[b][h2][centre]Leofric Aelwinovich[/centre][/h2][/b]

[quote=@Theyra]
Markiel smiled, "I am glad to hear that I am in," sounding relieved. For a moment, he felt like he had made a mistake, but it turned out he did not. "I bet, and I have traveled with a few scholars, and it is surprising how some seem oblivious to danger." Not all scholars might you, just some, as Markiel has observed during his travels. 

"But a story," Markiel grinned eagerly. "I have some stories I can share that are good." With some, he would not like to speak about. Mainly one, but when being a traveller for some years. You experience some good and some bad things. Especially out in The Plains of Morgador. 

"Well, which would you like to hear? An odd venture into The Plains of Morgador or that time I almost had to fight a beastfolk?"           
[/quote]

[quote=@Dyelli Beybi]
"Tell us of the Morgador," Hagen requested, with a cheerful smile, "I have spent plenty of time in the frozen lands of the North but have never ventured into that place.  I had been planning an expedition to the uncharted lands South of here, but then the young lady approached me and suggested I join her for a time," he nodded towards Aderynel.

"But anyway, on with your tale!  I hear there are ruins in the Morgador, the scale of which is beyond imagining!" he declared.
[/quote]

The mention of the north, or perhaps the sound of a Vedosever Jugkraian accent, drew sudden attention from a hunched and silent figure lingering near the bar at the back of the establishment. Wreathed in the haze of smoke that filtered through the establishment in the dim firelight the figure sat upright quite suddenly, not fast, but a slow and deliberate unfolding that revealed a large figure with a broad and powerful shoulders.

Then came the slow turning. 

The dim firelight of the tavern caught half in light and shadow an expressionless face - one full lines and scars and the texture of weathered and worn leather - marked by two cold blue eyes that slowly rolled over the collection of adventurers assembled behind him. The man's nose was crooked, like it had been broken more than once. He wore a simple woolen tunic as weathered as his face, cut short at the arms. He came to rest his right elbow on his knee, turning to the group a right arm of corded muscle etched with scars that seemed kin to those he bore upon his face.

He wore a worn leather belt, from it the hilt of a long steel dagger peaked from his left hip from where he'd twisted in his seat.

If the man was interested in any member of the group, his face betrayed none of it. His gaze, though, seemed to finally settle and narrow decisively upon the young Jugkraian noble, Markel Sviatolev.

Slowly, calmly, the scarred figure shifted and emptied his earthen cup, his expressionless and unblinking eyes not leaving Markel for a moment even as rivulets of frothy liquid began to run through his broad, dirty blonde beard. Eyes still fixed, he shifted again as he set the stein almost gently upon the bar. He took his time before running a broad forearm across his beard to clear it.

The scarred man seemed not to care if he was staring at the Jugkraian noble. Like a cat watching a canary. At the same time, his left hand had come to rest upon the hilt at his side, not gripping it, but thumbing the leather bindings - threadbare, half worn away - that wrapped the dagger's grip.