The golden eyes of Alistair smoldered with a hurt curiosity when Susanna drew her sword.  To be certain, the atmosphere surrounding them both and pervading the tavern as a whole felt anything but friendly, and Alistair in particular felt the tension of an imminent attack, but not from her.  If anyone, he expected Alicia to be the one clamoring for assertion, but instead the pretty peasant woman produced a blade of exquisite craftsmanship.  Her rich blade gleamed before him—the only weapon currently drawn in the establishment.  The question [i]why have you done that?[/i] lay etched on his face, were it only visible, and he considered reaching for the metal corkscrew rod stuffed into a knife’s leather sheath on his right hip.  

Ultimately, he chose to ignore the blade, though his skin prickled at the not-at-all veiled threat.  While the fine arts of war and metal escaped him, he knew from experience more than learning that no matter how fine the blade, metal armor could not be cut.  Maybe, he reasoned, Susanna was simply afraid of him; he knew the feeling well.  Suddenly feeling very awkward and out of place, Alistair took a step back.  “Aye…” he murmured.  “I am sorry, ma’am.”  He glanced at Alicia, gratified at least somewhat to see her back down.  As much as he wanted to say something along the lines of [i]unhappy with the argument you started?  Next time, just keep your mouth shut[/i], he felt defeated.  Sufficiently reinvigorated and healed by his flask, Alistair saw no reason to bear the scorn of anyone else, and abruptly left the premises.

Outside, a light and crisp rain had begun to fall.  Alistair watched it beginning to pool in the miniature trench cut into the dirt by his own dragged leg minutes before.  Familiar with the habits of his Stormbringer comrades to stay a night after a successful hunt, he started walking.  Emmitt, one of his comrades and as sick if not more of the mood in the tavern, followed him out and trailed behind him, his gait barely affected by a mug of alcohol.  In short order the man, a former member of a far-off city’s watchman, caught up to the knight and the two walked together.  Though the refreshing coolness and rhythmic tapping of the rain soothed Alistair, he kept an eye out for a suitable place to sit and rest.  Walking abreast with his friend, he circled a townhouse to a crude vegetable patch, where they sat beneath an awning purposed for the elemental protection of various sacks.  “Rain washes away the sins of the world,” the other man said, looking at the silent knight.  A strange intensity came across his rough features.  “Alistair, how long have we been workin’ together?”

A shrug greeted his inquiry.  “I’d say about three weeks,” Emmitt continued.  “But never did I see you without yerr armor.  I asked the others, and nobody’s seen you either.  Just yer eyes.”  He frowned.  “Alistair, why do yer eyes glow yellow?”

After a moment, a sigh escaped from the dark armor.  “I thought someone might ask eventually.  It’s because of what happened to Veiron.  I was there when [i]it[/i] happened.”

While this sank in, Emmitt laid his cheek on his fist.  “So you ain’t exactly human.”  He hiccupped, though appeared otherwise unfazed.  “But you ain’t a demon either.  Demons don’t kill their kin.  An’ you’re too much of a hero to be a demon, unless you’se really good.  But we ain’t even proper Stormbringers.”  A dry smirk appeared on his face.  “What would some big-time deceiver want with the likes of us?”

Alistair’s head turned slowly.  Like pools of forge embers, his eyes burned.  “Who knows or cares?  Anyone could be a demon far as I know.  Even if I were more demon that human, it’s what I’m doing that matters.  If I see a demon, I’ll try and kill it.”

A moment passed before Emmitt replied.  “Yeah.  Good on you.”  He looked away, definitively bored.

The rain continued to fall.