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WhiteAngel25 Galadred's eye wandered to Volker's table in boredom. When there was any trouble, it usually came from there. Tests of strength always seemed to bring out the worst in men. Though The Lion's face was blank, expressionless, he inwardly pleaded for Meinhardt to draw a rowdy challenger. He found himself thinking anything to break the monotony. However, as was often the case for him, he found himself regretting the thought almost instantaneously as the tavern door opened, and in trotted a dwarf. The smell hit his keen, elven nostrils instantly. This dwarf was old, and had either been on the road a long while, or preferred not to wash. The new arrival looked about the Nag, then his deep-set eyes, sunken into his leathery face, settled on Galadred. There was a brief moment of tension, the longbearded dwarf's jaw tensed, and though Galadred managed to hold on to his expressionless stoicism, he felt a tingle of excitement at the base of his spine, and his hands clenched tightly around the haft of his axe beneath the lion-pelt cloak. Give me a reason. The elf thought.
The moment passed, and the dwarf turned and walked toward the bar, but the elf remained charged, electrified, eager. None of the tension had left him. Several minutes of silent vigil eventually eased him down to a simmer, and in came another newcomer. While it wasn't so strange to have multiple arrivals in one day, this man was not the usual sort. Galadred had had met many a member of the Bretonian royalty whilst escorting diplomats from Ulthuan for the occasional meeting. Though this was rare, Galadred had learned to spot their particular styles. This man was, unmistakably Bretonian. He looked around the room, seemingly unsure of who to approach, yet despite his lack of direction, his bearing exuded confidence and self-assuredness. He looked over Galadred briefly, and the elf gave him the slightest of nods, then the noble man strolled confidently to Volker's table. Galadred raised an eyebrow. Surely this Bretonian hadn't come this far east simply to challenge a man to an arm wrestle? He watched with barely disguised interest, straining his elven ears to hear the conversation as the man sat down across from Meinhardt.
The Lion's focus was so absolute that he didn't notice the man with the heavy Kislevite accent until he offered a round of vodka for all. This distracted the elf slightly, but he wasn't much of a drinker. After one has tasted the wines of the Asur, not much else can compare. Besides, he was on duty. He shrugged off the distraction, focusing in on Volker and the Bretonian again, currently the only table which had the potential to produce an interesting turn of events, and a reason for him to flex his muscles. He was dimly aware of another patron entering, but paid little heed. That is, until the brazen little dwarf walked straight up to him. Galadred didn't register what he said at first, but turned to look at the dwarf just in time to see the stubby fingers flick his ithilmar armour near the waist. The silvery reverberation, like the tinkle of an expertly crafted bell, gave the elf a sudden vision of home, but it was broken before it could fully materialize by the dwarf's gruff voice.
"I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns." The dwarf bellowed.
Galadred was momentarily taken aback. The forwardness of the lesser races often had this effect on him, even to this day. However, nearly twenty years in the old world had helped him to grow accustomed to the banter and boasting, to a degree. Another dwarf, who Galadred knew as Vargni (another current resident of the Nag) had approached. Though Galadred and Vargni had interacted a bare minimum, the elf didn't mind the slayer. Smelly and unhygienic though he was, he rendered an important service in the surrounding area, and Galadred had to respect anyone of such short stature who would actively seek out monsters in the wilds.
"Careful now," Vargni grumbled, still apparently slightly inebriated, "Or he'll wear your ruddy face alongside that house-cat on his shoulder."
"Hmmm..." Galadred hummed as he raised an eyebrow, then put one hand to his chin in mock thought, conveniently allowing his cloak to slip open and reveal Argent Roar, his mighty enchanted axe. "I think not. A face like that would only dampen the luster of my ensemble, no?"
The moment passed, and the dwarf turned and walked toward the bar, but the elf remained charged, electrified, eager. None of the tension had left him. Several minutes of silent vigil eventually eased him down to a simmer, and in came another newcomer. While it wasn't so strange to have multiple arrivals in one day, this man was not the usual sort. Galadred had had met many a member of the Bretonian royalty whilst escorting diplomats from Ulthuan for the occasional meeting. Though this was rare, Galadred had learned to spot their particular styles. This man was, unmistakably Bretonian. He looked around the room, seemingly unsure of who to approach, yet despite his lack of direction, his bearing exuded confidence and self-assuredness. He looked over Galadred briefly, and the elf gave him the slightest of nods, then the noble man strolled confidently to Volker's table. Galadred raised an eyebrow. Surely this Bretonian hadn't come this far east simply to challenge a man to an arm wrestle? He watched with barely disguised interest, straining his elven ears to hear the conversation as the man sat down across from Meinhardt.
The Lion's focus was so absolute that he didn't notice the man with the heavy Kislevite accent until he offered a round of vodka for all. This distracted the elf slightly, but he wasn't much of a drinker. After one has tasted the wines of the Asur, not much else can compare. Besides, he was on duty. He shrugged off the distraction, focusing in on Volker and the Bretonian again, currently the only table which had the potential to produce an interesting turn of events, and a reason for him to flex his muscles. He was dimly aware of another patron entering, but paid little heed. That is, until the brazen little dwarf walked straight up to him. Galadred didn't register what he said at first, but turned to look at the dwarf just in time to see the stubby fingers flick his ithilmar armour near the waist. The silvery reverberation, like the tinkle of an expertly crafted bell, gave the elf a sudden vision of home, but it was broken before it could fully materialize by the dwarf's gruff voice.
"I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns." The dwarf bellowed.
Galadred was momentarily taken aback. The forwardness of the lesser races often had this effect on him, even to this day. However, nearly twenty years in the old world had helped him to grow accustomed to the banter and boasting, to a degree. Another dwarf, who Galadred knew as Vargni (another current resident of the Nag) had approached. Though Galadred and Vargni had interacted a bare minimum, the elf didn't mind the slayer. Smelly and unhygienic though he was, he rendered an important service in the surrounding area, and Galadred had to respect anyone of such short stature who would actively seek out monsters in the wilds.
"Careful now," Vargni grumbled, still apparently slightly inebriated, "Or he'll wear your ruddy face alongside that house-cat on his shoulder."
"Hmmm..." Galadred hummed as he raised an eyebrow, then put one hand to his chin in mock thought, conveniently allowing his cloak to slip open and reveal Argent Roar, his mighty enchanted axe. "I think not. A face like that would only dampen the luster of my ensemble, no?"