Guiding his horse carefully through the streets, Osric's keen eyes picked out the marketplace. He guided Shadow closer, then leapt lightly to the ground. He didn't even bother with tying Shadow to any of the unoccupied lead posts. Shadow was a trained warhorse, and most certainly wouldn't run away. Any sneaky horse-thief who might decide to try his hand at Shadow would quickly find himself with a
hoof-split skull.
So it was that Osric was completely unconcerned as he weaved his way through the bustling crowds, past vendors and hawkers calling out their wares. He did not notice, nor would he have cared, that the crowd cleared a path for him as he passed. Perhaps it was because of the sword that was so prominently over his coat. Yet he wore it so easily, like a soldier. The sword looked as if it belonged there.
His mind was clear as he walked along, searching for that one place, searching..... ah, there. There it was. The armourer's shoppe. Abruptly he was aware of a hand reaching into his purse.....
He whirled to face the pickpocket. The culprit was a dark haired man, average height, slight build, with a rather dirty look about him. The man's expression went form concentration to surprise to anger to determination in a matter of seconds. Suddenly there was a knife in the man's hand, driving straight for Osric's ribs.
Falkur's hand shot forward instinctively. He caught the fellow's knife hand at the wrist and twisted - hard. Hard enough to wrench the knife from his hand. Osric's boot was on top the knife as soon as it hit the ground.
Again the man looked surprised. Then angry. He tried to jerk his hand away, but Falkur's grip was iron. Osric's eyes could have frozen fire. The man swung with his free hand, but Osric anticipated. He twisted still harder on his wrist, forcing the man to his knees.
"What is your name?" Osric's voice was as cold as a winter pond. The man grunted and didn't answer. By now a ring of people had formed to watch. Irritated, Osric drew his sword and placed it to the man's throat. "You tried to stab me. I could kill you now, and no law in Rohan would say me wrong. Tell me your name!"
The man groaned as Osric's boot crashed into his rib cage. Still he remained silent. A wave of contempt for the man came over Osric, and, sheathing his sword, he jerked him to his feet. He forced his fist to unclench. The man began to rub his wrist. Osric bent over to pick up the man's knife. Rather than return it, he stuck it in his belt. "When you start to miss it, remember the man you tried to kill. When you've turned your life around, come find me and you can have it back."
Leaving the man there, he strode to the armourer's shoppe. Once there, he pulled a chainmail jacket from his bag. He briskly asked to have it repaired, paid for it, and said he would pick it up that evening. Then he made his way back to the street. The crowd was now granting him an even wider berth. Good. He whistled, and Shadow came cantering up, a clump of grass hanging from his mouth. Placing his hands on Shadow's flank, he vaulted into the saddle and, with a flick of the reins was off. He let Shadow gallop, leading him off the main road. Yes, he wanted to take a ride. The wind blew his hair. And after that........ breakfast!
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