[Orual]

Ravion finished his breakfast and put the plate aside, leaning back against the wall and rubbing his aching head. Never again! As he swore off alcohol for the fourth time in as many weeks, something of a commotion started up a little ways away.

"Where's my hat?" demanded a boy, facing another youth--Ravion believed he had heard him called Faran--whose head was bowed and was in a submissive stance. Ravion watched in detached interest as the first boy accused Faran of stealing his hat, an accusation that was firmly denied by the youth in a stuttering voice. Ravion would have taken the accused's side, if he had thought that the stutter was genuine. This boy was accustomed to fakery, and that never boded well.

Just as the first boy pulled his hand back into a fist meant to knock out a few of Faran's teeth, Faran dodged and ran through the common room, making a dash for the door. Ravion stood up and strode quickly to the youth, grabbing him by his collar and pressing him against the wall. He stared evenly at the boy, wordlessly took the hat from him and passed it to its rightful owner, who looked more than a little stunned by the turn that events had taken. He stared at it for a moment, then bolted.

"W-w-wait! T-t-that’s my h-hat!" Faran cried, struggling against Ravion. The Ranger held him firm, moving only slightly despite the boy's wriggling.

"You can drop the false stutter," Ravion said dryly.

"O-o-only if y-y-you l-l-let m-me go," Faran replied, his struggling abating somewhat. Ravion raised an eyebrow, and loosened his grip a little. Not much, but a little. He locked eyes with the boy for a moment longer, a dispassionate stare that he found quite effective in intimidating people he needed to question, or just people who were getting on his nerves. After the moment had passed, he grabbed Faran's collar once again and marched him over to the table at which he had been seated.

He pushed the boy down into a seat and took a seat himself. He did not push back his hood: he thought that it rather gave the impression that he was trying to give the youth. They weren't sitting down for a friendly cup of tea.

"Thievery," he said, his voice casual. He made a wry face and took his glass of water, drinking it and wrinkling his forehead in pain. It was still quite cold.

"I d-d-didn't st-steal an-any-anything!" Faran protested. Ravion glanced at him from over his glass. The Ranger cleared his throat and placed his glass on the table slowly.

"I said to drop the stutter," Ravion said, his voice low and indicating that he was no longer playing games. He leaned over the table, eye-to-eye with Faran. "You don't know me. You probably wish you hadn't met me, that you had gotten to that door. In fact I know you do. But we did meet." He realized that he was drumming his fingers on his scabbard, and that Faran was glancing nervously at it. He forced his hands to be still on the table, and held his glass to keep them steady. "My name is Ravion. I am a Ranger. Don't look so surprised; there are still some of us around. Not many, though. You might wonder what we do now. Well, with very few orcs around, and only a small number of Easterlings and Southrons who want to cause trouble with our good King, I have to settle for a little less." He leaned in closer. "Trouble-makers like you."

He straightened up. "Now, I'll give you one chance to explain yourself. Tell me why this hat was so necessary to your survival," he said mockingly, sitting back in his chair, fingering his necklace, a white-green stone with a square hole in the center, tied to a leather strap. His fingers ran over his father's name, engraved on the back, as he awaited the youth's answer.