[Kransha]

Idruil sat, very calmly and studiously, at his small rickety chair across from Roryn, leaning down and stooping over a tin tankard, nursing the drink he’d gotten as he stared into the frothy foam that cascaded in a narrow river over the side. Even as he heard the clashing of sword on sword, he didn’t bother to look up. He’d heard the sound all too many times, coupled with the curt twang of bowstrings and the whistling of jagged bolts through the still air. It brought no memories now, as Idruil’s mind became more wistfully murky as he returned his faculties to the present, glancing up at the conflict, brief and impatient as it went. Atharen had won the upper hand already, and seemed to bear a clever grin upon his face as he spoke to this stranger who had accosted Miss Crystal. Idruil scowled pensively as he swung his creaking chair sideways and raised a flat hand towards Atharen, trying to distract his attention momentarily before the fight grew.

“Though I hate to be the voice of reason, perhaps it would be better if we did not emulate this man’s hostility. If he leaves us be, we may do the same for him.”

The man of Minas Tirith looked about coolly; an otherworldly look of beleaguered weariness plastered over his face as he shook his bearded head to recover some sense and overviewed the crowd as a bristling sound rippled over the inn strangely, like an eerie shockwave. Suddenly, the glint of metal shimmered in many places, peering out beneath coats, cloaks, and frocks that muffled the gait and silhouettes of the inn-goers. Idruil pushed his mug down the table, watching it skid to a fractured but prompt halt at the other end. Oddly enough, even though the few visible faces with their rotten, yellowed teeth, deep and rough pallor, and sinuous, burly airs looked hostile, there was a spot of grotesque glee embedded in their obvious expressions. It seemed that they wanted a fight. In fact, it seemed that they would become just as hostile and aggressive if their was no brawl, their eyes gleaming in spiteful anticipation.

“Or, perhaps we should.” He whispered, almost smiling to himself as he fingered the icy metal of his hilt beneath the table’s concealing shadow, he traced his rough-skinned thumb down the hilts spiraling cylinder and onto the lacquered scabbard below, prying the blade out minutely by its cross-guard if he was called upon to take up arms. He felt another mildly sensational twinge in his hand, a flickering pulsation as he told himself doggedly to yank out the weapon, overturn the table and its held contents, and challenge the boorish oaf, but he knew that would be foolhardy, since Atharen could handle any ailing brute such as this. Now, Idruil pulled his seat at another faulty angle and shot a calm, but still venom-tinged glance at the stranger.

“Sir, no matter your prowess in battle, I highly doubt you can defeat my companion in combat, or any of us, for that matter, so why don’t you make this easier for all of us and tell us what you want and why you want it, so we don’t have to besmirch this inn’s good name, hmm?” This elicited an invisible chuckle from Roryn, who was busy theorizing over his smoky pipe.