"Snickety .... what?" Rulan's eyes were half-lidded, his voice dull. He suddenly lashed out and grabbed Cyrus' sword; he slashed it about in the air with one hand while the other was pressed against the prince's skull to hold him back. "You couldn't break the skin with this thing, let alone snick any snacks. It's a toothpick." After a few more swipes, he tossed the weapon, caught it by the blade and shoved the hilt into Cyrus' chest. "No self-respecting king would be caught dead -- or rather, he [i]will[/i] be caught dead if he relies on a stick for protection." He folded the cloak down and tied it around his waist so he could have his arms free.

"Don't tell anyone else you took fencing lessons. It's embarrassing." He was searching the edges of the road, looking for any paths that might lead to a place where he could get some proper clothes and an actual weapon. "And there's always someone who hates you," he added offhandedly, distracted by thoughts of raw dripping meat and a blade to cut it with. "Whoever sent you to get this feather, for example. You never told me exactly why you're here. How much farther are we going to walk?"