For a man who moved around as often as Ronan, one would think he would put some money into good horseflesh. He could not bring himself to do it, however. He was a big man, but he feared the bigger animal. It was mostly due to the fact that he was almost trampled by one when he was a child. Some warrior, who thought it would be entertaining, put eight year old Ronan in with one of the village's most feral horses. The only reason they kept the animal around was because it bred powerful horses. Luckily, little Ronan was not killed, but he was injured badly.

At the thought of the old incident, Ronan's hand went to his shoulder. It still ached, especially when cold weather rolled in. Much like today, he thought as he looked towards the sky. There was cloud cover and not an inch of blue could be detected. It was a miracle it hadn't begun raining. If it did, Ronan would be forced to find cover. Though he could trudge through the unpleasant weather, he preferred to keep a margin of comfort when travelling. He already had to walk to his destination, no point in making him walk while in wet clothing.

Damn it to hell, thought Conn, sliding down off Freedom. She wasn't as young as she'd been when he had bought her. Now pushing thirteen, she seemed to go lame at the slightest provocation. He had checked all her hooves--nothing. So now, his pack on his own shoulders to converse her strength, he was plodding along the road on his own two feet, with her reins in his hand.

"You know I'd not be this kind to any maid but you," he murmured, patting her sweaty, drooping neck. He'd been riding her hard, maybe that was it. But he didn't like the look of this sky. He'd have to stop before the next township and pitch a tent if it started to rain.

Up ahead, through air that seemed to be crackling with the gray beginnings of rain, he spotted another solitary figure. At first, squinting, he thought it was a barbarian--a Baskar, as he knew they liked to be called. Seemed to even better prefer their tribe names but he couldn't tell the difference in that silly face-paint they used.

"Oy!" he called out. "Aizu*!"






*Aizu = hello

Ronan stopped walking at the sound of the voice. He had heard the horse, but was going to ignore the other traveller. Seldom did good come of talking to one of the Thiasans. They thought him nothing more than a barbarian. To think that, at one time, he had thought they would welcome him. What a laughable thought. Ronan was not laughing when he turned and looked at the approaching man, no look of greeting on his face. He was not a man someone would call kind or even coolly polite. Ronan wasn't afraid to be openly hostile.

Though, this man called out a greeting int Ronan's native tongue. That was more than most would do. Still, it was hard for Ronan to like others. Perhaps it was all the hard hits to the head that had jarred something loose in there, made him more instinctively animal than reasonable man. He managed a nod in the strangers direction, however. "Aizu." His voice was gravelly and deep, as if it wasn't used often.

It would take more than a hello to inspire the warrior to converse, however. He started walking again, almost as soon as the stranger and the beast reached him. There was no way he was going to walk beside the smelly hunk of horseflesh. His nerves were a little jumpy now, but he concealed his fear well. He had learned, over the years, how to ignore irrational phobias, such as the fear of horses. As he walked, though, a fat raindrop hit his cheek and he supressed a sigh. He started to veer off towards a crop of trees, hoping to find shelter under the canopy of leaves. He, unlike the other traveller, did not own anything that could be used as a tent.

"Oy. Ah..." So he did speak Baska. Damn. Because in fact, Conn could hardly string a sentence together. "Sorry, not really speak Baska," he said in rough Baska. "Um. Tent?" He motioned toward the canvas folded on his horse. His instincts told him this man would hardly stab him in the night--and better to stay near him rather than fear him, after all. It was only common sense on the road.

"Say, you're a talkative fellow, aren't you?" he added in Scalian, seeing the man's eyes flicker. So he probably knew what he was saying. After all, he looked like a half-breed to Conn. Not many of those about and he wouldn't last long if he didn't speak Scalian! "I'm Davyd, by the way, Davyd Beckwaith." He was making it up completely, but why the hell not? He had a God-given right. "And this be my horse, Freedom. She's a fine figure of a mare, ain't she?" He continued on next to the other man, veering off the path as raindrops fell coldly onto his hair.

So he'd take up with this half-breed for a night. Maybe he was carrying some of that delicious gold, though something made him think not. But you never knew. And better the evil you knew than the evil as could come creeping up on you and slit your throat!

If Ronan had been the sort who tended to be good humored, he would have laughed at the man's attempt to speak to him in his language. He was always in a rather foul mood, however. "I speak Scalian." He informed the stranger in a gruff manner. He figured that the man thought him a fool, a heathen. Who didn't these days? He looked much more unkept than many Baskanis, which his hairstyle and manner of dress. He glanced towards the tent with a shake of his head. The thing, when set up, would probably barely hold the stranger, let alone both of them. He would rather not stay in close quarters with a man. His preferences weren't that lax.

"I speak when I have something to say." Ronan informed him in near perfect Scalian. One did not get far in the Kingdom if one sounded like a barbarian. He had studied long and hard so he would sound like just another Thiasan. Of course, he hadn't quite lost his entire accent, making his words sound rather unique. He eyed the man who seemed to now be travelling with Ronan. He knew the name given was probably a lie, since few trusted a heathen with the truth, but the man did not even bat an eye. An impressive liar, but that did not bode well with the man's character. Ronan made a mental note not to trust his new companion.

"I am Ronan." He gave no surname. If this man knew Baskar, he did not want him knowing what name his people had given him. Besides, the man didn't need to know much about Ronan. They would soon part ways. He glanced toward tha mare when she was mentioned. "If your preferences lean that way." Was the only answer he gave to the question about the horse. As they reached the trees and was safely under them, Ronan took a seat on a fallen boulder. He pulled some dried meat out of his traveling sack and began to tear chunks off with his teeth.

Then, showing some hospitality, he offered some to the man who introduced himself as Davyd.

"If your preferences lean that way."

Conn raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"And yours don't? I thought all the Baskar were horse-mad." He'd seen some ride like centaurs, as though their legs were connected to their horses' flesh. There was something uncanny about that. But then this fellow was practically a regular Thiasan if it weren't for his part-barbarian dress and his coloring. "'Course you're hardly one of them, for all you talk funny and dress like a loony. I like your hair, by the way." He winked, running a hand through his own rather scruffy locks--though the state of this man's hair made his look positively well-groomed! "Ronan." He turned the name over on his tongue. No last name. Well, he wouldn't ask.

They stopped near a boulder under the stand of trees, and the rain started to fall in earnest, pitter-pattering off of leaves; but here, in the grove, Conn felt warm and dry, and he was glad the barbarian's nose had led them off the path before the downpour had begun in earnest. He slid off his pack and took the roll of tent off Freedom's back, then carefully removed her saddle and bridle. She wouldn't stray; she never did. She'd only go so far as she had to in order to find forage for herself. He patted her neck as she ambled off, neck down, head swaying near the ground, looking for tender spring shoots.

When he turned back to start pitching his tent, he noticed Ronan was offering him some dried meat, but he shook his head. "No thanks; got something a bit stronger in mind. Can have some of that if y'want."

He took out his hip flask of strong, sweet Thiasan wine--cheap in these parts where they had so many vinyards--and took a long pull of it, feeling its warmth cut through the damp late-spring chill that hovered in the air at nightfall. "That's bloody better! I've another flask, enough to share. Not hungry at the moment." He'd eaten earlier in the day, like all civilized people. And he didn't trust whatever meat this half-breed was carrying, not that he'd show him so. He settled down on the ground across from him and contemplated building a fire, then decided he was too lazy to search for dry kindling.

"I'm sure most Baskar are fond of the beasts." Ronan spoke as if he did not consider himself one of them. Many would take that as he was trying to raise above his class, but it was merely because they turned their backs on Ronan. One does not go through their childhood being call sem'Zakur and walk away with pleasant memories. They were lucky he didn't wage personal war with those who tormented him. Lord knew he thought enough about doing just that. If he wasn't so fond of living, Ronan might have thrown caution to the wind.

At 'Davyd's next comment, Ronan just sent him a stony stare. Though he did not want to talk, he would allow it to a certain extent. There was a line that strangers did not cross, however, and calling someone loony could be thought of as crossing that line. "I don't like your's." He stated bluntly after the man paid him a compliment. Though, after the loony comment, perhaps the man was just mocking Ronan. He wouldn't stand for such disrespect.

Ronan watched as the animal walked off, feeling some tension ease in him. At least the horse wouldn't be sheltering with them. "The mare looks tired." He simply stated as it hobbled off. "And old." He said as he looked towards the man. It was either this man couldn't afford a new horse, or he was loyal to Freedom. Ronan never understood why so many felt kinship with the animals, but that was probably just his prejudice speaking.

At the offered wine, Ronan shook his head. He did not partake in drinking alcohol. It made one sluggish and dulled much-needed wit. Besides, the man was a stranger and his spirits could be drugged. Ronan had heard stories of those who drugged their victims and stole their valuables. Not that Ronan had anything of value on him. He only had coin with he was hired, and that was a distant memory. Still, he wouldn't mind the stranger in a stupor. It would make him easier to watch.

"Tavelling anywhere in particular?" Ronan asked, unusually speaking out of turn. He wanted to find out what he could of his new companion. Not that he could trust what the man said, especially if the stranger had a mind to rob Ronan.

"Hey, my hair's no prize, and neither is my horse," Conn said lightly, refusing to be ruffled. It only spoke ill for his companion that he let himself get so riled over something so silly as teasing about his hair. He tugged his back around so he could lean back on it. It was warm enough, despite the rain, that he might not even bother with a tent tonight, just wrap himself up and keep a half an eye on Ronan. Couldn't be too careful after all.

Of course, there was one good thing he could say of touchy people--they tended to be honest. The ones who bore their grudges up front didn't tend to keep their desire to murder you buried so very deep.

"Freedom's getting on, that's true," he said, shrugging and taking a long wig of wine, which burned down his throat, renewing his spirits and sending energy surging through his body, along with the pleasant tingle of relaxation. "But she's been with me for years, don't you know, 'most as long as the damned family was and a sight better behaved too." He took another drink, staring out to the edge of the canopy of trees, where silver rain glinted white in the scant light as it dripped through the thinning branches at the edge of the little stand of trees.

"As for me, I travel. 'S wot I do, don't you know--travel. I'm a gentleman of leisure, an' I go where the wind and Freedom takes me--" He toasted this with his flask before downing another swallow. "But this I swear you, I'll do you no harm, you're an all right sort. So what brings you here to Thiasan lands? The Baskar not wanting a halfbreed any more'n most of the Thiasans?" His question wasn't hostile, merely curious. It wasn't ever day one met a halfbreed Baskar on the road. "And if you ain't Baskar--'cos I've never met one yet doesn't like a fine piece of horseflesh--where were you raised?"

This man was partial to his horse. Ronan allowed it without much thought. It seemed he was the odd one, not caring for the animals.

"A gentleman of leisure?" Ronan frowned at this. "Doesn't sound like a well paid occupation." He was ever the practical one. Coin meant freedom in this world, to him. He was imprisoned by poverty, which he blamed on his heritage. No one wanted to hire a half breed. He could not be trusted, since he was mostly barbarian. But, enough of his pity party. He focused on Davyd again, wondering why he was thinking so much of the Baskar. He usually tried to forget them.

At the personal question, Ronan paused. He did not share his past with many. "I was raised with the Baskar." He said simply. He used the 'with' instead of 'as' purposely. He was not a part of them. They had made it perfectly clear from the day he was born. "You nobility?" He asked the scruffy stranger, personal question for personal question.

Conn almost laughed at his question. Nobility! There'd been a day no one could ever have taken him for such, a day when he had been able to count his ribs and the bones in his shoulders, and you could catch glimpses of his flesh through torn clothes. That was no nobility, but what he'd become was worthy every inch of one of their shiny high-born arses, so he just raised a noncommittal eyebrow and took another swig from his flask.

"Mebbe, mebbe not," was all he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a flourish. The man couldn't be terribly well-educated; Conn hardly talked like a noble. He could, if he tried. But why try when he was around someone so gullible? Ronan might just take his common accent as proof of his disguise. 'Course, to Conn everything was a disguise. So much nicer than digging deep to see what was really under the mask.

"So your mam was a barbarian," Conn said thoughtfully, piecing together what his companion had left unspoken. "I happen to think they're a comely lot, the Baskar women; pity you turned out ugly as a donkey's arse, eh, friend?" He extended a leg to kick playfully at Ronan, trying to get him to loosen up. Maybe he didn't understand humour. Lots of full-blood barbarians didn't seem to.

Ronan was no good with figuring out accents. To him, Scalian was Scalian. He was still grasping the language, though he had it down pretty good, he could not tell a peasant from a king. He would have treated them all the same anyways. When the man who asked to be called Davyd did not answer Ronan's question directly, he shrugged. The answer was probably going to be a lie. He didn't know why, but everything about his companion screamed liar. Still, the man wasn't unpleasant, as far as company went.

Ronan tensed at the mention of his mother. He remembered, gazing at her from a distance. He wasn't sure how he knew she was his mother, since no one spoke her name around him or pointed her out to the lad, but he knew. Perhaps it was his obvious seperation from her, or something more spiritual, but they could not keep the truth from him. He was so lost in daydreams of his mother that he only halfway listened to what Conn said. It was the kick that roused him from his thoughts.

For a moment, Ronan just stared at Conn. His face was void of all expression, some could have mistaken it for fury. In reality, he was just trying to figure out what the man had said. Finally, after trudging through useless words in his mind, he pulled out the friendly insult. Ronan's face, surprisingly, broke out in a grin after the tense moment. He laughed, though the sight was a little frightening. Ronan was not a man made for laughing. He leaned closer to Conn, letting his huge barbarian hand land hard on the Thiasan's shoulder in a many pat. The force of the impact, however, told Conn that Ronan wasn't entirely amused. He did not have a sense of humor, so he could not appreciate the joke.

"Donkey's arse." He repeated the punch line, shaking his head. He wasn't really upset, he just wasn't amused. Ronan settled himself against a tree across from his companion, stretching out his leather clad legs. "And Davyd..." He started, using the fake name. "Don't talk about my mother." It was half a joke, or as well as Ronan could make a joke, and half serious.

Conn watched his companion warily as something strange came over his face. He knew he'd said something to offend him, but wasn't sure what it was--then his doubts were cleared up as the other man leaned forward and punched him, just a little too hard for comfort. So it wasn't his looks he was vain of. Well, Conn hadn't thought he would be. Apart from the scruffy hair, he was practically bloody statuesque, he thought a little sourly. Didn't have the peasant's physique like he himself. Almost made you appreciate what they said about the nobility of savages.

"Right. Not to mention the mother then," he said, nodding. Damn--that grip on his shoulder had been too tight for comfort, and signaled strength far beyond his own. "Don't worry, m'friend, I never will. And don't I know about running from sum'at. Never see my own family these days, do I? They weren't the proper sort to me either, you know." He stared broodingly into the distance, knowing this half-barbarian could hardly understand him, much less use his knowledge of his past in any sort of blackmail.

"I mean, my--my parents left my sister to starve; and my brother--well, he's--I wish him well, I truly do, but no--" He made a fist with his free hand, the flask of wine still in the other. "No mettle. No spirit." He shrugged. "Life's a bitch and death's its bastard, mate, what can you say." He winced, realizing the metaphor was less than sensitive. "Didn't mean to put it that way--sorry."