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

[quote=@RevNorv]Ardashir smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "There are," he agreed simply. But though he spoke to Hagen, his gaze did not rest on the knight. Arda was watching another man: a powerful man in plain wool, seated at the bar of the inn. He was scarred of face and limb, and his hand rested on the hilt of a long dagger, and his hard-eyed glare was fixed on Markiel. The man drained his tankard of ale, but that ferocious glare never faltered. 

Ardashir cast a warning glance at Aderynel and turned in his seat, moving his legs out from under the table so that he would be able to rise swiftly if necessary. His wide, open green gaze took the stranger in from head to toe. His left hand rested on the long hilt of the scimitar at his side. Like the stranger, he did not grasp his weapon's hilt; but his thumb stroked the pommel - a lion's head of gold, with sapphire eyes - in exactly the same way the stranger stroked his dagger's bindings. A message: [i]I see you.[/i] 

But with his right hand, Ardashir reached for the bottle of wine he had bought, and poured a fresh cup. This he raised toward the stranger. "If you are going to grace us with your attention, friend," Arda called, "then the least you can do is favor us with your presence as well." The Farseeker raised his dark eyebrows. "Your cup is empty. Will you not drink with us?"

Before the man could answer, a dwarf and yet another Sylph pressed up to the table, between Arda and Aderynel. Literally tugging on Aderynel's sleeve, the dwarf announced that she had overheard the group talking, and the Sylph asked whether anyone had heard of "something said to have been built" up in the Grey Mountains, "long time ago."

"At this rate," Arda remarked drily and to no one in particular, "I'd say that just about all of Ealdormuda seems to have heard of something along those lines." But his gaze did not leave the burly stranger at the bar, and his hands remained where they were: one offering a cup of wine, and the other ready on the hilt of his scimitar.
[/quote]

Neither the crush of new arrivals shovelling themselves into the restive locus people at the center of the tavern even registered in the man's face. Neither sound nor movement drew any hint of distraction from his eyes: his focus was absolute. Even Ardashir, returning the man's attention in kind, drew nothing.

The noble himself was oblivious.

The stranger appeared a man absorbed in some other world. As though he were not staring at Markiel, but through him, gazing off into into some distant realm of dream, or memory but not here.

When Ardashir finally spoke, there was at first no hint of acknowledgement though it was improbable the man did not hear him even over the din of so many speaking at once. As Ardashir moved, offered the drink, his eyes at last - briefly - flicked in Ardashir's direction, then back to Markiel. The first ghost of an emotion on his face to be seen was a flit of irritation at the interruption.

The man's eyes narrowed. His hand slowly coiled about the leather grip of the dagger. His face might've been taken for that of a man intent on cold-blooded murder, but the grip on his dagger was not that of a man drawing steel. It looked more the grasp of a drowning swimmer - white-knuckled and trembling - clinging to the weapon as though the feel of the worn leather was last thread holding him to the world.

Then, some movement of Ardashir's finally attracted his attention and whatever memory or demon had seized the man faded away like the passing of a dark cloud. His eyes cleared. His hand slowly fell away from the dagger's hilt. The tension in his muscled shoulders melted away and his eyes met Ardashir's.

There was recognition there, of what Ardashir must have seen, but no embarrassment, no warmth nor contrition. 

The stranger's eyes noted Ardashir's hand on the scimitar as he rose from his seat, a slight sway to the way he unfolded his full physique from rickety bar stool. Nothing in his expression changed but the movement of his hand well away from his dagger appeared a deliberate peace offering. "Drink? Da." The man gave a brief nod. "I drink with you." 

The man's Arventian was rough and rumbling and heavily accented in the lilting intonation a knowledgeable man might mark for a northern jugkraian accent. The man looked down at the offered wine Ardashir offered briefly, then craned his head to the barkeeper and pointedly asked the tavern keeper to refill the tankard from the casque: where he could see it. He shovelled an extra coin onto the bar for the trouble. The tavern-keeper set out the refilled mug and the man raised it in Ardashir's direction. 

"I am Leofric Aelwinson." There was a slight hesitation to the man's introduction, his tone shifting from the expected Jugkraian form into something more like Ealdamundi, though the words seemed cumbersome and not without effort on Leofric's part.