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The conversation at the table slowed, allowing him to take his time with his drink and merrily listen to the others talk. The only response he could think to give Kazu after his question was a shrug—at first. However, he eventually explained a bit more about the ice worms: how they latched onto the old leviathans in the North Sea and drank their blood, and how you had to wrestle the slippery, eel-like creatures to the shore by their circular mouths edged with claw-like teeth. Some of it was exaggerated, sure, but that’s where all the good stories came from.

The beer in his hand was still just about as full as it was when he sat down; every feigned swig or small gulp hadn’t added up to much just yet. The others didn’t seem to notice too far gone in their own drinks to worry or bring it up even if they did.

For a moment, he sighed. For a moment, he thought the rest of his day would be okay—that he could rest knowing the worst was behind him. Yet the Seidr spin their strings of fate and Lordisa guides the weave. For Roman, this meant an unfortunate encounter that was sure to spoil the delights of the evening.

It came with the sound of wood on steel. It came with a shout. It came with violence, and it came with a shot. One, then two, then many began to silence the tavern. It was a rather well-put-together bunch: a good mix of strong men, bowmen, and what looked like a few capable leaders to keep the others in check. Still just bandits, he thought, before the shadows in the room came alive and the windows were darkened with magic.

If it was just him, this would be fine. He would let them carry on with their act; aside from being a coin pouch lighter, he had little on him for this exact reason. To be honest, he was expecting the odd pickpocket, not highwaymen.

Fate had other plans. With the others of nobility here, he couldn’t just let it slide. They would do something, as it was their kingdom and they had a duty to act. He couldn’t cast a frenzy spell—that would just kill everyone here. Illusions were out of the question; this bandit mage looked like they had a good enough handle on their magic to notice. And Roman couldn’t fight them physically even if he wanted to.

His best bet was something to enhance his strength if he could, to keep his mind his own. To get any trace of alcohol out of his system.

The fire, he could tell, was obviously part of the spell, being used as a medium, or perhaps the mage was manipulating the shadows it created. There was nothing he could do about that for now. Instead, his eyes quickly glanced to the others around the room—a quick look at a couple of his men who had found themselves in this same tavern. The glare they received from him, however brief, spoke a simple order: Do nothing.

At least he was able to get a good look at these bandits, etching their faces into his mind, repeating the names that were said quietly to himself. He locked eyes briefly with what he assumed was their leader. Roman feigned a look of surprise and a bit of fear, hoping the determination in his eyes didn’t give up his act before it started.

This man, this Garran Holst, began to take everyone’s attention and drum out the rules. This gave Roman the opportunity he was looking for. With hands spread in front of him, Roman dropped his head, forcing himself to shiver as if frozen in fear, mumbling to himself in his native language.

He knew the spell he was trying to cast, and he knew the effect it had on him the last time he used it. It was a long time ago, part of their training—one of many spells drilled into their minds.

"Tenn åren, svi mitt skinn, Brenn ut råten dypt der inn."

A whisper of a spell that he could feel surge through him like drinking boiling water. Sweat dripped off him, his face turning red, his body shaking as a sudden, short-lived fever burned through him. An awful thirst consumed him, and he drank down the beer he had been nursing all night. He could only hope that the fever plaguing him tonight would be merciful.

Now he had no fear of breaking his orders; the poison of the alcohol had been purged. It should keep him free of it for an hour or two. Still, he knew he could not do this alone. Someone else needed to be able to stand if it got down to it. His eyes shifted over to Stratya. His breath was ragged, and adrenaline flowed through him. Casting it again would be much worse, but he could see no other option.

Roman pushed his knee into hers and again whispered the spell. He was pretty sure it would work, but if she pulled away or broke contact, it would fail, and he would still have to deal with the cost.

The repercussions were immediate. He wasn’t sure if Stratya would feel some of it as well, but that was not his concern. Right now, he could feel every nerve in his body firing off at the same time. What was seconds felt like minutes; his vision narrowed and blurred. Beads of sweat fell off him onto the table. He coughed into his sleeve and tasted blood.

His mind was nearly lost to him; far distant laughter threatened to overtake him once again. Roman steeled his mind, reciting the Way of Balance to center himself and not give in to the pain. The words echoed in his mind—the Nine-Fold Path, the foundation of their magic.

Strength. Power must serve purpose; strength without cause is destruction.
Wisdom. Knowledge is earned, never stolen. Seek the truth, but do not hoard it.
Honor. Oaths are sacred, and to break them is to break oneself.
The Hunt. Nature provides, but only to those who respect its gifts.
Sacrifice. Magic demands cost. Pay it willingly or suffer.
The Warrior. Strength and skill must be tempered with discipline.
The Hearth. Community and Kinship are the foundation of all power.
Death. All must return to the gods. To defy death is to defy balance.
The Raven. Walked only by those who embrace both shadow and light, wisdom and war, life and death.

Shaken and shivering, eventually the pain and heat stopped. His body ached, every breath threatening to set off his fried nerves. He knew he had messed up; he knew he had rushed both casting the spell and not waiting long enough between uses for his body to recover. He would definitely be sick for the next couple of days.

It was sloppy.

So sloppy he didn’t even notice the man standing between him and Ari, or whatever else these robbers had to say.

His breathing was deep and shook him with every inhale. He could see the others at the table, watching their faces, their eyes. Olivia seemed to understand the situation a bit quicker than the others, at least where the mage was concerned. That curiosity should be explored later. Charlotte looked like she was going to vomit or pass out; clearly, she hadn’t seen pain and death like this before. He could understand it—he was in that situation a long time ago.

Drake and Kazu both seemed up for the task of pulling attention off the others in the room. It looked to be just enough time for him to look over to Stratya to see how she was handling the spell, and to mouth a few silent words towards her. Simple and brief, his lips said only three words:

"I can't fight."

Captain Stratya Durmand

Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Fine Dress
Boar Mantle of Spring Hunting - head’s at home, the bulky thing
A Dirk - strapped in, strapped down
Swordbreaker - strapped in, strapped down
Interactions: Roman
Mentions: Kalliope, Marius, Garran, Ox, Drake, Kazumin

@princess@Lava Alckon@Tae@ReusableSword@samreaper

“‘Any piece of my body you choose,’ you lot hear that?”

Yes, she did.

Kalliope had put herself into a dangerous position. She’d offered something precious, indeed, to a madman with a gun and a disgusting thing for his razorblade. Though she was certainly concerned about Kalliope, something else had drawn Stratya’s attention.

Marius was enjoying this.

His delight turned her stomach. Suddenly, she saw something less than a man. Something irredeemable. Incompatible with peace and good living. Stratya felt it within her chest, beneath the dread. Violent and fast and hot. Familiar. Carefully, Captain Durmand contained it, covering it with her dread, biding her time.

”If I may.”

Stratya’s eyes shot to the young lord. What was he doing? As Drake went on, Stratya felt the cold fear, the dread in her freezing, spreading, expanding. He practically mocked them, and Kazumin didn’t help much. Stratya had dealt with enough outlaws to predict how this would go. Anything not within this room did not scare them. They could disappear at will - nothing held them to this place, even to the kingdom, unlike Lord Drake or Lady Charlotte, and their coming Duchies. The brigands had the freedom to plunder and leave and never return, evading the connections Drake had tried to lord over them.

The Captain did not flinch when she felt the contact against her knee. She figured it to be an attempt at comfort or communication, though when she realized it was Roman, she decided the latter. She did not expect to feel a wave of warmth course through her body, followed by clarity. The Captain looked at Roman only long enough to read his lips, offering the slightest of nods in response. Perhaps she’d ask him about his magic later.

Roman’s distraction was only momentary, the whistle and Ox’s movement brought her back to the horrible reality. Worse than watching the good man be bound to the support beam was watching the iron be heated. As the mark was made on good Lord Drake, Stratya realized something. Drake was not wrong. There was a connection these cutthroats should fear.

She was there.

The dread changed. Melted, finally, into a pond of patience. Three drinks, they wanted? Three drinks, and then the patience would evaporate, and nothing would be left to contain her Fury. To the Fury, they would pay for every mark and every death.