[i]“Johnny fucking silver tongue”[/i] Ezlan says musingly, referencing a popular tavern tale as Eomer, quite skilfully, tried to diffuse the situation. The almost sad desperation of his attempt stripped away any admiration his comrades skillfully placed words might have earned from the Caerbean. 

It was going quite well Ezlan thought to himself, not feeling any need to justify himself to Eomer. The room had revealed itself and those of non-importance had left. 

While the tension in the air might have been as thick as mud, Ezlan sifted through it with the oblivious ease of a mud demon stalking in its own habitat. While seemingly unaware and unhindered by the way it gripped the room and the breath and hearts of the patrons within, this could not be further from the truth. 

Ezlan could feel and almost taste it. He relished in it drawing youth and vitality. It was as electricity to his skin and an insatiable thirst on his tongue. There were micro dilations in his pupils and a slight unnoticeable flare to his nostrils as his body began drawing in extra oxygen to supply his raising heart beat. The sweet nectar of adrenaline now coursing through his veins, like an addict, despite common sense, Ezlan couldn’t help himself. Limits would be pushed and boundaries tested. While he held no hostility, it was fair to say not all shared his demeanour.

All this excitement brought a mighty thirst to his lips, and the good thing about everyone standing with hands at the ready, was now their hands were empty. A situation Ezlan would take full advantage of. 

Ezlan’s deduction differed from Eomer, and he truly hoped he was right so he could slap the smug righteousness off his comrades face. He instead took the crippled man beside the Tiefling as Dagston. Not all those of position flaunted their wealth so openly, and most cripples wouldn’t speak up and invite trouble so confidently unless the loyalty and respect of the men around him had long since blunted the burden of fear. 

Still he kept the fancy clothed man in the corner of his eye, this man bothered him, swathed in unpredictablity he might act on his own accord. But it was one of the heavily armed and armoured men that Ezlan approached. Not only was the weapon heavy and slow but it was overkill for a bar room fight. Hopefully this meant he would not use it. Still, weapon in hand or not Ezlan liked his opponents to use the heavy swinging style that often accompanied such items. Secondly a man in plate armour would fall to the floor easier and find it more difficult to rise.

Ezlan locked the mans gaze intently, not to intimidate but to study. He wanted to see who he sought confirmation from, who it was he looked up to. The smirk long glued on Ezlan’s lips vanished behind a sudden mug of ale. Swiped from the mans very table right before him, Ezlan turned to side profile to steadily drink deeply while still keeping a ready taunting eye on the beverages rightful owner.

..........


Always the showman Ezlan had picked his opponent carefully. While appearing foolishly unready he was actually quite prepared. His loose pants hiding the tense muscles balancing his unorthodox stance. His torso like a wound spring ready to snap and follow his opponents momentum. While he had the muscles and size to upright oppose most others strength, Ezlan often preferred to not be so predictable. 

Play the fool. Misdirect. Redirect. Strike fast and overwhelm.

Should everything go to plan, any attempt to touch or attack Ezlan would be quickly met with equal force and dictate the degree to how hard he put his opponent to the floor. It is then that he would introduce himself. 
[i]”Ezlan”[/i] he would announce loudly in reply to the cripple while kindly aiding his foe back to his feet. “Son of whore and a fisherman with too much coin.” He would joke at his own expense. Truths hidden and weaveing through his humour as was the case with all great stories. 
[i]”as my nervous companion said while placing his lips on your asses.”[/i] the next joke hopefully these rough men would appreciate was at Eomers expense. [i]”we are here to do some guild work in this territory, and as I’m sure you are all aware, preparing for work gives a man a fair thirst. Just as doing, completing or even thinking about it.”[/i] he finished his last statement, one that hopefully found mutual agreement, with a self amused chuckle. He would then thank the man who’s drink he stole and offer to buy him the next.

If... [b]IF[/b] everything went to plan.