Test of Tolerance

[Protégé (Gone)]

OOC: Invite Only, though that may change.

IC:
For a warrior training with ambitions to be a dragoon, training had to be near constant. Many hours of a day would have to be devoted to training yourself up to peak performance. The spear was not a weapon that you would be using like a sword, where you had to be mobile and quick. It was like the bow, used for distance. However, unlike the bow, a spearman would wear heavy armor, for he did not need to be quick and agile. Therefore, a dragoon would need to be strong, able to endure long hours of combat in incredibly heavy armor, along with being able to wield an incredibly large weapon. It was a path where you would have constant weight on your shoulders. Whether it was the weight of training or the weight of the armor, it would be there. But who said you couldn't let the weight fall for a time and relax? And what better way to relax than with the heavenly brews of alcohol?

Protege had been training long and hard this day, for he wanted to be the best. He had been eating large amounts of food the past few days, so he would have a good supply of fat and energy to burn off in his training. Now, his stomach was full again, but he did not feel like training again today, for it was growing late. So, to top off a good hard week of training, why not reward himself with alcohol? True, he rarely would indulge heavily in alcohol, but this time he would make an exception. Besides, with a full stomach, it would be much longer than normal before he really began to feel the effects of alcohol. So why not drink? What harm could befall him, at a time of peace and plenty? Things were safe, so he could fear no harm except a hangover and any results of mishaps while viewing life through a drunken haze.

He was walking to the tavern now, almost radiating happiness and good times as he walked by. His spear, normally in his hand at all times, was on his back in the special holder for it. His buckler was likewise strapped to his back. His cloak covered both of them, which was rare for him, for it made them harder to reach. However, aside from that, his clothes were all normal. Regular grey shirt, regular dark colored heavy fabric pants. Under his grey shirt was a leather jerkin, padding that worked as simple armor until he decided he was strong enough to invest in heavier armor. But with all his weapons and armor hidden and his attitude around him, you'd assume he was a bard or something, for his good attitude and air of good times gave no sign of the warrior within.

Reaching the tavern, Protege stopped for a moment and looked into the building. Inside, he could tell a variety of drinks were served. But what brew should he take? Should he take a simple drink of mead, fermented from honey? Wine, the product of grapes? Ale, from the miracle grain of barley? Whiskey, made from many types of grain? The varieties were endless, each one good in its own way. There were so many to choose from, but one would be decided on. The atmosphere of the tavern would help him decide, so there was no reason to continue to loiter on the doorstep. Smiling, he walked in to the bar, smelling the familiar aromas of the tavern atmosphere. Here, he knew, was the ideal place to relax.

Walking up to the bar, Protege pulled out a stool and sat upon it, letting the air of the place surround him to help him determine what to drink. Inhaling deeply, a familiar smell reached him. The smell of whiskey, powerful smell, but an even more powerful taste. That would be a great drink for now. To celebrate his growing more powerful through training, he would have a powerful drink. True, he hadn't actually gotten really more powerful through his training, he wasn't at the skill level of a real spearman yet, he was still more powerful. Calling out to the bartender, he said, "Bring me some whiskey, my friend! It has been a long week, and needs something strong to finish it off!" Putting a few coins on the bar for the bartender to take when he got his whiskey, Protege loooked around the bar. Ah, relaxation. That miracle which was often not there in the life of a warrior, but here it was.

[Thurel Derufin]

Where some might come for relaxation; others came to escape the troubles of the day and quench their thirst on the Devil's drink that made the best of men into beasts. But even without such a drink in his system, the warrior that slowly walked toward the door of the Tavern and it was clear that he wasn't in the mood to be toyed with. The man was tall amongst his peers in Avaren but back where he was born; he was of average height, and sometimes was dwarfed by others in his village. Standing a the height of six feet and seven inches, the man that slowly made his way to the Tavern attracted many a glance; for he wasn't some stranger in the city and many knew of his habits. With a physical composition that would make many warriors envy him, harden from his days as an apprentice blacksmith; the man whose eyes looked like they could pound steel from their intensity pushed open the tavern door with a might shove.

Thurel Derufin was in no mood whatsoever for any trivial greetings; all he wanted was something in his stomach and on the double. Not only had it been a scorcher of a day, perhaps the hottest day that Avaren had gone through in 5 years, but it was also the anniversary of a most unpleasant memory. The anniversary of when Thurel was forced to leave his life and family to come here to the city of Avaren; it was either that or be killed. The man had changed in both status and mind; he had worked his way up to Captain of the Guard and it was to Thurel that many citizens looked up to for their safety in times of dire threat. However Thurel the Captain of Men was not the man that entered the tavern; this was Thurel in a much angrier state of mind.

He had taken off his metallic, black platemail and had hung it up in the part of the Barracks that was reserved for him; and since he was off duty he wore simpler clothing. Every day of the year, Thurel wore three layers of clothing on his chest no matter what the weather; a fabric undershirt. a vest of chainmail and a brown, leather jerkin over it. His fabric pants were tucked sloppily into his boots, and at his side hung his bastard sword in it's sheath. Any bystander could see the sweat dripping from the man's brow as he made his way to the counter; the sweat collecting into his black beard and eventually dripping underneath his fabric shirt. He needed something now and he needed something strong to plunge his sorrows from his mind. Perhaps mead; today seemed like that kind of day.

Now really Thurel wasn't that bad of a person, but he used his anger as a coverup to keep prying eyes away from his personal life and secrets. He wasn't a man who would pick on others for the sport of it, but that still didn't excuse his rude behavior sometimes; hence why the barkeep looked wryily at him as Thurel was about to sit on his usual stool....only it was taken. A younger lad with both a buckler and a spear strapped across his back had taken up residence on his seat! Now that was an unheard of crime in Avaren; one never took the spot of another man's in the tavern! It was just plain rude, that's what it was and Thurel wouldn't tolerate that mild offense one bit. He had every bit of his mind focused on teaching that whelp a lesson, but when he clamped his right hand onto his shoulder and turned the boy around so he could roar in his face; he saw not the face of a citizen but someone he couldn't recognize.

The sparks were flying from Thurel's eyes as he glared at the boy before saying, "Lad; you're in my seat. I sit there at least 5 times a week and I'm quite fond of it. Since I don't know you I'll let you off the hook this time, but if you choose to stay; one of two things will happen. You will find some way to convince that I don't need my seat today or I will beat you into the mud of the streets.". Tightening his grip on the lad's shoulder, Thurel Derufin's voice dropped an octave as he menacing said, "Get the picture lad?"

[Protégé (Gone)]

When the man's hand went on his shoulder, Protege reflexively began to reach for his spear, but stopped midway. He was in a bar, not a good place to get kicked out of. No, he had to be calm and patient here, for in a moment this man could probably eat him, spit him out, and have Protege's seat at the bar before Protege realized that he had left the seat. True, that couldn't actually happen unless the man was a mage, which Protege doubted, but it was the best way he could describe the way he judged the man without turning around. Taking a deep breath, he though, Don't screw this up, Protege, just be nice and calm and don't end up dead. He had three choices: speak well, move, or refuse and be moved. Moving did not appeal to him, so it was time to try and talk his way out of a bad situation.

Turning around, he saw a man who he knew was a true warrior, the kind he wanted to be. This man was either very important in the army or a master of his kind of fighting. Possibly even a master of all kinds, for he had the look of a man who could do almost anything. Protege had a feeling that had he even used his spear, it would have broken on the man despite the man having no visible armor. Of course, he probably has some covered, he thought, thinking of how a warrior would probably never go around without armor of some sort. To Protege, the man seemed like a rock, immovable and indestructable to all except time. Good thing I decided not to fight, or else I'd be somehow in a very large and excrutiating amount of pain. Knowing that now would be a time for pleasantries, he smiled and let there be no sign on his face of the fact that he was fearing for his limbs.

Deciding to see how far his tounge would get him, Protege said, "Sir, had I known this was you seat, I would not have sat here. All I could tell was that it was a good seat, and that was why I chose it. And apparently, that is good taste, for if a great warrior like you has chosen it, then I must be thinking along the right course. Or maybe it is not the chair that is good, but it was made good by you, and that is what drew me to it, the feeling that a great warrior sat there." Flattery could do two things, annoy the man or calm him. Too late to find out which. Now he would have to figure out a way to make the man think of things different than the stool, to keep him from realizing that Protege had not moved.

"But then we must wonder, is it the seat that is special, or is it the spot? For the seat is much like the other seats here. But the spot, the spot is very important. For the spot is what determines how long you are here, does it not? And that means that had you been in another spot, you may have stayed for different amounts of time. You may have missed events, you may have seen more. Those events could have shaped you to who you are today, and made you as you are." Letting a look of suprise go across his face, Protege said, "But I am forgetting my manners here! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Protege, currently a footman in his majesty's army, though I hope to bear the title of dragoon someday."

Without waiting for the man's response to this, he waved at a stool next to his while turning to face back to the bar.. "Come, take a seat, we must talk longer on these matters! Bartender, get my friend here a drink, same thing I'm having." Protege layed some coins on the bar to pay for another drink, then turned to face the man again. "I hope you are not opposed to whiskey, sir. However, the fire that whiskey puts inside you can't be any hotter than the fire outside here!" Smiling, he rested an arm on the bar, where the bartender set the two drinks.

[Tallice Sanada]

Tallice looked at her long time customer "Thurel, be nice." fixing the drinks Tallice smiled at the strapping young man "Here, you go." handing him his whiskey. "Here you go Thurel." as she turned around to grab the rag to clean up what little bit of alcohol was spilt.


(OCC: I sort of have to be here, I'm the bartender. Otherwise, you may not get your drinks.)