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[color=ed1c24][b]RYDER SHAW[/b][/color] :+: [color=ed1c24][b]RED HOOD[/b][/color] :+: [color=ed1c24][b]MENTIONS: NONE[/b][/color][/center]

	Ryder looked to Finlay as his trainees began to disperse, trying to get a sense for how the senior Hood felt about his presence.  Uncertainly was the only emotion Ryder could pick up.  The fact that Ryder wore red already meant that Finlay should be able to trust him, but there was a hint of suspicion in the way Finlay looked at him.  It was the same look one would give to a strange dog, unsure if it would bite if you attempted to pet it.

	The recruits, or rather the Yellow Hoods, who passed did so without many words spoken.  To those that were still gathered, Ryder gave a reluctant nod.  "[color=f7976a]It's Shaw, by the way.  Ryder Shaw.[/color]"  Finlay gave a comical scoff, unimpressed with the timing of Ryder's introduction.

	"[color=929292]Sure,[/color]" he mocked.  "[color=929292][i]Now[/i] tell us who ya are.[/color]"  Ryder glared at Finlay, burning holes into him with his eyes.  They were already off to a great start.  "[color=929292]You and I have some talkin' to do, Shaw.  I'll see you before we feast, ya?[/color]"  Ryder responded with a subtle nod.  Finlay looked at his people once more and suddenly stood up very straight before pounding a fist over his heart with a single audible impact.  A sign of respect to the new Hoods.  A salute.  He then turned to Ryder and did the same, the latter reciprocated but with much less fervor.  Finlay then took his leave, heading who knows where within the keep.  Once Zeke had handed out all of the cloaks, he disappeared into the shadows as well.  Ryder hadn't had a lot of direct contact with Zeke in his time earning the red.  He was still curious what the giant looked like under that black hole of a hood.

	Ryder took in a big breath and let out a slow, airy sigh.  He opened his mouth to start to speak, but then stopped, unsure what to really say.  He'd been traveling for weeks, slain his beloved's murderer, and carried news of impending doom to the head of the most elite force the world had ever seen only to be tasked with babysitting.  Then, suddenly, the words he wanted to speak came to him.

	"[color=f7976a]I need a drink.[/color]"  He gave his head one violent shake, cracking his neck, before taking his leave of the group and heading toward the keep's tavern.

	Ryder's pace was slow and even.  Each step brought with it a new, haunting thought.  Step.  [i]What now?[/i] Step. [i]You've completed what you set to accomplish[/i].  Step. [i]Why does it still hurt?[/i]  Step. [i]What am I doing here?[/i]  Ryder's fists began to involuntarily clench, his fingernails digging into his skin just enough to smart.  He forced his thoughts to cease, focusing mainly on the floor, on his feet, on each step.  Part of the training, or at least part of [i]his[/i], was to separate emotion from function.  If you fight with emotion, you fight without focus.  You mess up.  You slip.  To execute your mission to the best of your ability, you must do so devoid of feelings, of self pity. The mission is to make it to the tavern.  The method is walking.  There ought not be anything else to it.  [i]Stop thinking,[/i] Ryder silently told himself.  [i]One foot after the other.[/i]


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	The Keep's Tavern was located across the courtyard in a stand alone hovel off the to corner.  Crudely etched into some wooden boards above the entryway were the words "The Stumbling Ass".  As Ryder opened a door leading toward the courtyard, he continued his journey right to the bar, swinging the door out wide and immediately taking in the smell of smoke and alcohol that flowed through the open passage, escaping and polluting the otherwise fresh air outside.

	The bar was small, having been built to serve only a select type of patron, and was surrounded with various wooden tables.  Some of the people were playing cards in the corner while others were testing their might with an arm wrestling match.  At yet another table, one could bear witness to a red hood so drunk he had fallen passed out, draped over the table as if he were it's cloth.  Ryder rolled his eyes and honed in on a barstool, taking a seat right by the tender.

	"[color=f7976a]A shot.  I don't care what, as long as it's strong.[/color]"  The barkeep, an elderly, hefty man who looked like he was in the twilight of his life, gave a pleased nod.  The man's face was covered in a patchy white beard that had very obvious holes in it, giving him a very scruffy look.  His head, however, was as bald as a baby's bum.  The light from the torches all around gave a shimmering reflection off the old man's cranium.  Ryder wasn't sure what the man's real name was, but everyone who ever came him always just called him "Bud".

	"[color=00aeef]Here y'are![/color]" Bud said with with an eager smile as he placed the shotglass down.  

	Ryder looked at it at first and could see some remnants of something floating in the liquid.  He looked around the room again and resigned to the fact that sanitation was not this place's strong suit.  [i]Screw it[/i], he thought as he picked up the glass, tipped it at the barkeep as a sign of appreciation, and slammed it back down after inhaling it.  He shook his head and let out a disgusted gag, unable to even stomach his own saliva after that taste.  His spit to the wood planks on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and looked at Bud with angry eyes.  His pupils were fire.  He leaned in a little bit and, between bared teeth, he said, "[color=f7976a]Another.[/color]"