[u][h1]Gwydion Arryl [/h1][/u]

"Gwydion!" The cellar bounced the voice of the inn's master, Tarris Syris, about the cold interior where the man's younger partner and live in bard and bouncer was stocking wine barrels. Green eye peered up at the short, blocky figure of Tarris in the cellar door. "We've got ah festival a'comin'! Ye set-"

White teeth flashed in a laid back smile. "Aye, I've set the better years towards the front. Easy reach." The deep voice of the former wander was all in good humor. Stepping up the steep and rickety stairs, he often wondered how they managed to bear one of his build. Stepping along lightly, he patted the shorter man on the shoulder. The festival had been forewarned to them by some friendly Guards that frequented their establishment and forewarned was fore armed. "Worry not! I've-" 

"Got it all handled 'ave ye?" Tarris sighed in mock remorse. "You're givin' me naught to do laddy!" Both just chuckled, knowing it was most likely just as well. Tarris was a old, old man. Most things he couldn't do without help, though he still poured the ale and tended the bar while they paid a near-by pair of village sisters to cook for them and the inn. Often merely the night. While Gwydion wasn't the best cook, his food was passable. Tarris had been loathed to accept hope in his aging life, but hearing the poor lad's tale had made him all the more keen to accept Gwydion on as a partner. Having been a traveler himself before he opened The Griffon's Tankard, he knew the ailment of most mercenaries. Age brought a lack of limber body and that misfortune led to death. Plus the poor lad had near drank himself under the table in melancholy. Noting the day had been when he had last seen his sister's smiling face before he left. After a bit of wheedling, Tarris had learned that Gwydion had returned to find his sister missing and his family dead. Bandits had been Gwydion's reason. That and disease. "Heard any word on your sister?" The Tavern keeper wandered behind the bar arranging tankards.

Gwydion looked over at the faux griffon over the mantel, holding a tankard in it's beak that had seen better days. Tarris refused to removed it, claiming it was a lucky tankard. One he had won many a dice game with. "Nothing," His voice echoed with disappointment. "Twenty years... She may not even be alive." Even as he said that Gwydion knew the truth. Cerid was alive. He had seen her walk across the shale slope before he had taken the form of a fox and led their hunters off her trail. It had been later when he found the druid that he had learned she lived. She had trained some, but that had only accounted for near five of those years before she and her Druid teacher had wondered into their native kingdom again. Fifteen years she had been here, and he had looked here for five. Two of which had been at this tavern and the news had been rather relishing. Druids and magicians were sharp topics and when Uther sent out a hunt he knew. If that hunt was after his sister, he would offer his service, claiming the witch had wronged him. Perhaps that would work, or would it best to race ahead on the Mule? His horse was stabled in the inn's stable, as good as any guard dog. Wiping down a table the large warrior missed the sympathetic look that Tarris sent his way.