Will had been wandering the country side for sometime now, mostly avoiding soldiers handing out proclomations to join the King's army. Will had no desire to do so, but it frightened him briefly when he thought he might see his brother again. Johnathan, besides his father, was the last person he wanted to see. No special reason, except that he would rather work for a tyrant rather than follow his passions as a painter, or whatever the hell he had wanted to do.

Will reached into his pocket and desperately clung to the last two silver coins to his name. Well, to be honest, the two coins had belonged to a merchant that he had stumbled across along the road to the infamous Keep. Will knew he had just enough to buy himself a drink or two. That was all he needed, one drink with a stranger. Will grinned and walked into a pub just outside the walls. He took care that no soldiers were lurking about, as he knew that being this close to the King's castle could very well land him either in the army or in the gallows.

Will walked in and found a spot at the bar and bought the cheapest ale they sold and drank it sparingly. Will then turned to look at the rest of the room, looking for his mark.

Christ Almighty. François was not one to take the Lord's name in vain. Not because he cared, or, in point of fact, even believed. No--just because he didn't like to remind himself of the grimacing sufferer who told him to be meek. Meek shall inherit what, exactly? No one believed that.

He took a long swallow of harsh wine, which felt gritty against his palate. They'd probably added something or other, but at this point, he couldn't say he cared. When he was done, he set down his glass, leaned forward, and put his head in his hands. His skull was pounding, and his limbs felt full of itching anger. Right now, he wanted to be around no one--and at the same time, he felt more lonely than he'd ever felt before.

But at least he felt something. That was the point of if all, the drinking, the opium, the datura, the fights, the lovers. Because everything was empty and nothing was worth doing. War least of all. Oh, he liked violence--but on his own terms. Not as a knight in someone's cavalry... and he had never been one for armored combat. Against the natives of Thiasa, the barbarians--it was worse than useless, it was downright stupid.

He looked up blearily to see someone new settling down at the bar. "What're you looking at?" He hadn't been looking, probably, but so what, he'd get a fight out of it, or at least a conversation.

Will had barely turned his eyes on half the room when someone had a loud outburst of anger directed at him. Will turned his attention to the voice and saw a man who had definitely had one too many and smiled. If there was a saint for thieves, he smiled on Will today, the bastard was already drunk.

Will raised his glass to the gentleman, "Forgive me, sir, but such nobility and eloquence of speech always attracts my attention," Will looked towards the glass on the table where the man was sitting and handed the barkeep what was left of his money, "Next round is on me."

Will made his way to the table and gestured toward the empty seat. "Is this pity party a party of one, or could you use some company?" Will asked the question quite charmingly, not wanting to provoke the man anymore than his mere presence had already done. As a thief, you were never afraid of a fight, but you always avoided one. It was always more profitable in the end.

Will did not wait for the man to answer and simply sat across from him. "Will," he said as he extended his hand toward his drunken friend as the barkeep brought another glass of the foul smelling wine that the man seemed to be enjoying.

François bristled at the sound of Will's anger, and flicked a knife from a wrist sheath into his palm. When Will extended his hand, his own shot out--cold steel between their hands.

"I don't take kindly to people who condescend to me." He watched the other man with equanimity, never pulling his hand back. If anything, he squeezed more tightly. If he drew blood from his own hand, he didn't notice--he was much too drunk.

"I know your type. I know what you want, and believe me, I'm not as drunk as I look." He snorted, toasting his companion with his refreshed glass of wine, his other hand not moving. "Thank you for the drink." He tilted his head downward, his smile sinister, his eyes shadowed beneath his brows.

Will fought the urge to laugh. The last thing he needed was the man angered. But now things were just getting interesting. Sure, it was easy to steal from someone who did not expect it, but it was a fun challenge to steal from someone who did.

"Wait a minute, I offer you a hand and you offer me a knife. I mean, I hardly know you. Do you always treat someone who just bought you a drink this friendly or am I special?" Will said, still trying to figure out the condescension that he was portraying, perhaps the man was too drunk to fully understand him.

Will pulled his hand away and looked at the other man square in the eye. "And what, pray tell, am I after? I was after a drink and maybe some friendly conversation, but perhaps my desires have changed without my knowing?"

Will sat back in his chair and took another sip of his ale.

"Ha." François sniffed and slid his knife back into its sheath. He crossed his arms, propping his elbows on the table. "You, sir, are--" His voice was slurring a little, but he had managed to fight through worse. "--if I'm not mistaken, a cheap con artist at best. Your clothing gives it away, if nothing else. Besides, I'm not so naïve as to think anyone gets something for nothing." He toasted the man with his wineglass. "Haven't been raised ina barn, y'know," he muttered. "You may have, from the smell."

"Special indeed, I'd pick a fight with anyone," he added, raking the hair back off his face. "Here's the thing, my lad, the thing is, I'm better than you." He raised one fingers and kept his mouth open, comically didactic. "And..." He lost his train of thought. "Well, that's it, but keep it in mind."

Will smiled as he took another drink from his ale. This guy had issues, more than even Will did.

"So are you always this delightful or do you actually have something on your mind? Since I've already wasted money on a drink, I might as well get a conversation out of it," Will said setting his drink down. "Or you can continue threatening to kill me or beat me to a bloody pulp. Your choice, but I think my face is a bit more valuable in tact."

Will tried to read the man across from him. No easy task, but it just might be worth the effort. "Let's start with introductions. I'm Will, and you are?" Will asked without extending his hand, his hands were too valuable to have to deal with a knife through one of them.

"François." He pronounced it the Duainean way, rolling the 'r' on his tongue like a sweet. "Will. What a common name. I would be very unsurprised to find it wasn't your real name, but then, I find myself so very put-upon to care." He took a sip of his drink, and made a face. "This is vile stuff, you know, but I drink it anyway, and why? I drink to forget, and I believe I have suss-succeeded. I am having a devil of a time remembering what I'm supposed to be forgot--forgetting. A lost love? Possible. My lost dignity? Probable. My life going to shite? Highly likely, but then, so vague as to be meaningless. I'm likely to die soon anyway, so it hardly matters, does it? None of it matters, and a truer, albeit clumsier, set of words has ne'er been spoke. En."

He finished the rest of his glass with one economical swallow, and slammed it down to the tabletop.

"Now 'en." His tongue, numbed by wine, seemed to flop fishlike in the bitter cave of his mouth. "What's your story? We all have a story, and you seem to be the type who might aim to entertain. Or at least to please." He toasted Will with his empty glass.

Will grinned ear to ear. The man was suicidal, this might just work. Will finished his glass and looked at the man across from him.

"It is my real name, that I can assure you. As for my story, there is not much to tell. I live by my wits, wandering all over the land of Thiasa. I have not gone much farther simply because I lack the nerve. I like to think of myself as a renaissance man, not truly being a master of anything except myself. Something that not even the almighty king can take away from me. I would die before becoming a servant to anyone except myself," said Will as he placed his empty glass down on the table.

"However, if you're wanting entertainment, I believe another drink is in order. The more I drink, the more entertaining the story can get. But alas, I lack sufficient funds to provide the drink. Care to lend a man on his luck enough for a mug of ale?" Will said with a lopsided grin.

Will really needed to stop doing this. Will was finding himself attracted to the man, it must have something to do with the suicidal yet homicidal tendencies he held. The volatile nature seemed to attract Will like a moth to a flame. If the man did buy him a drink or two, hopefully he would not have a problem keeping his composure. Will tended to flirt with anything with three legs when he got too drunk.

"Live by your wits," François said drily. He reached into his purse and deftly flipped the other man a sterling. "No wonder you're so down on your luck. Next round is on me."

He leaned back and snapped his fingers--in his current sodden state, it took a few tried for him to get his hand to cooperate with the order his brain was giving--for the barmaid. She came over, by now wary of his quick tongue and quicker hands. Luckily for her but perhaps not for François, both had been slowed considerably by alcohol. "Another round. Whatever he's having. Your wine is vile stuff, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

François waved her away archly, then leaned forward, arms flat on the table.

"Now, then. Where's this entertainment you promised? You'll find me a demanding customer."