Isander poorly stifled a chuckle. It left a froth of beer on his chin, swiftly dabbed up with the corner of his sleeve.

"Plumhollow," he said. "You know, where the smallfolk live and throw their merry festivals. Such as this one. Which is about... a moth?" He traded a quizzical look between the pair and shrugged.

Taking to polishing off his mug, he rolled back his shoulders and eased further into the bench that accosted him. The hard wood was rough on the uneven gambeson and leathers affixing him; he spared a moment to unhook his tunic, folding it over his lap with a trifle more care than he had shown his fellow knight.

"Once you're patched up, Cas," he said from the perch of a high-arched brow, "what say we roll a few bones and make an accomplice out of you? And perhaps of you too, lass."

That brow wriggled in suggestion, and he made good on his word by fishing out a set of dice from one of the pouches in the saddlebags at his ankles.


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
Ghanga's gash, swore the knight silently as needle dug into flesh. Seems even the strongest drink wasn't enough to numb him from this particular brand of pain. Castor did his best not to squirm, knowing any movement would make things far worse. True to her word, Venla was a capable stitchhand. It was a hell of a fate better than doing it himself. He'd the scars to prove it.

The Sworn looked desperately to his drink his hesitancy to move persisted. Instead he turned mind to conversation. "I'm sitting here losing blood and you're still trying to bleed me dry? So much for a knight's honor." Castor had noticeably not rejected the proposition. Figured he'd been made a fool of once already this night, what was another time or two?

His mind drifted back to something the barmaid said earlier. "So how big is this Big Jon fellow? You make it sound like he has a habit of getting into tussles?"
 
Venla dabbed away the fresh blood with a cloth. "We don’t call him Big Jon as a jest," she said. "Broke a cart in two with his tusks last summer. Pushed right through the oxen like they were last year's grass." She drew the last loop of waxed thread through torn skin, her hands worked steadily even when the flesh twitched beneath her touch. The wound was even more angry and red now, swollen around the edges, but her stitches were tight and clean. Good work, even if it would leave a scar. But scars were honest things.

“There,” she muttered, biting off the thread with her teeth and wiping the blood from her fingers on her apron. “You’ll live, Syr. Unless you sneeze too hard.”

She’d just leaned back, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension from hunching over Castor's wound, when the other knight's voice cut in. Venla arched a brow of her own, one corner of her mouth tugging upward. "That brow of yours should be outlawed." she jested. "I suppose I could be tempted." It’s not every night she gets invited to lose coins to two knights. She set the needle aside.

With her bloody fingers she pressed a square of clean linen to the wound and bound it tight with a strip of cloth, winding it firmly against the muscle. She tried to be tender, not to make it cruel, but at the same time, she did not want to bind him to lose. Castor might be cursing her name when he tried to laugh tomorrow.

“Folk don’t go to close Dead Root,” she added, tying off the bandage with a practiced tug. “Not since Big Jon made it his den.” She glanced down at Castor’s side, at the streak of blood that had spilled over during her work. She snagged the wet rag from the basin. She wiped down the knight’s side. Then she crouched, scrubbing the blots of blood from the floor. Satisfied, she stood, gathering her sewing roll, the basin, and the soiled linen with her stained hands.

“I need to wash up, I'll join you later for the dice.” she said, with a flick of her gaze between the two knights. With that, she slipped away from the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
 
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Isander let that laugh roll from his chest. A deep, true thing. It rattled his shoulders in time with the dice he tossed about his palms.

As the woman departed, he rapped a knuckle along the rim of his mug.

"Have the lad send over another round," he said, "something stronger this time." To Castor he added conspiratorially: "Levels the playing field. My crippled judgment should go blow for blow for that mangled body of yours."

A wink and a frown.

"Tusks that can break a cart in twain. Any clue what this Big Jon might be? I haven't been by the monastery in some weeks, and last I was? I can't recall notice of any such beast."


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
Continued focus on the tale of Big Jon helped ever so slightly to keep his mind off the pain. The knight thought it was going to be a story about an overgrown village lad but that wasn't on the mark. Rather, it sounded a good bit more troubling than that. One thing at a time. Castor still had a very fresh wound that was just waiting to be torn open again. The barmaid was more thorough than expected however, fully wrapping the wound after finishing the stitching.

"Much appreciated," he said as Venla got to her feet. The knight sensed this wasn't exactly the time to be talking about payment. He'd made note of everything that was used to keep him together. Growing up with sailors taught him to keep a tight-string on his purse. Seen one too many fools lose their entire cut in an eve. Making sure he didn't bleed out certainly qualified as the rare exception.

He winced slightly as he sat back, considering Isander's question. "Could be anything really. Blighted brownboar, disgruntled ogre, or just some godsdamned fool who downed one too many heavy tonics. But no, didn't hear anything. I see that look in your eyes, let's not get ahead of ourselves," warned the Sworn. Castor wasn't exactly jumping at the thought of getting involved in anything else. "Dead Root does sound a bit ominous..." Venla, and Arrowdale by extension had helped him. Some debts couldn't be paid with just coin.
 
The boy reappeared briefly, a fresh bottle of something meaner in hand and served the two knights. He slid it onto the table between the two knights, along with two mismatched cups that clinked softly as he set them down. "This’ll burn a hole clean through your thoughts." the young man said, smirking. He glanced between the two as he wiped his hands nervously on his tunic. “Big Jon... he’s no spirit... just a mean boar." The boy informed them before he wandered back to his duty in the kitchen.

A few moments later, Venla emerged from the kitchen doorway. Her sleeves were freshly rolled, and most of the blood had been scrubbed from her hands. But here was no hiding the dark line of blood beneath a fingernail or two. She wiped her hands on her apron again, frowning at the crimson lingering at her cuticles.

She glanced toward the window where the evening had deepened into stillness outside. The redhead hesitated a moment before pulling a chair over from a nearby table, seating herself down at the knight's table with a soft huff. She glanced at the dice with a flicker of amusement, mischief maybe, before she poured herself a little of the spirit, just a thimble’s worth. She smiled eagerly. “I’ve a fair hand for chance.”

She picked up one of the dice and rolled it between her fingers, not casting it just yet. “Right then. Whose throw is it?”
 
Isander managed to wipe clean the glimmer from his gaze as the lad rounded with another mug. He adopted an easy smile in its stead, all lips, and relaxed his posture. Taking the mug, he deigned to drink deeply even as its odor curled the hairs of his nose; it crinkled, but he knocked back a swig to maintain appearances.

Much to his chagrin, and immediate embarrassment, he spluttered as the liquor churned down his throat. His mouth worked, his nostrils flared, and he spent several moments beating a palm at his chest before he mustered the courage to wipe a tear from the corner of his eyes. Licking his lips, he casted wide his surprise with a bellow of laughter. Weak laughter, yes, but it rolled from him nonetheless.

"To think you knocked this back nary a fucking grimace, Cas," he said when word could finally wend free of him. Only then did he notice the woman's return.

"Right." He scooped up a few of the remaining dice, rolling them about his palm by fingertip. Counting out three of them, he cast them with a show of nonchalance atop the table, sparing no glance to the faces they rolled.

"High or low," he said, moving a hand to obscure the dice. "Beat my throw and this coin"—he drew one from his pouch to illustrate—"is yours. Beat his"—and he nudged a thumb his fellow knight's way—"and you get his coin too."


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
"A fortnight's bilgewater brewed with a daub of rum will give anyone perspective," explained the knight with a wanton swig. It was no secret Castor spent his early years among sailors. Their ingenuity was reserved solely for knots, curses, and bootleg liquors. Lot to learn and and most to forget; a creed Castor lived. He'd gotten used to the assaulting burn, or likely lost too much blood to notice.

Venla returned and the game began.

"High or low huh? Guess this is a night for the simpler things..."

Shadowed hand looked to his luck. Two rivets. A grin touched the Sworn's face.
 
Venla leaned in slightly, the faint firelight from the hearth catching in her eyes as she watched the dice tumble and come to a stop beneath his hand. "High or low, is it?" she repeated, lips curving into a smirk. "And both your coins if I win?"

The barmaid reached for her cup and knocked back the last of the spirit in one smooth go, wincing only slightly as it burned its way down. She set the cup down with a dull clink, then leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze flit between the two men. She reached into the pocket of the apron and pulled out a worn coin. The coin landed with a soft clink, joining the others already resting there like little promises.

She gathered her dice in her palm. Gave it a gentle shake before she cast the dice with a flick of her wrist, letting it rattle across the table. Quick as a wink, she dropped her hand over the dice before either knight could sneak a glance, her palm pressing lightly to the tabletop.

She glanced at Castor, too pleased with himself. Then to the other man, smug, but playing it cooler. “Hmm,” she murmured, tapping her finger once on the wood. “You…” she looked to Castor, “you’ve got low, and you’re hoping he’s got lower. And you...” she turned to Isander, narrowing her eyes playfully. He was harder to read. A breath of a smile touched her lips. “I call high. Let’s see who bleeds.”

And with an open palm, she revealed her roll: a six. She reached out and confidently nudged the coins toward her side of the table. “Hope you weren’t saving those for something.."
 
"What use is pay," Isander asked, flicking his coin across the table, "other than to spend it?"

He tipped up the hand held over the die, revealing a trio of pips that smiled back alongside his own unwavering aplomb. A shrug kept his shoulders loose and he smothered his grin behind another, gentler, sip at his mug. This time, he managed to grimace with only his eyes, a slight tightening that kept the tears from spilling out.

"All yours, lass. Next toss."

A pair of dice rattled in his fist. Pungent liquor sloshed in the other. With the fading light outside, shadows occluded by the warm gaze of candlelight within, Isander cast off the day's labor in full. Here, now, he found some measure of solace. Fine company, injured as it was. And finer merriment.

"What's this about a boar? Didn't think those were native to these parts. Too, uh, humid?" he said, cocking back his wrist. With an irreverent flick, he dropped the two dice atop the table, set aside his mug, and fished out another coin. Slipping a glance to the pips, he slid that coin before him. Let it sit fat, idle.


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
"Make no mistake, I'm the one bleeding here. Just not as bad as before." He could only grimace as his somewhat hard-earned coin was absconded. Castor was starting to think the drink was making him lose his touch. Never thought of himself as an easy mark, usually it was the opposite. Had he considered further, the knight would've realized soaked up sailors weren't the smartest lot. He was in altogether different, but not unpleasant, company.

Castor reached for another coin but hacked a nasty cough instead. A few stitches wasn't going to immediately set him right. His body took a proper beating during the 'raid' on the Mount. Not the sort of thing a few days kip could remedy.

"Gods won't even let me lose with grace," he said as he finally put the coin to table. "Can't say I'm as knowledgeable as Isander about boar living, but it does strike me as odd."
 
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Venla watched the coin skip across the table and land with a soft clink beside the others, Isander’s easy grin settling like warm smoke. She arched a brow at the trio he revealed, letting herself smile. However smile faded the moment Castor almost doubled over with that cough.

“Easy now,” she said softly, the humor gone from her voice as she reached instinctively toward him. When she noticed that her hand was heading towards the proud man, she quickly put it down on the tabletop. Steadying the table more than the man. Venla leaned back, but the worry lingered in her eyes. Quieter, she said. “You should rest,” And damn sure shouldn’t he be playing dice. But pride was the only armor the man had left tonight.

She glanced at the fresh coin he’d pushed toward the center of the table. The knight was pushing his luck. The gods had already spared him once tonight. Venla turned her attention back to Isander and reached for the dice, warming them between her palms before the next throw.

“No, you’re right, Syr. We don’t have many boars in these parts.” she said and gave the dice a shake, cast them with a practiced flick, and covered them with her hand before either knight could peek. "Folk say he was some wayward brute come from the Drymarch" And with that, she lifted her hand to peek at her dice. Her fingers closed around another coin, worn smooth at the edges and she set it gently in the pot with the others. Clink.
 
"No need to worry over him," Isander said, "he's seen worse luck."

Even so, a furrow of worry wormed its way over his brow.

He spat a quick incantation, a bevy of staccato phrases that rolled from his lips in arcane jubilation. It came as little more than a whisper in time with Castor's cough, filled the air with a cackle of power that culminated about the palm of Isander's hand. He excused himself, an apologetic shrug as he reached over the table to clasp his companion's wrist. Warmth resonated between them.

"Might help. A bit."

Another shrug. He slid a third coin onto the table and idled with the dice rattling in his fist.

"Anyway. Drymarch? Doesn't sound familiar. Local vernacular?"

He loosed his dice and gave a pleased chuckle as eight pips turned up. A winning throw for once, perhaps.


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
"You're not wrong," agreed the knight. Venla's concern wasn't lost on him, nor was it unwelcome. "Unfortunately I know myself better than most. Mind's not for laying down just yet." Castor couldn't say what horrors would ensnare him once lids were shut. Better let drink and exhaustion guide him to blissful oblivion.

He didn't think he was far off in any case. Castor looked to his rolls which barely amounted to the fingers on his hand, not exactly the winning play. Losing didn't exactly make for lively humors unless you were spoiling for a fight and he'd had his fill for now.

Castor turned an eye to the other knight sensing a gathering of shroud. A brief touch and the Sworn's breaths no longer felt labored. Pain was mildly abated, so better than it was a moment before. "Did help, been nice if you'd done it when you'd walked in the bloody door."

Halfhearted anger couldn't pry his curiosity away from the origin of this 'Drymarsh brute'.
 
“You’re stubborn, Castor" Her tone tried for teasing, but her eyes lingered on him longer than jest demanded. "No need to worry over him," the other knight said. "he's seen worse luck."

“Aye… maybe. But seen worse don’t mean you deserve worse.”

Venla’s brow furrowed as the man reached across the table. She caught a glimpse of something. A shimmer in the air, maybe, or just the way the torchlight bent oddly about his fingers. It prickled along the edge of her senses, wrong in a way she couldn’t name. Some trick, maybe. Or just Anathaeum business she’d best not ask after.

“Drymarch’s not so far-off place, Syr,” she said. “It’s just a stretch of old bogland. A few hours south, if your horse’s willing. Nothing but dead trees and thirsty ground.” Venla reached for the bottle, fingers steady and she filled all three cups in turn. The knight's first, then her own. The spirits caught the candlelight; it looked like water.

“Drink up, Syrs,” she said, voice lighter now, though her eyes still flicked to Castor now and again. His breathing seemed to get easier. “High again,” she declared, before she lifted her other hand and revealed her two puppy paws.
 
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