[Tavern] Ruckus at the Crown (open)

[Cyrus Marius]

10th Darkening of the First Cycle in the Month of Junctior in the season of Autumn; Era I of the Celestine Mandate, Era XIII Post Fractum.

The warm sights and sounds that greeted Cyrus upon entrance to the Crown caused his stomach to roil upon itself, bringing bile up to his throat and making him grit his teeth tightly. He could hear the sounds of laughter and merriment comming from all corners of the establishment, but they only served to fuel his bitter and angry mood. He knifed through the pressing crowd without so much as looking up at anyone, and took a seat at the bar as far from everyone else as he could manage. The young soldier's head hung bowed with the weight of his thoughts, and his cobalt eyes remained fixed on the bar before him, looking but not really seeing.

Before long a young waitress sauntered up to Cyrus, her bright blue eyes boldly appraising the soldier and apparently liking what she saw.

"What can I get for you tonight, sir?" She began sweetly, with a hint of playfulness beneath her voice, "We have anything you could possibly want."

Cyrus glanced up at the young woman, but the tone of her voice only grated on his already raw and rattled nerves. She had done nothing to deserve the venom and rancor that seemed to overwhelm him at that moment, so he checked his sharp response and responded as gently and politely as he could manage.

"Whiskey, please," he whispered, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. "The bottle." He threw twenty crowns onto the serving dish she carried, and seemed to forget about them the moment they left his hand.

The cute, blonde waitress raised an eyebrow at the request, but quickly fetched Cyrus a bottle of Midpoint whiskey and a shot glass. She set the glass down on the counter in front of him, but her eyes widened as Cyrus ignored the glass entirely and reached for the whiskey itself, snapping off the top with a practiced twist and taking a long pull from the bottle. The waitress watched him for another moment, concern and apprehension visible in her pretty blue eyes, but she soon turned her attention to her other duties.

For a time, Cyrus was content to simply sit and drink, letting the alcohol fog his mind and numb his heart. No one paid him much mind, and before long, over three quarters of the bottle's contents had vanished. Swaying slightly on his seat, Cyrus set the bottle on the top of the bar and rested his head upon his arms, the pain and anger of a couple hours ago seeming to fade away into memory. At that moment however, another patron of the Crown, likewise reeling from the effects of too much alcohol, lurched into the young soldier while carrying a pair of pitchers full of thick, cold ale, spilling the contents all over both men.

The drunken man, upset about the spill and the loss of his next drink, began to mutter and grumble to himself out loud. Cyrus turned his head slowly, leveling his gaze on the figure of the man who had spilled ale all over him. The man was saying something to Cyrus, but the soldier couldn't make out the words, only that through some alcohol-ridden logic the man had decided that Cyrus was at fault for the spill. As the man's mutterings died down and he turned to re-fill his pitchers, Cyrus' hand slowly crept towards the whiskey bottle that still sat within reach. He wrapped his long fingers around the neck of the bottle tightly, squeezing it as if he could choke the life out of it, and without another word he sprang from his seat at the drunken man's back.

The man had no time to see the attack comming, only perhaps felt for an instant the bottle make contact with the back of his skull, before slipping into unconciousness. The bottle broke in Cyrus' hand as it crashed into the man's head, raining whiskey on both men and alerting almost every patron in the Crown within ten or twenty feet of the scene. As the man slumped to the floor, Cyrus heard the cute waitress scream from what sounded like a great distance away, and before he could turn to see where she stood, a great weight tackled him from behind. Too late Cyrus remembered that the man he attacked had been drinking with a table full of friends, and now they rushed to avenge themselves on the man that had taken their friend down. The young soldier went down in a writhing mass of bodies, limbs flailing in all directions as the men went crashing to the floor, disturbing what tables and chairs and patrons lie in their path.

[Cyrus Marius]

*OOC: Anyone can feel free to jump in at any time if they feel up for a brawl. Also, if there are any rules about starting public fights, my character is at the mercy of the laws of the land, so do with him as you will.*


Cyrus felt the air rush out of his lungs as the pile of bodies collapsed upon him, and the liquor in his stomach made his insides feel like jelly. Hands seemed to clutch and strike at him from every angle, and the press of elbows and knees was near agony. Roaring in anger, the young soldier fought back as best he could, raining his fists down in furious blows upon the heads and backs of anyone within reach. A face loomed directly in front of his, visage twisted by an ugly, gap toothed grin, and Cyrus launched a wild punch that caught the man square in his rotten teeth and sent him reeling. For a moment, Cyrus felt the weight upon him slacken, and he quickly wriggled out from underneath the pile.

Clutching the side of an overturned table to steady himself, Cyrus staggered to his feet and looked at the melee around him. He couldn't tell who first attacked him or remember when it all started, and the liquor in his system still clouded his senses, playing tricks with his vision and hearing. Cyrus could hear the shouts of anger and alarm from those who sought to keep order in the popular establishment, and he looked around hurridly for the nearest door to the street. At that moment however, one of the men fighting spied the young soldier leaning against the table, and he jabbed his finger at Cyrus with an incoherant cry of anger.

Cyrus' temper flared, and he snarled fiercely in return. The pain and sickness he felt at the moment lent him an animal anger, and he roared again in defiance at the group of men turning now towards him. Though outnumbered and obviously in terrible fighting condition, something in Cyrus' eyes made the men hesitate for a brief moment, each reticent perhaps to be the first one to combat the enraged soldier. Cyrus took a step towards the assembled number, but without warning, something struck him sharply on the back of the head. Stars burst behind Cyrus' vision for a brief moment, and the last sensation he felt before his eyes shut was his legs go out from underneath him. For a moment, he could hear the scuffle commence around him, but it seemed far away and unimportant, and Cyrus let himself slip into unconciousness.

[Jalun]

Ten brightenings, now. Ten long brightenings he had seen the sun rise and set and he could still hardly say he had adapted to life in Alleria Prime; his old life, while far more impoverished, was much more pleasant, and a lot less crowded and - frankly - rank-smelling. When he first arrived, there were many things he could have done as an alternative to remaining in the massive city; now, however, he was bound here by many commitments and engagements he had already made. Indeed, he could throw them all away, and start a new life as a rich man with golden eyelids (he thought he heard the expression once) in Primus Gaudeo. But in Jalun's mind, this would lead to enraged pursuit by a thousand - no, ten thousand - soldiers of the Legion, screaming at him to pay his tab at the Crown. That would be an odd situation, indeed; he didn't actually have a tab and had paid for all the alcohol he had consumed there. But the Legion probably didn't know that, unless they had an inside man. Somebody to watch Jalun... a spy.

Tonight, he wasn't drinking at all, however. He couldn't afford it; he needed to squeeze every crown as though it were, actually, a crown, and he was some kind of king who wore his crown in his hands. He had merely grown accustomed to the Crown itself. The atmosphere was comforting, and it was a good place to meet people - even if many of them were moving on in short time, it made him feel important. Well, he was important, to himself, if nothing else; but the feeling was expanded in this place. Tonight, he choosed an opportune moment to wander in for a bit of mingling, however... as he started into the crowded establishment a bottle was broken by one patron unto another, and within moments an enraged and violent mob had formed at the epicenter. Jalun was seperate at first; he clapped his hands together and laughed to himself in response. He had heard of these kinds of events, and had always wanted to partcipate. The reasons for this were unclear: Jalun was by no means strong, or large, and he didn't have any protection or weaponry to his name. When the furious gathering turned its attention on one individual in particular, Jalun felt an overpowering urge for participation, and he picked up a nearby stool and ran towards the fray.

With a relatively incoherent and slightly comical battle cry (something along the lines of "Fear my heavy stool!") he slammed it hard against the back of the apparent victim's head. The angry patrons were rallying against him, and Jalun knew his odds. They would hail him as some kind of hero for this; perhaps make him a king of outlaws, as he had heard of in some stories. He would rob from the rich, and...from the poor, as well. He wasn't discriminating, and he had already tried to steal from a poor man, seven brightenings ago. Granted, he had tried to steal a table. But that wasn't really relevant now.

He looked up from the man he toppled at the approaching mass. What he expected was exaggerated happiness and joyful cries of thanks, although what he was met with was even more anger, now directed at him. Only, he had just taken out his only potential ally, and stood alone. Jalun was - as has been related already - no fighter by any means, and he began to panic. This wasn't quite how he had pictured his first brawl. He searched around his immediate vicinity frantically, and picked up a tankard of some generic mind-numbing beverage, dumping it on the man he had just belted with a piece of tavern furniture. Jalun crouched down and started slapping the man in the face in a desperate attempt to revive him, knowing only about first aid what he had heard about somewhere, or seen in plays. Its effectiveness was indeterminate, but these men were twice the size of Jalun (so it seemed, at least) and were probably preparing to stretch him across the entire width of the tavern while ensuring he stayed conscious through the proceedings.

Perhaps he should have prepared a little better.

[Eyvind Redbeard]

When Eyvind heard a bottle being broken and saw a Legionnaire being attacked by an angry mob Eyvind watched carefully for any chance he could have to help his companion in the Legion, he didn't really know the man, but being a Legionnaire in the Legion was like being part of a family, when someone attack one of us that person attack the whole family. Taking a large sip in his ale Eyvind prepared to stand, that was when Jalun knock the Legionnaire out, what was HE doing here? And what was he doing?

When the mob turned at Jalun and he, in his despair took Eyvind's tankard and dumped the ale on Cyrus face Eyvind knew it was time for him to act. The mob seemed to enraged to hear any words but still he tried.

"Leave these men! They have done nothing to you, except for that drunken fellow of yours, and he deserved it."

Someone in the mob shouted: "He is one of them! Take him!"

There was no time for explanations, Eyvind grabbed the tabble and threw it at the mob, right over Jalun's and Cyrus heads, that would delay the mob, not stop it.

"Jalun! This is the second time you cause a battle in this establishment! Follow me and bring the Legionnaire with you, I will try and open a way out of here!"

[Jalun]

Frantically, Jalun began throwing over chairs for no apparent reason. They didn't have the potential to stop anybody as it was; he was throwing them in directions that could only impede his movements. It was painfully obvious he had never been in such a situation before; in fact, it was clear he had never been involved in anything that even approached this level of violence. The advantage was theirs, not his, and he could see this clearly... the prodcuts of his efforts to revive the Legionnaire he had hit the stool were unclear as he stumbled hastily away from the site of the hit. He hadn't formulated an exit strategy - indeed, he hadn't formulated a strategy at all - and his current attempt at an escape was an apparent failure thus far. This probably should have been expected; throwing obstacles in his own path while weaving around tables was not exactly the smoothest plan, but he had panicked and somehow thought it to be sensible. When Eyvind showed up in some kind of arbitrary and incredibly coincidental rescue attempt, it was a source of both relief and slight paranoia in Jalun.

"Eyvind! Good to see you, good to see you. I was just - "

Without much warning, a table soared over his head. He felt the consequential rush of air whip through his hair, and he flinched (with as much drama as possible) in reaction. Eyvind delivered some sort of lecture about how many fights he had started - he was off by one or two, as it was - and told Jalun to follow him out, with the other man, whom he had knocked out. Jalun looked at the Legionnaire, then at Eyvind, then back at the Legionnaire.

"...yes, that shouldn't be a problem..." He wasn't speaking to anybody in particular, and his voice was just a mumble. Jalun was well aware that he wasn't strong by any standards (except perhaps those without arms) and the man on the floor seemed to be an unsurmountable obstacle. Still, Eyvind had given him the order, and he knew better than to question a man who had just thrown a table over his head, so his reaction mainly entailed wandering awkwardly around the body. Jalun put as much thought into the situation as he could manage in the few minutes he had before he was beaten to death by a mob of infuriated patrons, and his "solution" was to grab the man by both arms and drag him with the entire weight of Jalun's body. He moved, albeit slowly across the hardwood and Jalun fell in step behind Eyvind, stepping up his pace as fast as he could. "I could have taken them!" His voice was a little indistinct among the noise, but he thought it would probably reach Eyvind.

The truth is, it is easy to be brave when you've just been rescued.

[Cyrus Marius]

His eyes burned. That was the first sensation Cyrus felt as the veil of darkness slowly began to fade away. Only partially concious and entirely unaware of the situation around him, the young soldier allowed himself to be dragged without resistance. His other senses began to return, but dull and hazzed from the drink and the blow to the head. Cyrus could hear the sounds of the scuffle breaking up as some lost interest and some moved elsewhere on to other willing opponents, but he paid it no mind. He kept his eyes shut against the world, and groaned low to himself as he slid along the floor of the tavern.

The man dragging him seemed almost beside himself with the effort, and the jerky, frantic motions combined with the nausea from the head injury caused Cyrus' stomach to lurch dangerously. He could feel the muscles in his midsection clench, but by sheer will he managed to control himself. Though his head throbbed like a dwarven smith had taken up residence within, Cyrus felt he could probably get himself around better than this fellow trying here. At the very least, the stranger could make a break for it or return to the fight as he chose.

With another incoherant groan, the soldier jerked his broad shoulders out of Jalun's grip, sinking to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He paused for half a heartbeat, then shakily pushed himself up to a near-kneeling position, once again clutching the side of a table to support himself. Cyrus opened one eye and squinted around the walls of the Crown, desperately looking for the door. The pitched fight trailed distantly behind his churning stomach in his thoughts, and by the grace of Diana, the young soldier spied the door to the establishment less than thirty feet from where he knelt.

Swallowing another wave of sickness, Cyrus lurched unsteadily to his feet and nearly blacked out again as the pain of his head wound flared anew. His vision blurred for a moment and he closed his eyes against the pain, but after a moment the worst of the dizziness passed, and Cyrus was able to focus once again on the door. He glanced towards the two men that had come to his aid, one a fellow legionnare stationed here in Prime and the other the well-meaning man whom had tried to drag him to safety, and he felt a stab of shame and regret that they had to suffer for his lack of control. Perhaps he would make it up to them later, somehow, he thought to himself.

The muscles of his stomach clenched yet again, this time with an authority that meant they were done playing games. He cast one last hurried glance around the area leading towards the door for anyone that looked like they wanted to continue fighting, but the urgency of his condition spurred him into action regardless. Cyrus half ran, half fell towards the Crown's front door, and managed to make it to the door's frame before sinking to his knees and wretching violently into the street. The liqour had been his only sustenance that day, and though his stomach contracted painfully and his muscles locked tight, there was soon nothing left to purge. The young soldier closed his eyes again and leaned against the door frame, savoring for a brief moment the simple pleasure of the night's breeze against his face.

[Eyvind Redbeard]

Punching a patron in his left side of the face Eyvind took two steps backward, the mob was enraged and certainly there were some daggers in there, waiting for an opportunity to stab one of them, no one would then know who had commited the crime. Eyvind was aware of this fact and he wanted to get out of the Crown as soon as possible. Jalun was dragging the other Legionnaire he saw. When Eyvind turned his eyes to the mob a chair had been thrown at him, crossing his arms in front of his face to protect it, Eyvind heard the wood hitting his bracers and felt a leg hitting his shoulder, a moment later the man he had just punched was jumping on him with a some kind of improvised weapon. Ah! If Eyvind had his helmet he wouldn't have feared the attack, but he hadn't so he allowed himself to fall on his right side to avoid the rage of the man (after all, the man had lost a tooth when Eyvind punched him)), perhaps due to some bad omen Eyvind stepped on a chair and didn't manage to avoid the weapon, an iron stick he found out too late when it reached his kidneys. Eyvind rolled on the floor holding his backs. Ploding as fast as he could Eyvind saw Cyrus standing and running to the door, Eyvind hoped he could get there.

Standing once more Eyvind waited for the charge of the mob, he would wait for it for he couldn't run.

[Jalun]

The air was cold.

Jalun made this obviously clever observation after a few moments of analysis, seeking a more poetic description but coming up short. He didn't have much of a way with words, unfortunately, or perhaps he could have made the sentence sound beautiful. The air is cold would never appear in any epic poem, or tale about some kind of hero fighting a monster somewhere, sometime. Probably. It was just not that kind of sentence... on further thought, he couldn't even picture a time when he would actually have a need to use it at all. It was, all in all, a remarkably useless observation.

But the cold air was better than the warm orgy of destruction and violence within the tavern itself, and the bloodthirsty patrons would destroy him if he went back in here. Even in the company of the retching Legionnaire, he was happy he wasn't in the Crown getting his own eyes forcibly pushed down his esophagus. He had no desire to see what was in his stomach... he pictured it as being incredibly empty. Since he had to carefully ration what little food he could afford, he had been relatively hungry for quite a while, but he was surviving, and that was all that mattered. That aside, it was kind of a comforting feeling; he had spent his childhood with it, after all.

He turned his attention to the Legionnaire. Jalun had followed him out here; he had stepped a little distance away but had left the man otherwise untouched. When he appeared to be finished and propped himself against the wall, Jalun tried offering a friendly smile. He wasn't clear on the proper etiquette for a situation like this; a friendly smile worked in most - or so it seemed - and here it appeared appropriate as anything else.

"Feeling better?"

[Keldon Elsdragon]

Keldon was going to the Inn for a small dinner before he headed off to speak to some of the new Legion members. He had planned on getting some roast duck, something that was cooked far better here then the in mess hall of the legions. Being an officer had its perks of decent food, a high ranking officer like himself had access to even more. But it didn't mean the damn cooks could make the things tasty.

Looking down to the dressed legionnare he raised his brow. Keldon was dressed in full military uniform his cloak over his shoulders and the metal of his boots made a clank against the floor. Looking down to Cyrus he let out a large sigh, and his eyes started to move to Jalun however when the sound of the fight hit his ears from inside his eyes widened a little. Looking around his eyes searched the dark lined street until he saw a two man patrol of guards where he whistled towards "Inside, now!" His voice blasted.

Looking at Jalun as he entered the tavern his eyes searched the area quickly. The group of various people in fist fights and all little chaos in one building. "Wonder..." he said briefly until he saw Eyvind and another brow raised. His hand now moved to his longsword. "Hey!" His voice was loud, firm and deep. He was hoping someone stopped but no one paid attention. So he would do what was needed next. His hand moved to his longsword and grasped the grip, pulling outwards the blade shimmered under the candlelight as it tore out of the scabbard.

Holding the blade in his hand with no stance yet he stood up straight. "By order of the Imperial Army, the next person who throws a punch, or any blasted object will lose there life this darkening!" his voice hollowed out, loud enough to echo off the walls of the room. If needed he would smack the sword off the table in front of him and hard.


OOC: I can't help a bar fight :P Cyrus since you are the thread starter and there is no PC to PC combat we can still peer-mod it. Since your not in the tavern you can decide how the crowed acts. Do they stop and go "oh shiznit" from the armed arrival... or do I have to start drawing blood... which would suck...

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus glanced towards Jalun out of the corner of his eye, nodding weakly in response to the man's question. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, and coughed the last of the bile from the back of his throat.

"By Diana," the soldier groaned, "I feel like a corpse." Cyrus reached up to his head and felt the dried blood matted in his blonde hair, and turned and cast a glance back through the tavern's door at the number of patrons still swarming about in anger and confusion. "I wonder which one of those bastards hit me from behind," he muttered angrily to himself.

The sound of boots striking stone echoed through the streets, causing Cyrus to lift his head in the direction of the sound. Cyrus felt his stomach lurch again at the sight of the Legion officer's uniform, and by the man's lithe form and bold stride, there was only one officer it could be. Swallowing another groan, the young soldier tried to will himself into invisibility, to make himself too small to be noticed, anything but face the Provost in this state, yet the gods were not on his side this night. Keldon's sharp elven eyes caught sight of the legion issue clothing that Cyrus still wore beneath his cloak, and the Provost caught sight of his face as well, his expression registering somewhere between disgust and disinterest. Though he wanted to just curl up and die on the spot, Cyrus made himself return the Provost's gaze, a glimmer of defiance lurking in an almost otherwise perfect picture of post-alcohol woe.

Mercifully, the sounds of the tavern brawl reclaimed Keldon's attention, and calling to the patrol passing by, the Provost dashed into the Inn to try and restore order. Cyrus was no fool, and figured that if he ever had a chance to try and get away from this debacle quietly, this was probably it. Cursing his luck again that the Provost had come upon him, Cyrus struggled to his feet and cast his gaze hurridly around the deserted streets. If he managed to make it to the barracks before the next brightening, he might even avoid a court marshall for causing a public disturbance.

"You have my thanks again, friend," Cyrus said, turning towards Jalun, "but I think I have had enough fun for one evening. Something about your commander's commander's commander catching you in a state such as this, takes some of the life out of the night, if you know what I mean. Gods be with you my friend, take care."

Cyrus reached back and pulled the hood of his cloak low over his face, then turned down an alley that he knew led back towards the Miltary District. He could hear the sounds of the chaos still within the Crown, but he assumed that the Provost could handle himself. He remembered Eyvind still inside the Tavern as well, but figured that as he had nothing to do with the fight in the first place, Keldon would probably be much more lenient with him. Cyrus whispered a small prayer to Diana to watch his fellow legionnares, and continued to stagger back towards his bunk.

Meanwhile in the Tavern, Keldon's presence had changed everything. The most drunken of the patrons might not recognize his uniform or rank insignia, but the deadly length of his longsword's blade and the confident, sure way he held himself made most think long and hard about challanging his authority. Some froze on the spot, others flushed scarlet and sat back at their tables, and the few that were still drunk enough to feel rowdy were quickly taken in hand by their more clear-headed friends. The common room looked as though a hurricane had passed through, but the atmosphere of the Crown was quickly returning to normal, testament to all the upheaval that the establishment had survived before and would survive again.

[Eyvind Redbeard]

Taking several steps back, still with his fists prepared to punch anyone too drunk to be scared with Keldon's sword Eyvind reached the elf. Eyvind's letf of the face was covered in blood, and his lips were droping some more as if they wanted to leave a mark on the floor for the waitress to clean when the fight was over.

"I thank the Gods you have came in time, Sir. I was afraid of using my own sword due to legal problems. I don't really want to end up in a court because I killed a drunk Medonian."

Cleaning his lips with his sleeve Eyvind waited for Keldon's reaction.

[Jalun]

It wasn't exactly fair. When violence broke out, Jalun realized he had absolutely no part to play - he had injured a soldier in the Imperial Legion, though hopefully there were no witnesses. After that, there was nothing for him; he was not imposing, not threatening, and most of all, not large. Yet he was still blamed for starting the brawl while having no direct hand in it, on the basis he had started one before. This was not true at all... it was this man (who he still had no name for, apparently, and neglected to ask entirely) who began the string of events. In Jalun's mind, he was just a piece in some twisted game of the Legion's design to frame him and imprison him, from some grand scheme to lock up the entirety of existence so the Legion could reign supreme. It was probably very complex, very confusing, and very impossible, really. When he started raising questions about the one that hit him, Jalun became noticeably frantic, but thankfully it subsided as an evidently important officer showed up. Jalun had no particular interest in the vast hierarchy of the Legion, but he could discern from the tension that there was quite a gap between them, rank-wise.

The officer entered the tavern and the grunt ambled off, and Jalun was left alone with a little confusion towards what just happened, and serious reservations about the peacekeeping abilities of the Legion. Without much else to do, he reentered the Crown to see what developed. He was expecting more bloodshed... perhaps some kind of war between the Legion and a million outlaws. That was a stretch - even for Jalun - but he was tired, and his already malfunctioning imagination was kicked up even higher. Inside, the prospective fighters had given up, and Eyvind was looking on the officer as though he was some kind of god. If this was, indeed, the case, then the Legion was some kind of fanatic cult, which would explain many things... Jalun made a mental note to remember this thought, that he could form some theories later. For now, he wanted to know a little more about who this man was. Or God-king, as it may have been to Eyvind, who seemed to be whipped by something resembling fear.

"You know," Jalun spoke after thinking a little more on the matter of the Legion cult. Later, he would wonder why he felt the need to say anything at all. "I would make a fantastic High Priest."

[Keldon Elsdragon]

Keldon's eyes kept moving from table to table as those who dared attempt to defy him remained standing up as if they were going to come at him. The prospect of killing someone in a bar to restore orders was not particularly a appealing aspect to Keldon. However it was indeed something he was prepared to do if the need require it. Assault on a Imperial Officer, or any Imperial Official for that regards was punishable by death.

Moving the blade in a circle once he returned the steel to its guarded scabbard. The lack of emotion presence on his face but that tell tale glare of wanting, just one, a single foolish soul to try his luck. But none did, which was good. His eyes shifted to Eyvind, a deep inhale as he turned. "I want a report Legionnaire, and I damn well want one now." He said waiting for a fast, no wait he expected more of a instant reply or get ready to be doing laps all week. Although in the back of Keldons mind he wondered if it clicked to Eyvind that he was a Medonian.

With the sound of the voice near the doorway Keldon arched his head in the direction his mind going over the comment and then he quirked he brow slight. "Why would that be sir? If I recall High Priests offer aid not a sprint towards the nearest unbarred doorway.... or would you happen to know who started this ruckus" He said with a sharp tone looking back to Eyvind.

OOC: Do not mind me Jalun, Keldon is just taking the whole officer thing WAY to seriously lately hehe. Going to make for a interesting bit later on in this thread... *plots evilly*

[Jalun]

There were a few "popular" ways of responding to Jalun's so-called quirks. Some people humored him cautiously, playing along but never actually catalyzing his odd notions. Others ignored him, while others still tried in vain to correct him. The reality was his mind, while hypothetically stable, was apparently overgrown in the "imagination" sector. There have been a handful of individuals who have made the mistake of furthering his bizarre theories instead of stopping them short (or at least slowing them down) and this was another one of those cases. There would be no predicting what would happen now; the idea of the Legion cult might stick with him permanently, or he may forget it over the course of an hour.

"I did no such thing! In fact, I offered aid. I offered more aid than you could fit in this whole room to -" He probed his mind, searching for the name of the man he had assisted. He realized, again, that he didn't actually have it. " - er, that man who was here before. You saw him! ...or, perhaps, you didn't, and I'm mistaken." The ending of his speech was a little less dramatic than he had envisioned, but he wanted to be careful with his words, for now. He didn't want to enrage a god-king; no matter how mortal he may be, he had a Legion (Jalun chuckled inwardly at this unplanned pun) of men standing behind him that could tear Jalun to shreds in seconds.

Following this detour, his brain at last caught up with the other half of the supposed god-king's sentence, and realized he had presented with an intriguing opportunity. He wasn't entirely clear on the typical doctrines of military-oriented cults, and couldn't possibly be sure what the reprocussions were for extorting a god-king. But at this point, he was desperate for money, and consequently, food. Part of his mind (which was in a constant state of civil war for dominance of the conscious, normally occupied almost completely by his imagination) saw this as an immediate problem with a potential temporary solution, and raised a flag in Fort Jalun. The opportunity for financial gain - regardless of how minor - warranted a shift in his visible personality; it wasn't a change of mind, precisely, but the application of a little more self-control. It was hardly the first time this had happened.

"Well... while I'm sure I saw it, I can't seem to remember. In all the confusion, I must have been hit in the head. I do, however, remember seeing some crowns before it started; perhaps if I had some in my possession, it would trigger my memory. Yes?" This truly had the potential to go all kinds of wrong, although in this state Jalun couldn't really see many outcomes beyond profit.

It was almost preferable to his natural demeanor.