The rain here tasted different.

It had been 57 days since Valdym's treachery. Reyvadin wondered when he'd finally stop keeping track of the days, but so far he hasn't. If anything ever since he had fled from his homelands, keeping track of the days has been what helped Reyvadin from giving into his despair, becoming some drunkard or a corpse in the middle of nowhere. Reyvadin needed to keep all of his wits about himself less his dark desires or worse, Valdym's men, would eventually find him. With the help of the Ransom Broker Reyvadin had made many deals with in the past, he was able to secure a quick passage to the south, knowing that he would soon be released once they reached their destination. It wasn't great: If Reyvadin had detected the treachery faster, if he was able to be at his family's side when Valdym put them to the sword, maybe then Reyvadin could've mustered up the forces to retake his family's city and defend their honor. But alas, he was too late to do any of that. Now the best he can do is outrun the lies, to get somewhere where the Vaegir name isn't known and thus unaffected by the slander Valdym had already convinced everyone else of.

Despite his noble birth Reyvadin never found much discomfort during the long and silent ride. When he was a squire he was taught how to handle the rigors of imprisonment: unlike the common soldiers who could expect, at best, a merciful death should they be defeated, Reyvadin was of noble birth and thus he would likely be captured for ransom. He would then need to be conditioned to handle life in a dungeon or in shackles like a common criminal. Granted this part of Reyvadin training he never liked very much, but he does not regret learning it, especially now. He knew the conditions would be poor, the food would be worse, and unlike the stories any attempts to chat up or snark at the guards was more likely going to end with Reyvadin missing fingers and breaking bones than making friends, so he kept himself quiet and didn't struggle during his journey. 

To ensure his wrist weren't rubbed raw from the manacles Reyvadin made sure to hold his hands to his chest, so that the manacles wouldn't rest against only one spot on his arms. When fed, he resisted the urge to simply eat his food all at once and made sure to portion them out carefully. Eating too quickly would result in an equally quick need to relieve one self and Reyvadin could count the amount of piss breaks they took with one hand. Though Reyvadin did have the misfortune of sitting next to Fenks when he finally succumbed to the plague. Pretty much everyone knew he was infected, and Reyvadin feared for his health since he was forced to be the one closest to the corpse. But once he did kick the bucket Reyvadin wasted no time to take advantage of the opportunity. Before they were forced out or anyone noticed Fenks was even dead, Reyvadin stole the deadman's belt. Little more than a knotted length of cloth, but Reyvadin knew they were just going to toss the man's corpse off to the side and Reyvadin needed every bit he could get. With the belt Reyvadin wrapped it around his wrists as best as he could to cushion them from the manacles and give himself a bit of relief.

And so Reyvadin stood there, rain fresh on his face. It tasted like dirt and rocks, unlike the rain from his homeland which tasted like ice and snow. It left him feeling both sticky and wet, chilly yet at the same time distressingly warm. This entire trip could be summed up in a single word: Discomforting. But it was over now. Two of the prisoners freed themselves and introduced themselves, so Reyvadin figured he would be the third to do so. Undoing his shackles, the Banian human tighten the cloth around his wrists to give them more support and latched the manacles to his waists. Reyvadin definitely knew how he could use these. [b]"Reyvadin. I'm guessing the rest of you have earned the ire of your local baron or lord as well?"[/b] He said with a casual smirk. He could sense the tension was still here among the group, and the last thing Reyvadin wanted was for everyone to start killing each other.

That being said, should violence happen Reyvadin already knew how to be prepared. When the rain had cleared up and some of the mist rolled away, he had spotted a nice sturdy looking branch, which the young man picked up and began to prune of stems. While it'll likely serve as a decent cudgel for combat Reyvadin's intentions with this staff is far more utilitarian: they're going to be doing a lot of walking and thus he's going to need a walking stick. It was somewhat hefty, perhaps three or four pounds, and roughly and inch in diameter, though one end thinned out to be somewhat smaller. It went up to Reyvadin stomach in height, almost the size of a short spear. Indeed, given to a proper smith and he could likely turn this humble length of wood into a weapon of war within the hour. And Reyvadin certainly had war on the mind right now.

[b]"Anyone else need a staff? Looks like there's a few decent branches over here. If we're going to be walking much further we'll be needing them."[/b]