[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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[i]"May I join you?"[/i]

The third time the tavern door had opened, Renault had spared little more than a quick glance over his shoulder. At the rate people were coming in, he'd wake up tomorrow with a crick in his neck if he kept affixing his gaze the way he had been. Another grim reminder that the glory days were far behind him. Here he was: a man in his forties with nothing but his sword and the name "Oathbreaker". 

Drawing his hand from his chest as the voice addressed him, Renault turned to properly face the newest stranger: An Elven woman dressed in fine plate, bearing shield and short-sword. A soldier, perhaps? Or maybe a mercenary. Few sellswords could afford armor of this quality, though it was certainly not unheard of. Renault tried his hand at mercenary work after his exile, but found it rather distasteful. Petty thieves and bandits, escaped convicts, maybe a highwayman or two, it was unpleasant business, one Renault didn't have the heart for. 

Though at first intending to decline the stranger's offer, Renault found the words unable to leave his lips. The weight of his crest returned, once more prompting his hand to his chest. Or was it his heart; beating in his chest like a legionnaire's war drum? Paying no heed to sudden nervousness, Renault cleared his throat again. 

"Yes, of course. Please have a seat." He said, motioning to the chair opposite him. His voice, refreshed with drink, was eloquent and courteous, with a noble bearing that belied his rugged countenance. Barric's spiteful words immediately came to mind: [i]"Once a highborn, always a highborn."[/i] 

For the next few moments, Renault found himself unsure of what to say. Over the last seven years, he had let the passage of time erase his name, fading into the background until the grave took him. It was rare for people to seek him out, and rarer still for them to initiate conversation.

"I've not seen your face before," he began, the uncertain awkwardness of first meetings plain in his tone. He outstretched a hand, "Renault," he introduced himself, choosing to omit his family name for the time being.

Interrupted once more by the front door opening, Renault turned head to look, seeing an old man dressed in all the finery of a master wizard: long white beard, glasses, a wide-brimmed hat, the man appeared as though he had stepped right out of a fairy tale. 

Magic was a strange beast in the eyes of the Merciful Sword: a potent tool to be used with caution and great care. Heavily regulated, magic within the order seemed restricted to the priests and clerics, who taught their arts to the paladins as needed. Anything outside that was seen as dangerous at best - and heretical at worst.

After acquiring a room from the front counter, the...wizard (if indeed he [i]was[/i] a wizard) immediately moved toward the Goliath woman, inspecting her the way a researcher would ogle a specimen. Renault's expression shifted to one of slight disgust at the perhaps-unwitting display of offense by the old man. His muscles tensed ever so slightly, as if in preparation to stand and defuse the situation. He would have done such a thing while an active member of the Order, certainly, but those days were long past, as a few healing cuts and bruises on his face would remind him.

Resigning himself, his posture relaxed, and he turned his attention again to the Elven woman across from him. "Apologies, my lady." He bid with soft smile.

[@La Fleur]