one. It wasn't uncanny necessarily, but considered he devoured virtually every book he could find, books of riddles were well among this rabble. "A reflection," he said, unable to conceal his amusement. "I trust it would be too much trouble to ask for a true, unadulterated challenge from you? Stretch my brain?"

The red-haired man also appeared to be falling short of concealing his amusement, even as he downed another swig of ale. "Ah. You're very astute. Have you spent most of your life with your nose buried in books?"

Lysander smirked once more, contemplated nodding, but instead peered into his mug, ale bubbles gargling delicately.

[Lysander]

"Now," Lysander continued in response to the red-haired man's keen observation and compliment, "we shall raise the ante to 50 gold. I daresay that's enough empty mugs and flagons to make a small model fortress."

The red-haired man leaned in, bright eyes glinting in the low candlelight. "What'll the next riddle be, then?"

"Glad you asked," Lysander said dryly. "I have a past, but no future. I have a present, but no presence. What am I?"

Lysander noticed that the red-haired man was twirling strands of his cloak between his index and middle fingers. Was he showing signs of relenting? Or perhaps it was too early to tell? Likely the latter, no doubt.

"You are... ti- no, history. History is my final answer!" the red-haired man corrected breathlessly. "History!"

Lysander raised an eyebrow. "Well? Do you abide by that answer?"

The red-haired man nodded, his face beginning to err on the side of flushing. The salmon color that rose in his cheeks seemed to accentuate his features. He was not old - quite the opposite. In fact, it would not have been unreasonable to deduce that this man was around Lysander's age, give or take a couple of years. What was he doing here on his own? Stories would be material for another time, if there was another time to be had.

"Correct," Lysander admitted, genuinely impressed. "Most who attempt this riddle do in fact answer with 'time', but obviously, that is incorrect. Color me captivated... sir."

The red-haired man guffawed. "The name's Lorcan, if you must know. It's a name that few know unless you're at sea."

"Sea?" Lysander repeated quizzically. "If you haven't noticed, you're a long way from the sea. I haven't crossed paths with a single corsair in these parts. Or, more specifically, inland corsairs are better represented by the name 'bandit' or 'brigand'. I've also heard 'bastard' thrown around in reference to them as well, but as we both know, that's a politically incorrect usage, unless they were in fact born out of noble wedlock."

"I'm no bandit," Lorcan interjected. "Hardly even a pirate anymore. I'm here in Bern on business. Consider this game a way of... passing the time." By now, the smirk had returned to his face. "One hundred gold for this next riddle."

Lysander felt his eyebrows furrow, his forehead creasing into small valleys; a tiny scale model of a Bernese mountain range. "Very well. Proceed."

Lorcan cleared his throat. "What belongs to you, but only others use?"

"Your name," Lysander replied, scarcely a heartbeat later. He had spoken without giving the riddle a proper thought, of course, though he had secretly hoped his gut instinct would not prove him the loser.

"Wait, what?" Lorcan said, somewhat abashedly. "You're a bona fide fountain of shrewdness! Well done indeed." He leaned in, evidently basking in something that Lysander could not quite put his finger on. Cudgel his brains though he might, he came up dry. Perhaps it really was all a game to Lorcan. "Now, tell me your name, since I was kind enough to give mine. Common courtesy and all that nonsense."

Lysander smirked, a ghost of a smile beginning to make rounds on his face. "Lysander Finestra, mage and scholar of artifacts. At your service." He feigned a half-salute.

[Lysander]

"Well met, Lysander," Lorcan chortled, feigning an equally half-assed salute. He seemed thoroughly amused. Well, not only seemed, per se, but entirely and evidently so. The red-haired pirate had some semblance of courtesy, at least. He was unlike the common rabble, especially among pirates and corsairs. Lysander had come across few bandits that were truly as well-read as Lorcan. Yet he was no scholar. Of that, Lysander could be certain.

"You think you can answer this next riddle, Lorcan? I'm placing two hundred gold on this one," Lysander challenged.

Lorcan whistled breathlessly. "Two hundred? You even got that much, smartypants? I do, but I'm not so keen on parting with that much."

"Tell you what," Lysander replied, gauging the vague flickers of uncertainty arising in Lorcan's eyes. His pupils shrank slowly. "If you get this riddle, I will forfeit the game. You will be the winner. In addition to two hundred gold, I will buy you another round of drinks and give you my room for the night. However, if you don't get the riddle, you must forfeit two hundred gold and buy me a drink. So, do we have a gentleman's agreement?"

Lorcan's eyes glowed, illuminating his irises in pale coronas. He had impressively dark eyes for someone so ginger. He looked around the room quizzically for a moment, then back at Lysander. "You have yourself a deal. Bring it on, mage."

Lysander felt his lips curl into a half-grin. "Many-manned scud-thumper!" he began, voice soaring aloft. "Maker of worn wood, shrub-ruster, sky-mocker, rave! Portly pusher, wind-slave. What am I?"

Lorcan must have felt his jaw unhinge and drop onto the table, for Lysander saw the sheer abashed look in the astute pirate's face long before it must have registered with his psyche. "I... what... a riddle that's basically poetry? You're cheating! Except you're not... drat! Okay, think..."

To this, Lysander smiled, even going so far as to bare his teeth.

"It must be... a ship?" Lorcan posed tentatively, visibly wincing at the uncertainty of his own answer.

Lysander shook his head, barely able to contain his amusement. "Wrong!" he said, chuckling. "Close, though. The answer is the ocean. Fork it over!" he finished, referencing the two hundred gold he was to shortly make.

Lorcan cursed under his breath, drew a purple satchel from his overcoat, then tossed it to Lysander, who spent the next several moments sifting through it to ensure that the amount was correct. When he was satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and pocketed the satchel, setting it neatly next to his own nearly vacant one.

"You win," Lorcan mumbled, a salmon color on the rise in both of his cheeks.

"I do," Lysander repeated, smirking. "I invite you to stay for a drink or two, perhaps dinner? I have paltry expenses, if any at all. Care to remain?" he inquired.

It took a few moments for Lorcan to recover his bearings, but he eventually forced a few gyrations that more or less resembled a nod. That settled it.

[Lysander]

After a prolonged pause, which seemingly dragged on for more moments than Lysander cared to admit, the dark-garbed mage recoiled, then leaned back into his seat. He found some spare amusement in the fact that he had turned Lorcan's bewilderment into his own favor. He had been so determined, so ostensibly dead-set on winning the bet, that he had perchance failed to account for his own ability. While not paltry, and certainly not lacking, Lysander simply possessed a quicker wit. It was to be expected: the mage trumping the brute.

Though Lorcan didn't quite look the part of a brute. He was too young, too handsome. Moreover, a well-read pirate was hard to come by. Despite the outcome, however, the red-haired man had more than garnered Lysander's admiration.

"You did well for a ruffian," Lysander began cautiously. He shouldn't have quite phrased it like that, but seeing as Lorcan did not seem to react negatively, he continued. "You've a sharp mind. Are you literate? Do you bring books on your voyages?" Lysander pressed inquisitively.

"Aye, that I do," managed Lorcan, his cheeks finally beginning to revert to their colorless pallor, diminishing the boiled salmon consistency. "I became literate at a young age. Ma and Da were scribes, you see. Before they passed - the dengue fever that swept through the continent failed to spare them - they wanted me to use my brains instead of eat them. Being swift of wit comes in handy when you're contending with looters and pillagers. Stew-for-brains, they have. I've yet to meet a single bandit who can write his own name."

This coaxed a chuckle out of Lysander. "I'll drink to that," he responded plainly, bringing his mug to his lips once more. The cool swill of ale rejuvenated his senses, as it always had before. The circus troupe coveted ale as if each successive barrel were their firstborn offspring. Although fine liquor was more to Lysander's taste, ale was easy to drink and relatively cheap. He swallowed heartily, then asked, "Are you part of a crew then?"

Lorcan shook his head. "Haven't been for a while. One mutiny too many and a head mounted on a pike was enough for me." He leaned forward, smirking, as if he had found the perfect punchline to a joke. "On clear days, some say you could see Rovis's head flailing about in the wind. See, he tried to seize all of our assets. He wanted to be filthy rich like the rest of us, but his head was ruled by greed. So we ganged up on him and killed him. Left him skewered on some no-name shore off the coast of Ilia."

"A perceived threat to your ideals, I imagine?" Lysander replied, undaunted by the grotesqueness of the account. "How did you get separated from the rest of your crew? As I previously stated, you are a long way from the sea."

Lorcan swallowed with some resolve, as if trying to cram a stone down his throat. "I didn't."

[Lysander]

Lysander froze, his eyes gradually widening. What could this ruffian possibly mean? It sounded like a cop-out, but Lysander couldn't be sure. It was typical ambiguity-fueled banter at this point in time.

"Whatever do you mean, 'you didn't'"? asked Lysander haughtily. "Unless you'd care to elaborate?"

Lorcan took a draught of ale, sighed heavily, looked to and fro, then finally nodded. "Aye. That's... a long story. Perhaps you could tell me one in exchange? It doesn't seem like this rain will be letting up for quite some time."

Lysander nodded. He didn't mind titillating his storyteller side. It made for good recitation practice. "Implore me," he said in a low voice.

"I was a sailor on the North Wind," began Lorcan firmly. "We were docked in Ilia for a while, on the accursed frozen coastline. Food was scarce, and we were on the verge of mutiny. Sound familiar? What I just told you factors into what I'm about to tell you," he said, baring his teeth fiercely, his eyes widening.

Lysander leaned in as Lorcan continued his tale, rationing his breaths.

"I told you that my captain, Rovis, tried to seize everything we plundered for himself. But that's not the half of it," Lorcan continued. "You see, I wasn't a full-fledged member of the crew. I was a novice. I cleaned and served as a powder monkey. Hell, they even called me 'wench' a couple of times. I was a nobody. Nothing takes away your sense of maleness than being demeaned even when you're pulling your weight. They didn't even consider me a full crew member - hence, 'I didn't'. I say that because I may very well never had a crew to begin with."

Lorcan swallowed. Lysander allowed him the time.

"What I told you about Rovis was true. We did turn on the bastard. We did mount his head on a pike and desert it off the coast of Ilia, where many winters have no doubt consumed it to bone by now. But... I wasn't part of that. I hid below decks, afraid they'd flay me too. Me, a shrimp. A scamp!"

Somehow, this prompted a chuckle to escape Lysander's lips. It seemed like a typical run-of-the-mill troubled sailor's tale, but there was still much beauty to be had in domesticity.

"I was only learning the ways of the axe at the time, so I couldn't even try to help them," Lorcan continued, swallowing firmly, as if trying to navigate an oblong stone down his esophagus. "And... well, I was worried about what they would say. I was afraid they'd find out how scared I really was. I was shaking in my boots. And what do cowards do, you might ask?" Lorcan postulated, crossing his arms about his chest.

"They run," Lysander replied with much affirmation. "Cowards are like marked prey attempting escape. They flee before the cauldron is brought to a boil. They refuse to consign themselves to dying, only to find that they'll be devoured in a stew anyway. It's a disgraceful way to keel over, if you ask me," the mage continued.

Lorcan nodded solemnly, as if he wasn't entirely in control of his body's movements.

[Lysander]

"I was a coward through and through," Lorcan continued, swallowing. He looked down momentarily, then up, then to the left and the right. "I'm shameful as a pirate, and I probably have no right to call myself one."

Lysander stiffened himself broadly. "I don't believe you relinquished the right, Lorcan. In fact, I would argue that it takes the utmost gall to evade combat and distance yourself from a potentially dangerous situation. I was never much one for combat myself, but..." He ran a finger over his tome furtively. "...I use it when necessary."

"A mage, eh?" Lorcan repeated, as if the observation seemed exceptionally foreign to him. "Never much cared for tomes, as much as I enjoy reading. I could never grasp the mental acuity for it. The same goes for any weapon other than the axe." He patted an oblong burlap sack beside him.

Lysander snorted. "Ah, yes, the clumsiest figment of combat ingenuity. Truly a sight to be hold. How can one swing something so fundamentally clunky? I can understand swords and one can justify the lance, but I'm afraid I have yet to bear witness to a legitimate argument regarding axes save for their inherent usefulness in deforestation."

"How did we go from origin stories to debating axes?" Lorcan asked quizzically, as if he was trying to downplay the triviality of Lysander's comment. "Tell me a little about yourself, Lysander. Where are you from? How did you begin studying magic?"

Lysander sighed indifferently. Monologues weren't his forte. "Well... I suppose it begins here. I'm Bernese, raised within the bowels of the capital. My family was middle-class, although I was raised by my uncle often. My father was... to put it bluntly, a brute. Often drunk, often absent. He was a captain in the legion of warriors and fighters governing Bern's axe-wielding division. His methods were unconventional and often sadistic. Yet nobody questioned him, because they weren't supposed to." He took a bracing breath. "Let's just say that my father was less than pleased with my natural proclivity with magic. I walked away with a broken nose..." He gestured to his misshapen schnoz.

Lorcan huffed, though he seemed understanding and relieved at the openness of Lysander's exposition.

"...And a slightly cracked dignity," concluded Lysander. "Ended up joining a circus troupe after drifting for a spell, no pun intended. I was part of a routine that dealt with light shows and the like. That continued for some time. Merriment was had, drinks were had, rinse and repeat. Of course, I struck out on my own after a while. The thirst for knowledge far outweighed the thirst for fame. So, here I am, expunging guilt in a pub with a stranger after a game of wits."

Lorcan chuckled. "I appreciate the honesty and the length of your story. We both have shameful things we care not to admit, I suppose." He drank once more, oblivious to the fact that commotion was beginning to brew outside.

And, like Lorcan, Lysander seemed blissfully nonplussed as well.

[Lysander]

"What, ho! What is this, then?" A tavern waitress with a ghastly lower class accent burst in through the scullery door, a look of terror streaked across her pockmarked face. She can't have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. "I come to do the washin', I find a dead body back there in the back! Freshly butcha'd, stab wounds in her belleh!"

Lysander surmised that the recursive nature of her statement stemmed from either her spastic terror or her accent; most likely, a combination of both. He raised both eyebrows in intrigue, though he didn't otherwise react, whereas other tavern patrons began to shout and scream.

"By the gods, why?!"

"Are we next?"

"I wanna go home!"

Lorcan, like Lysander, seemed to be particularly at ease. "Calm down, lass," the red-haired pirate urged in a collected voice. "You're not making a lick of sense. Tell us what happened, slowly. Start from the beginning."

The wench took a deep breath, then spoke again, her accent still somewhat an obstacle: "Well, ya see, I was mindin' my own business, y'know, doin' the washin' and cleanin' the empty tables, Mabel was wiv me, she works with me y'know, she had jus' told a funneh joke and we was just 'aving a merry laugh, but then I was turnin' mah back and next thin' ya know, she was jus' dead! Blood everywhere!" With that, the pockmarked wench began to cowering, shuddering in her ruffled maid-dress.

"Ease up there, lass," Lorcan said heartily. "Whoever killed her must have gone by now. Killers tend to stay in the dark, you know?"

The wench nodded nervously. Lysander noticed that she had begun playing with her hair, tugging and twirling at its blonde curls. "Well... jus' t'be safe, would ya mind coming back there wiv me... just to be sure nuthin's wrong? I'm real scared, ya see."

Lorcan nodded scarcely a heartbeat later. "Indeed. Lysander, you coming?"

Lysander nodded, but mouthed a choice set of words to Lorcan, which the wench hadn't noticed. Then the duo got up, pushed their stools in, weapons in tow just in case. They followed the wench across the bar area and away from the pandemonium, through a rustic door into a dimly-lit scullery area. There was a half-full basin, an iron-wrought fire-pit stove, a set of cutlery set about on a wooden counter, and a set of pots and pans hanging on iron hooks overhead.

"He was... jus' there," mumbled the wench, pointing to the other end of the room. "We already moved th' body, ya see."

Lysander unconsciously ran a finger over his tome.

Lorcan piped up first. "Well, he can't have gone far. This is a fairly big town, so he could have gone anywh-"

The door slammed shut behind them, catching Lorcan by surprise. He wheeled around, somewhat confused. Lysander shut his eyes and sighed. He had seen this coming.

"I suppose I can drop the horrid accent now," said the wench suddenly. She had drawn a sharp-looking shortsword from the bowels of her tavern dress and pointed it threateningly at Lorcan. Lysander furtively entered a combat stance, whereas Lorcan had left his axe at the table. Typical.

"I knew I'd find you sometime... Lorcan the Lucky. Lord Harmon will be most pleased to have your head lolling about on his sitting room table!"

[Lysander]

Lorcan the Lucky...? Lysander mused to himself in the midst of the emerging fracas. Didn't prove that namesake all too well when I duly defeated him in our little game of wits...

This was, in all honesty, not the time to be gallivanting around the peripheries of imagination. The wench-turned-miscreant's ditzy gaze had left her face and now rendered it vacant save for cold, calculating stare that Lysander could only interpret as preemptive triumph. Her fleet footwork could be construed as... well, reminiscent of that of a myrmidon's.

"Tell Harmon that he can rot in the deep," said Lorcan firmly, still unarmed. "Tell him that his debt has been paid. Rovis is already dead. We saw to that ourselves, so he didn't even have to come hunting with his cronies. Yet he sent one anyway, didn't he?"

The wench stiffened her posture. "You took a mark that wasn't yours to take. In essence, you stole a kill, and now you'll answer to Harmon's wrath. Only, he didn't wanna bother with the likes of you. He wanted you and all you miserable shrimps dead, not just your whale-bellied captain!"

Lorcan huffed. "Look, I'm not part of that dumb band anymore! Why can't he just let it go?"

"I'm afraid Lord Harmon doesn't work like that. He always gets what he wants, my master..." With that, the wench lunged forward, her iron sword outstretched. Lorcan, yet unarmed, attempted to jump backwards, but since he was level with a counter, he could only bound back so far, and the tip of the blade caught him above his nose. He reeled back, covered his nose, and yelped in pain, blood trickling through his fingers.

"That's quite enough," said Lysander suddenly, brandishing his trinity tome. "I haven't exactly had the pleasure of knowing this man's exploits face-to-face, but I have known him long enough to know that he undoubtedly has many enemies, you being one of them." Then he added, "Go back to your leader. Tell him you're a coward. Tell him you want your head to take Lorcan's place on that sitting room table. And lastly, tell him that he can take every single nugget of gold minted in his amassed coins and shove them up his-"

"Enough!" shouted the wench, her face now contorted in fury. She raised her sword and angled it at Lysander, attempting a full lunge akin to what she had wounded Lorcan with. But Lysander had been ready for her: he jumped forty-five degrees to the right, into an open space, causing the wench to whiff. As she tried to rechamber from the miss, the crimson-haired mage aimed a wind spell directly at her sternum. A gout of bladed gusts erupted from his fingertips, flinging the wench slightly into the air. She collided with the counter, screaming, then crumpled to the ground and ceased to move.

Lysander strode over to Lorcan's side once the deed was done. "Not a very competent fighter, was she?"

Lorcan shook his head. "Even if I had remembered my axe, it's too clunky of a weapon to really merit using against her. But damn, that was some flashy magic you did there. You may have just saved my life. I'm in your debt."

[Lysander]

Lysander waved a hand, prompting Lorcan to stay his gratitude. "It was nothing. Spare me with the formalities. I had my own interests at stake in addition to yours. Don't feel obligated to thank me." Lysander never asked to be thanked, as much as he showed his own gratitude from time to time, often when works of literature were involved. Speaking of which, this experience would generate quite a bit of muse in regards to his writing. He would have to take some time off to write some semblance of verse about this experience.

Lysander, with the aid of Lorcan, heaved the body of the now-deceased wench outside in the rain, her body weight gradually becoming heavier by virtue of being waterlogged. They brought her down the path, towards the river, and dumped it in without another word being uttered. By now, both Lysander and Lorcan alike were thoroughly soaked to the bone.

"Now, I doubt that this will garner the attention of the guards, but I strongly suspect that you are no longer safe. First light on the morrow, I would leave if I were you," instructed Lysander, ignoring the cold clotting of his cloak against his underclothes and skin.

Lorcan nodded in a suggestively bittersweet fashion. "You don't have to tell me twice. I'll be out of here before you can say 'wench'. Maybe I'll head west... to Ilia, or Lycia, or something. That is, assuming it's still not ravaged. Lycia's been pretty roughed up as of late. Not Etruria, though. Too many stuffy robed men. No offense, of course," he added after gauging Lysander's nonplussed reaction.

Lysander had only been to Etruria once. This was during his regime as a teen in the circus troupe, though his act was not nearly as well received there as it had been elsewhere. Perhaps it was more difficult to please mages and monks, though Lysander also attributed partial blame on their unyielding nobility. It was not that they were necessarily boot-lickers for Saint Elimine, though the way they conducted themselves and their inherent haughtiness certainly insinuated otherwise. Perhaps magic was less of a rarity in Etruria than it was in Bern.

Regardless, Lysander wanted to travel to Etruria for other reasons. He had heard of volumes of magic available there that he could not even begin to conjure even the barest concepts of. He had wanted to study there for a long time, of course, but he had been restricted to Bern for what seemed like forever. Perhaps Lysander could drift his way over there at some future juncture. Otherwise, Lysander and Lorcan exchanged scant words as they made their way back to the tavern.

"I best get going," Lorcan declared as they walked through the back door of the tavern, evidently as undisturbed as it was when the duo first left. "Rather not find my head on a plate anytime in the future. Not soon, not ever. It was an honor to bout with you this evening."

Lysander shook his hand, then stood stock-still as Lorcan strode off into the night. Perhaps he, too, ought to leave Bern for a while. For now.

(End of thread)