Bard stood on the porch of the Nine Crossroads Inn, hesitating again. Why was it that when it came to battles, brawls, anything that got his blood pumping, Bard would leap in head first, but when it came to the woman he loved, he froze like a statue? He had to talk to her, there was no doubt in his mind about that. He was afraid, though, of what she might say, that she might just be hoping for the privacy of a room at the Inn to muffle a much more violent confrontation. He snapped out of that line of thinking as a cold breeze brushed across his skin, and he shivered. Wynne was many things, but prone to bouts of murderous rage? Not so much. He was being foolish and he knew it, so without further delay, he pushed open the door to the inn.

The Nine Crossroads was a finer establishment than The Dancing Hare, but in many ways it lacked the same charm. Bricked walls and broad, open rooms left the building feeling empty, despite the people gathered around some of the tables. It wasn't as cozy as the Hare, at least in Bard's opinion. He checked with the inn keeper, who was at least somewhat acquainted with the Dancing Hare's hired help, and confirmed that Wynne was in the building.

He'd waited a day before coming. After seeing her and Gwyn in the Hare, Bard had needed some time to pull himself back together, and to explain what was happening to his employers. Twenty-Four hours had been more than enough for him to get his head on straight. He walked up the stairs, his axes clinking slightly from their locations in his belt. Bard didn't make a habit of walking about unarmed, even for something as simple as a reunion with Wynne. A dark blue shirt rode his shoulders, with a quilted jerkin of black on top to help fight against the cold. His pants were simple, dyed brown wool, tucked into his boots, which he'd even gone so far as to polish. He'd trimmed his beard as well, down to a more manageable stubble, a look Wynne would be more familiar with to boot. He stopped outside the door, checking the number etched into the frame, and then gave two sharp, quick knocks, and two slower, the same knocks they'd used back in the camps, when on the march.

She wasn't sure when to expect Bard's company, or even if he'd show up, but every night that she was free, she waited patiently. The evening hours probably suited the working man best, but even time apart would prepare her for this talk, right? Wynne read the now tear-stained letters and they laid bear upon the table near her personal fireplace. Now knowing that he missed her, wrote her... it didn't help with decision-making in the slightest. She inwardly cursed at her paranoia, of her fear of sticking around a place for far too long -- in her line of duty, she was always on the move, always working; it was work that prevented her from being aware that he was alive... and she hated the thought: to have put Bard through the misery of not knowing, too.

There was a lot she thought about, much she had to weigh against or with returning to Bard's side. She spent that day of much needed time to reflect, to see from both angles. If she gathered information from both perspectives, she could probably decide for the better of them both -- even if the solution was unfavorable or not of the heart's best interest. In that scenario, parting was such sweet sorrow.

She sat in the comfy armchair near the warmth of the hearth, one of the few sources of light in the room. There was a closed lantern on the table, also a candle at her bed-stand, and another at the other table. With all the light fixtures abound, it made for a pretty adequately-lit room. And, well, where the tavern below lacked, the suites of the inn component flourished. Some would argue it was a place where wealthy visitors could stay, that's how luxurious the rooms were. But, it still was of middle-wealth value, maybe; definitely cozier than the attic Bard inhabited, though. There were two armchairs by the fireplace, a small table-stand between the armchairs (where the letters rested) a window between the fireplace and large bed, then a table (where bow and daggers rested) and two wooden chairs near the furthest edge of the room, away from the bed, behind the armchairs a bit. It was quaint altogether, a room she often found herself sleeping in whenever returning to Vertholt -- as much as she wanted to stay with noble relatives in their estate here, she had to keep the facade going. It was small but snug, in a good way.

Curled up in the armchair under a spare blanket, the side of her head nestled against the head of the chair while her feet and legs were bunched under her frame on the seat part, she sipped her 'spiked' tea slowly, letting the alcohol do some justice to her nerves. She found herself somewhat mellow, somewhat calm -- truthfully, she had a bout of insomnia from time to time; it depended on her paranoia and stress. The alcohol in the tea often aided in clocking out, in initiating a good slumber. The day prior was pretty draining, so tonight she craved to be well-rested. She knew Malavai was off doing his own thing, and at her request, she knew she wouldn't be disturbed. Between the tranquil sound of the crackling fire and the warmth exuding from the hearth, to the delicious mug of tea, Wynne found her eyelids heavy. Her eyes fluttering closed, she placed the cup against the table-stand before relaxing; well, for but a brief moment. Her ears didn't pick up the sounds of metal clanking together, but they perked up at the familiar tap upon the door. The march knock code -- Bard. Eyes shockingly jolting open, Wynne rose with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, which cloaked most of her frame -- strawberry-blonde tresses falling with gravity to straightly frame her face, a subtle curve evident, so semi-straight, she supposed. Underneath the fabric, Wynne wore a forest green blouse, chestnut-brown trousers and white stockings. She shuffled to the door, not hindered by her light buzz, opening the door to find a ghost. Wynne's maw was agape and pursed, honey-irises wide, expression surprised as she noticed Bard took the time to clean himself up. No longer did that bushy beard obscure the face she once knew. Awkwardly, she clung to the corner of the door for a moment peering out, just staring, before she shook her head and softly said, "Oh! Come in."

As soon as he entered, she'd shut the door behind him, wondering if he spruced up himself for her, or in an effort to get his life back for the journey to Southpeak. It kind of tugged at her heart in a wrong way, but she sauntered back over to the window near the fireplace, arms anxiously crossing under the comfort of her blanket. She leaned her upper torso back a bit as her weight shifted to one side, gaze positioned upon Bard. Possibly appearing sleepy, eyes weary, she found it hard to start their talk. She thought that she was still in shock of his appearance, so uncanny. It made her realize he was alive and actually Bard, not some shape-shifting bandit she irrationally thought at the Dancing Hare.

But, as much as her lips quivered to say something, nothing would escape. Curse her for her inability to speak, to be so frozen; like when she first saw him.

He waited a moment, looking from one end of the hall to the other to try and decide whether or not anyone was coming. Maybe he'd missed her? She could be out with Malavai...an idea which for some reason rubbed Bard quite the wrong way. He was considering it when she opened the door, and if there was a look of doubt or consternation on his face, it swiftly vanished as he turned his attention to her. She was staring, which made him feel a bit awkward. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his chin as if gauging just how much he'd shaved. "What? Have I got a bald spot?" He asked. When it seemed his words had snapped Wynne out of her reverie, she let him inside and closed the door behind them. Bard followed her into the room, sliding his axes from the steel rings in his belt that held them in place, and laid them on the table next to Wynne's weaponry. They were a bitch to wear while sitting. As she approached the window, he started towards the fireplace.

His eyes drifted to the letters on the table. He tried to ignore the tear marks, but his finger brushed the paper. Surprised, he realized that the letter on top was the one he'd sent not two months prior, the last one he'd sent. His gaze drifted up to her, and after holding on those beautiful honey-hued eyes for a moment, he gave her a slight, crooked smile. "You look good, Wynne." He approached the fireplace, holding both hands out to the heat and letting it drive the chill from his bones. People didn't think Bard felt the cold, because he would so often go without a cloak or glove. He felt it, he just didn't care about it. It still soaked into him, same as everyone else, still made him long for the warmth of hearth and home, he'd just learned to contain it all.

It was something he and Wynne were both fairly good at: Containment. She was holding back a lot, he could tell. Something in the slope of her shoulders, the look in her eyes tipped him off to the lingering malaise his sudden reappearance had no doubt aggravated. "I...I'm sorry. For everything." He said, both hands coming up to grip the mantle over the fireplace as he tore his gaze away from her. "When Ephraim pulled me out of the swamps, I wasn't in any condition to go looking for you. By the time I'd healed up, the army had handed me my walking papers." he frowned, remembering the bitter anger and despair that had nearly consumed him in those first few weeks. The constant drinking, the arguing with Ephraim about how he was spending his back pay. He'd been a mess, and it had taken all this time to finally pull himself back together. It was a job that had started with that first letter, and progressed every day. Even now, Bard was careful about how much he drank. "I used to think this country had a top notch Courier network. If you couldn't guess, my opinion of them has grown much less positive." He was referring, of course, to the letters, and the inexplicable inability of the couriers to deliver them to Wynne. It almost made him wish he could have gotten his gold back.

He wanted to ask how she had been, but the look she'd given him the day before, the way she looked at him now...he didn't have to ask. He'd put her through the Abyss, and a knot of guilt formed in his stomach as he lingered on that thought. "Gods above, I missed you Wynne."

If he chose the fireplace as his place of comfort, she'd find herself staring out from the windowsill, arms still crossed, posture still bent, gaze still questioning. They shared a brief moment of their oculars pinned on one another, which sparked some sort of gut-wrenching response from her, until he broke the awkward, unbearable silence -- well, she was starting to feel that it was uncomfortable. The distance was evident and the air was thick, just like the tavern. "You look good, Wynne." For some reason, she laughed a bit, soft smile lingering as she shook her head. She knew why it was so funny; she felt miserable, she could feel the strain on her eyes. She probably looked like hell, as much as Bard hated to admit it. He was kind though, and the only one she'd genuinely accept the small, flirtatious gesture from. But, after a brief period of thought, she muttered, "You look good too, now that I see your face." She playfully joked about the scruffy beard that was once on his visage, "You also clean up well." She took a glance in his direction before her eyes drifted to the dark horizon outside. It wasn't much of a view, but maybe it was reflective of her core -- once so dark, desolate. How bleak of an outlook.

And when he apologized, it definitely stirred some emotions within her -- she found herself pinching her brow, that nervous, anxious tick, before her palm cupped majority of her pale visage. He was right. She was restraining herself, trying to contain a cool head, to maintain composure. But, even with all the mourning, she blamed herself; it was the only reason as to why not a single letter came her way. "No, Bard," she said inhaling deeply, sighing as her hand moved off her face. "It was never your fault -- you have nothing to be sorry for." The hand that glided back to her side went to tap along the wooden-frame of the window. She was debating to tell him why it hadn't reached her, but would her statement already allude to her being at fault? She didn't know if he'd grasp it, but, maybe if he didn't, he'd ask? She grew silent, as much as she usually had been, until he'd find the words to say how he dearly missed her so.

Clenching her jaw, swallowing hard, she'd roll her head to face his direction, fighting the possibility of getting choked-up. "...A-And I you, so much..." Her gaze fell to the floor, eyes slightly watery -- but she'd fight the urge, as best as she could. She'd try and push those tears of sorrow-joy back. "I am so glad you're alive." It was all she could muster at the moment, all she could will to disclose -- but even those several words had to have some impact on the man. She professed her joy and relief, despite the turmoil, the guilt and the other conflicting sensations and emotions. Her eyes ascended to glance at his features, perhaps locking once more on his gaze -- and, in the flicker of the light, one could see the truth in her eyes, the gleam, ever-so faint, but growing. The dull, lifeless and lackluster expression she once possessed at the tavern was subsiding -- she was trying. It was, maybe, a step in the right direction.

However, even she seemed torn about something, gaze wandering to the fireplace itself. Her hand returned to her skull, this time running her slender, dainty digits through those golden-orange locks. A lot troubled her, but her main concern: could things go back to the way they once were? If so, how?

Bard's shoulders seemed to relax at her joke, and he turned away from the fireplace to face her. Wynne looked brittle; She'd sheathed herself in cold iron, and he fought back the urge to cross the distance and fold her into his arms. He didn't think that would help their conversation much, and so he withheld he notion. Knowing she was glad to see him didn't help. He let out a slow, ragged breath and looked out the window, past her, and gave a small, sad smile. "So...Southpeak." That had to be weighing on her mind. A whole year apart, and now that they were finally able to have a conversation again, he was leaving her to start a new life in familiar territory. "Gaaaah, gods dammit Gwyn..." He muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, mimicking Wynne's own nervous tick. He respected Gwyneth Eventine, cared about her and Southpeak deeply, but in this instance, her timing couldn't have been worse. "If you'd found me first I wouldn't have hesitated. I'd have packed my bags and followed you right out those city gates. There was nothing stopping me."

He looked back to her, the muscles in his jaw bunching and unbunching as he chewed on his next words. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to drive her away, but he needed to explain. "I...I'm done with war, Wynne. The Bridgeburners are gone, dead or scattered across the continent. Marching's lost its joy, the army doesn't want or need me anymore. I need to start over, back to square one." He watched her, gauging her reaction and hoping he'd not said the absolute wrong thing. "I need to go home to Southpeak, so I'm going." His mind was set on that, there was no changing it.

"But," He said, coming closer to her, meeting her eyes again, "I don't want to lose you again. This past year, without you, I felt like I was missing one of my arms. Everything was off balance, I didn't know what to do with myself." He brought his hand up, cupping her cheek with the rough, calloused digits. He'd missed just being able to touch her, to feel the quiet, reserved strength her presence offered. "Wynne, I'm not asking you to come with me, and I don't believe things can ever go back to the way they were, but that doesn't mean we couldn't build something new." Even if it meant only seeing her in brief visits, that was still better than watching her leave and knowing she'd never come back. "I can't put you through that again. if I go with you, if I try to rejoin the army, if I go back to being the warrior I was, I'll die. It's unavoidable. Southpeak, the Tavern...that's a long, comfortable life for me. A safe life." A life he could share.

Southpeak. Sure, it bothered her. To not have him by her side? Yeah, it rubbed her the wrong way, certainly. But, she often had a rational, cool head with some decisions. Still, Bard wanted to express his feelings and concerns on the matter, so she listened, gaze trailing his frame till reaching his forlorn visage. Her position didn't shift, still as if she was shielding her heart with her arms, even though her eyes conveyed the obvious. "If you'd found me first I wouldn't have hesitated. I'd have packed my bags and followed you right out those city gates. There was nothing stopping me." It always depended on 'what ifs'. Truthfully, while she pondered on what could have happened, it was utterly pointless -- fate and destiny, or just circumstance had ruled the path to be so. Inhaling deeply, as if to calm her nerves and relax, Wynne yearned for a chilled, laid-back head about this.

She was open-minded, regardless if pain struck her -- well, open to listen, to hear what needed to be said. While he was done with war, given a 'clean slate' to start anew, she was ultimately stuck, in such a hard place, too. She didn't have much of a choice; it was her job, it had been her life since he died. What else did she really have? Sure, family -- she had that, she loved them, but they were a separate life. Complicated, she clearly was. But, this was locked away. Bard didn't know of her nobility, didn't even know of her promotion. Now, as Commander of the Claws, she had a lot on her plate -- she wasn't safe, her family she tried to keep safe, Malavai wasn't safe, probably. Did she really want to risk Bard's life for her happiness?

No.

She knew, deep down inside -- as much as she disliked -- that Bard couldn't follow her. He needed the chance of a new life. He would probably die; she couldn't chance that ill-destined fate. "I know." She muttered after much thought, her voice stern and clear. She harbored no hatred for Gwyn, no ill-will toward the decision -- in fact, she found it was best. She could thank Gwyn for sparing Bard the risk of dying by Wynne's side. Her line of work wasn't simple in the slightest.

"But." It was so alarming, in a sense -- it drew her attention toward him, as if what he would say was shocking. Eyes attentively locked on his gaze, Wynne couldn't help but gasp as he approached her, a soft, heated flush rising to her pale cheeks. "I don't want to lose you again. This past year, without you, I felt like I was missing one of my arms. Everything was off balance, I didn't know what to do with myself." Wynne felt her heart sank again, just as it had in the tavern; each thud resonated and pounded like a beating drum along her frame. When his hand cupped her cheek, she fidgeted a tad before settling the soft flesh of her visage against his rough, calloused digits -- for a man to be so gruff, so strong; it was almost foreign to find one so soft, so caring. Wynne always knew Bard was gentle, he himself knew matters of the heart needed tender care. Closing her eyes, her right hand ascended to gently cover his own, fingers gently gripping against his appendage. "Wynne, I'm not asking you to come with me, and I don't believe things can ever go back to the way they were, but that doesn't mean we couldn't build something new." As much as she yearned for his contact, she pondered if they could build something new, establish a separate relationship from the one they last possessed. She doubted, insecurities flaring. Face scrunching for a brief moment, she cherished this moment -- it might have been the last from Bard.

"I can't put you through that again. if I go with you, if I try to rejoin the army, if I go back to being the warrior I was, I'll die. It's unavoidable. Southpeak, the Tavern...that's a long, comfortable life for me. A safe life." This... this brought a realization. "Bard, maybe..."

Breathe. Focus. Emotions were raging like a whirlwind.

"... You need to start your life anew... without me." Her hand lowered as she tried to push him away, frame moving from his kind, affection touch. She took a step to the side, back semi-facing his; head glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, lips in a subtle pout. "I can't fathom... I can't bear putting you through my death -- to feel the pain I felt. I can't, I don't want to put you through that." She shook her head, fingers once again pinching between both brows. "I just..." Her voice trailed off, but she didn't finish her sentence. Her heart felt as if it was being ripped from her chest, savagely torn by serrated teeth -- but, it was a pain she had to endure. Sacrificing her happiness if Bard could be happy with someone else, that was a part of suffering she was willing to take.

Bard couldn't believe what he was hearing for a moment. Now it was his turn to look at Wynne like she was someone else entirely. It was easy to forget that he hadn't been the only one changing over that last year. He frowned, but didn't let her push him away, his shoulders slouching a bit as she spoke, her insistence that he start over without her. He wondered, again, if maybe he had misjudged her relationship with Malavai Eventine, and for a brief moment a bitter, ugly sense of betrayal and jealousy flared in the back of his mind. He crushed those ideas immediately. In the first place, he did not know for a fact that was the case. There was no evidence as of yet that the two were carrying on a relationship, and even with Wynne's predilection for privacy, Bard had to believe he'd have picked up on that. Secondly, if she was, then what was he going to do about it? Steal her away? Kill the brother of a close and loyal friend in a fit of envious rage? No, of course not. If Wynne had moved on, then he couldn't blame her: She'd thought he was dead, after all, and while the idea that she might already be with someone else hurt, he had to accept that it was a likely possibility, and to expect her to just never move on from his death was the height of arrogant, selfish ass-holism.

Her reasoning, though, was flawed. "Wynne, are you listening to yourself?" He asked, moving so she had to look him in the eyes again. "You don't want me to suffer from losing you, so you want me to do what...forget about you? Leave you behind and find someone else?" His words weren't angry or hurt, they were calm, cold logic. "Wynne, if you've moved on, if you're with Malavai now, I can deal with that." His hands came up,squeezing her shoulders gently as he held her gaze, face drawn into a stern, serious expression. "But if you're trying to tell me that calling it quits between us is better than me having to deal with your death...well, I don't think you get to make that call." Bard had already lost his parents, had already lost his friends and companions in the Bridgeburners, had lost Wynne for a year. Bard could handle that pain, live with it and eventually move past it. He knew he could, because in many ways, he already had.

"I want to be with you, Wynne. Nothing's going to change that. I want you in my life, even if it means I only see you in brief visits. You think I wouldn't be able to bear the pain of losing you? You're right. It'd be agonizing. But it wouldn't be nearly as painful as knowing we went our separate ways because we were afraid of what might happen."

Bard obviously didn't take her words well -- he looked baffled, he questioningly gawked at her as if her statement was ridiculous. He just... didn't like it. And, well, did it make him question something? His frown tormented her, and yes, she found herself questioning her previous decision, but something was just holding her back. Hesitancy? Not wishing to get hurt again? She didn't know, not now. But, she really didn't want Bard to be taunted while she was gone, while she was away for long periods on end because of work -- she didn't want to put him through tremendous worry.

"Wynne, are you listening to yourself?" It was kind of insulting. She was listening! Those were her words, after all; they exited right from her maw! It wasn't like she really wanted it, she just thought it'd be best for him, that it'd be less of a heartache. But, with so much history, so strong of a connection, would it really help? She didn't know; Bard's death she mourned for over a year, how could she expect him to be alive, to be standing in her room having this discussion right this second? "You don't want me to suffer from losing you, so you want me to do what...forget about you? Leave you behind and find someone else?" He moved so that she found him back in her scope, she watched him ceremoniously. But these thoughts wouldn't stop.

She sobbed about him during nights she felt lonelier than usual, yearned for his company... why, now, all of a sudden, she wanted to reject him? Wouldn't she be happy to welcome him back into her arms? Shouldn't she? It wasn't that she was unhappy for him to return; she was joyous, words couldn't begin to describe how great it was that Bard was alive, more-so wanting to rekindle their relationship. Maybe she just figured she changed so much, maybe he wouldn't like the woman she became? She sighed softly to herself, glancing down. He was calm about it, at least. But, as she pondered her words, it would hurt for her to see him with another woman. For a split second, that barmaid came to mind. What was her worth to Bard? Why was she listening to the conversation? Did he think she didn't notice? And, well, he was going to accuse her of moving on? "Wynne, if you've moved on, if you're with Malavai now, I can deal with that." The nerve! "Don't be ridiculous. I don't fancy him -- And you don't fancy that barmaid?" She'd turn his jealousy back at him, if he wanted to play that game.

He brought his hands to her shoulders, gripping lightly. Was this his way of trying to shake her back to reality? She was already aware, oriented. She wasn't thinking too silly. She had often sacrificed for others, threw her life first on the line before another -- wasn't this the same? Maybe he squeezed her shoulders for attention -- he certainly got it. Attentive, Rae returned his serious gaze with one of her own, ears honed to his words. "But if you're trying to tell me that calling it quits between us is better than me having to deal with your death...well, I don't think you get to make that call." He felt deeply, strongly about their relationship. And he was so stubborn, so set in his ways -- he wouldn't give up. But, at times it was hard to get her to budge, maybe a bit of stubbornness, but it was more or less to remain secretive and secure, rather than trust and be betrayed. She didn't show defiance in her gaze back at him nor did it convey that she was caving in. This was an example of her elusiveness, maybe it would upset Bard, but she was thinking, feeling. Processing.

"I want to be with you, Wynne. Nothing's going to change that. I want you in my life, even if it means I only see you in brief visits. You think I wouldn't be able to bear the pain of losing you? You're right. It'd be agonizing. But it wouldn't be nearly as painful as knowing we went our separate ways because we were afraid of what might happen." Her head dipped a bit, nodding as she considered this. Well, she already knew how he felt, he voiced it. Her hands rose in unison with her head, gaze reverting to his visage as her appendages began to clasp around his own. Her small digits gently raked up and down the length of his forearm to their full extension, as if to calm him. "We'll see, Bard... take it slow. Times are different, now." It wasn't a flat-out no, nor a solid yes. She needed time to trust him, again; not to mention learn all that changed about him in the span of a year they grew apart. It wasn't a maybe, either. Just... a 'take it day by day and see what would happen,' response. And, well, eventually he'd question about her life -- maybe sooner than she'd like, maybe even in the span of this encounter. She didn't want to tell him, but it was unavoidable if they were to continue down a romantic road. It was the price she'd pay, unless she could be vague about it; at least currently. Maybe she could brush his curiosity off until later. Gazing at him still, she'd anxiously bite her lip, wondering what he'd say.

Bard scoffed at the idea of he and Shae shacking up. "Ye gods, no...no no no no no. No A thousand times over." He laughed softly, shaking his head and mentally ruing the day he hadn't dumped that wicked little pickpocket into the arms of the nearest Guardsman. She'd begged him not to, said she'd do anything. If she'd made some kind of a pass, he either ignored it or didn't notice it. Instead of turning her over to the guards, she would come work with him at the Dancing Hare. She'd get a portion of his wages, and answer to him. As long as she did her job and didn't cause trouble, Bard promised not to turn her thieving ass over to the authorities. She'd been good on her word, but sometimes her attitude drove the man insane. "She's more like the little sister I never wanted, but now I'm stuck with." He grinned sheepishly at Wynne, raising an eyebrow as she denied having relations with Malavai. "I mean, come on, I'm pretty sure she's at LEAST half my age. If you thought us being together was scandalous, I'd say me and Shae would've been denounced by the Church."

When her fingers dug lightly into his arms, he bowed his head a bit. The smile remained in place as she reached her decision, and it felt like a thousand pounds had been lifted from his shoulders. "A chance is all I want, Wynne. Just a chance to repair a bridge instead of burning it." His hands slipped from her shoulders, until they met hers. He squeezed them gently and then let go, rolling his shoulders and giving her a more confident grin, the same smile he'd given her the first day they'd met. Bard's personality may have changed, but at his core, he was still the same cocky, head strong brute of a man he'd always been; Only now he tempered it with a little wisdom and patience. "Um...so...is that it?" He asked, wondering if their conversation was over. He didn't want to leave just yet, because to end the first private moment they'd had together in a year so soon seemed almost...criminal. "I could go down and fetch a bottle of this place's cider. It's pretty near famous." Bard enjoyed the Nine Crossroads Cider. They took crisp, golden and green apples from Vertholt's finest orchards and pressed the cider themselves, then added a bit of brewer's yeast, brown maple sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg to it and aged it in an oak barrel. The final product was a clear, dark amber liquid with a delicious amber taste and a light touch of alcohol too it. Bard had some ideas about improving on the recipe, which he would fine tune once he returned to Southpeak. "I'd like to hear about your year, if you don't mind, or maybe I can tell you about mine. I've been keeping in touch with Ephraim. He's doing pretty well for himself."

Her brow raised as Bard scoffed and laughed. Her head tilted as she wondered what was so funny about the thought of him and the barmaid? He refused, of course -- if a man was a liar, they would undoubtedly. But, assuming this was the same man, he was telling the truth. "She's more like the little sister I never wanted, but now I'm stuck with." Merely watching and listening, she wasn't too fond of the attachment, much. She gave a fickle smile in return of his own, but it seemed the two were suspicious of one another? Was that the correct term? Perhaps, but she wanted to face-palm at his next statement. "I mean, come on, I'm pretty sure she's at LEAST half my age. If you thought us being together was scandalous, I'd say me and Shae would've been denounced by the Church." Their relationship was scandalous, now? And... a joke or not, it didn't settle well with her; it didn't help her feel better about it and she wasn't afraid to voice her concern -- not so much the insecurity, but her opinion. "Get rid of her while you can -- seems like she might harm your business. Besides, you're looking for a fresh start; could be a way to detach the leech." It was a cold statement, sure, but even Wynne knew an eavesdropper was bad for business. Bard was the one who caught onto Wynne's glance at Shae and so he knew exactly what she was talking about. And, well, if he decided to keep the straggler, then so be it. He'd have to learn from his mistake.

"A chance is all I want, Wynne. Just a chance to repair a bridge instead of burning it." Sure, she disliked the conversation above, but between his goofy grin and this comment, she laughed dryly. "Wow, a bridge-burner trying to repair a bridge? That's shocking." Her brow was still raised, but a playful smirk rested upon her lips, teasing and lightening his response. As much as she was giving him a chance, she had to keep her wit about... she didn't feel comfortable divulging information, even to him. The blanket that once rested against her shoulders and was clasped in hold by her hands fell to the ground, she hadn't even realized it until her free hands squeezed Bard's own. But seeing that all-too familiar smile gave her chills. That ghost was present, again! That smirk upon her porcelain face shifted into a gentle smile, accompanied by a shrug in retort to his question. "I suppose so." She was fine with not answering more questions, but did she want him to leave? Not really, not yet. As guarded as she was, she wanted to spend more time with him this eve. She could just... dodge certain questions, no? "I could go down and fetch a bottle of this place's cider. It's pretty near famous." Hm, cider? It'd probably help with sleep, later. "I'd like that." She nodded with that lingering smile, voice quiet and soft. But, an almost unnoticeable frown tugged at her lips when he mentioned hearing about her year without him. Now that her arms were free from his grasp, she scooped down to retrieve the blanket, once again wrapping it around her frame. "All right." Wynne wouldn't readily speak of her own accord, but she didn't mind listening to the tales of Bard and Ephraim. She didn't know Ephraim as well as her ex-lover, but enough, surely? Unlike herself... Bard opened up so much to her; yet there was so much Bard didn't know about Wynne... no, about Raewynne Cousland. She wondered if he'd ever find out.

Bard winced at her coarse opinion of Shae, but Bard brushed it off, remembering her words to consider later. She took his meaning well, and it was good to see her smile again, like the first signs of Spring's thaw. She conceded to his suggestion of cider, and he slipped out quickly, fishing a few coins from his pocket before going up to the bar. The man behind it was polishing a glass, and nodded to Bard in recognition. The two spoke for a moment, and then the barkeep went out through a door behind the bar. He returned a moment later with a 1 liter bottle of dark brown glass, chilled after spending some time outside. He produced two glasses and handed them over as Bard payed.

He quickly returned to Wynne's room and let himself in. He brought the glasses and bottles over to the chairs in front of the fire place. Before he'd left, he'd caught the look in her eyes when he'd suggested talking about their year apart. She wasn't ready to talk about that yet, and he understood, so once Bard had stoked the fire and tossed a fresh log on, and they'd both taken a seat, he pulled the cork free from the bottle and filled each glass with about eight ounces of the chilled cider. Bard set the bottle on the table between them and raised his glass to her. "Here's to serendipity.I dunno what the odds were that lead to you being in the Dancing Hare yesterday were, but damned if they weren't great." Toast given, he took a short drink and savored the sharp, crisp apple taste on his tongue, smiling. "So...where should I begin?" He asked, glancing at the fireplace, and then back to her. It was hard to decide. "I guess, well, the beginning. Ephraim pulled me out of the swamps after the battle, brought me to the healers. It was pretty touch and go for a while. His hand drifted up to his chest for a moment, fingers pressing against the scar through his shirt. He'd been stabbed in the heart. He'd been stabbed in the friggin' heart, and he wasn't sure how he'd survived that, but he had made it. Maybe the Gods weren't done with him yet. Who could say?

"I was pretty weak once the sickness passed, and just surviving had used up most of my back pay from the army. It was rough, but eventually things got better."

Once Bard left, she found herself sighing softly, rubbing the nape of her neck as she sauntered over to the fireplace; throwing the blanket against the nearest armchair. It was a heavy sigh, a big exhale of air that felt as if it was trapped in her lungs for nearly a year. Relief swept her frame, that was obvious. While still unsure of how things would turnout, Rae felt hopeful -- maybe they'd be able to make it work and if not, Bard was right: at least they made an effort and tried. Glancing at the cup of tea, which was cool, Wynne grasped the mug, flicking her wrist so that she could drink the remainder in one giant swig. She shuddered and winced, but all this had her nerves sensitive, in a sense; she felt as if she had goose-bumps, still. She wanted to be numb, or calm, at least. It wasn't something she could explain or wonder much about, but she stood across the fire, arms crossed and weight shifted to one side; a stance she often melted into. Her honey-irises found themselves captivated by the fire as she waited, thoughts still reeling, as usual.

The sound of her door awoke her from that idle day-dream, feeling some of the alcohol she had before kick in. She wasn't a lightweight by any means, but the buzz she had returned, graced her with a soft flush of her cheeks. She turned to face Bard, watching as he maneuvered with the glasses and bottles. Taking a seat so she wouldn't be in his way with the fireplace, watching every movement until he sat, drink in hand. Muttering a soft thank you as he handed her the chilled cider in a glass, Raewynne's ears perked as he proposed a toast. It wasn't an uncommon thing for him to do, or for a soldier for that matter. He often rallied his troops; it was awe-inspiring, really, the way he could be so charming. So, the glass ascended as he spoke, a light smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Here's to serendipity. I dunno what the odds were that lead to you being in the Dancing Hare yesterday were, but damned if they weren't great." She scoffed a bit at the thought, but didn't mutter much, just dipped her head in a bow before taking a swig, perhaps a little bit too much than she first anticipated -- it didn't spill, guess she was just thirsty? Not quite, but eh. But damn, was it cold! She shivered outwardly, moving to spread the blanket against her lap. Curling into the form of the chair, she'd remain hushed, allowing him to engage in his story-telling. Her vision drifted to his hand, which seemed to press against something. A scar? Not wishing to question, she resumed to listen, but managed to remember.

"Oh, I wanted to say... at the Dancing Hare... I am very sorry to hear of your parents." She assumed they died... Gwyn did mention a proper burial. After taking another swig of moderate amount, she'd whisper, "I wish I could have been there for you." She wasn't sure if he'd hear that, but it didn't matter much. He could continue on with his story while she quietly sat, but she wanted to get that out in the open; her guilt for not being aware of their death. But, it wasn't like she would have found out, given the aforementioned circumstances. Maybe that was next? The news of his parents' deaths?

Bard stiffened in his chair and went quiet for a moment, then drank a little from his glass. "I took it pretty hard. Ephraim was there to keep an eye on me, so I just worked through it." That had been his breaking point. Pushed to alcoholism by his losses, his weakness, his depression and stress, the news of his parents death had been a rallying cry for him. He realized with a horrid, jarring start that he had missed his chance to be with them in their final hours, because instead of working to get himself home to Southpeak from the get-go, he'd been wasting his time and his life in the Capital. Under his orders, Ephraim took up watch over him to ensure he drank nothing, a status that persisted for almost three months. In that time, Bard worked through his withdraw, his baggage, his pain and put his head back on straight. He began training in earnest, sparring with Ephraim and exercising to regain his strength and physical prowess. He had lost a lot of mass from his sickness, but that had made him lighter, quicker, and now he had the potential to become more lethal than he'd ever been before.

"It was rough, but I made it." He said, the tone in his voice suggesting that was all he wanted to say on the matter. "I'm grateful to Gwyn for looking after them and taking care of the burial. She's a good woman, the kind of Nobility Southpeak sorely needs." He paused, wondering if he was trying to justify going Home, but decided it was good for Wynne to know these things as well. "She and I go pretty far back actually. Nothing romantic, mind you, just...well, we're good friends. It was good to see her again, and I'm glad you got to meet her." He grinned and took a long drink from his glass. "We actually met when I beat her father senseless and threw him out of the Notched Axe. The sour old bastard was gonna have me shipped off to the Cidna Mines, but Gwyn, just a young lass at the time, begged him to go easy on me. So he had me flogged instead." He gave a harsh laugh, his grin turning a little savage for a moment. "I guarantee you, the Eventine family were the only ones shedding tears when that wicked old grouch finally died."

A small pinch of worry flooded her face as she gazed at him. He was so rigid in the chair, so stiff; she knew it was still heart-wrenching for the man, the fact that his parents were dead. She longed to console him, to rush over and wrap her arms around him, to coddle Bard, but she refrained from giving into reflexes and instincts -- selfishly for her own sake. Instead, she downed the remainder of the chilled cider, motioning to pour herself another glass from the bottle. In a way, it might have seemed she was eagerly awaiting the fix of alcohol; Wynne figured she appeared too enthusiastic about it, but she noticed something. Bard hardly drank from his glass. The Bard, not indulging in the alcohol? That was strange, surely not the man she had known. His comment about taking it pretty hard seemed clearer than before, though. Had he resorted to booze during his sickness? It was assumed, maybe between the lines, but he didn't want to discuss his parents. Rae had no qualms with that.

Glass gracing her lips again, she took a few sips. Sure, the buzz would hit her like a stone wall, but that was the point, no? Not that she yearned to be obliterated, she just wanted tranquility or the alcohol to effectively exercise its depressive effects -- sleep she desired, and with the lack of right herbs, she resorted to the booze. That and, well, perhaps she felt uncomfortable around Bard. Despite their history, she found herself back at square one with the man -- the first time they met wasn't as nerve-wracking as this time for her. She didn't want to think about it or explain it. So, she settled on listening to his tale about the Eventine family, trying to look inconspicuous about her incoming drunken stupor. Would Bard notice? He was so enraptured with his memories and stories, maybe she'd be lucky to find him oblivious? Hopefully.

"She's very kind, I was very fortunate to have met her." An inaudible hiccup made her frame pop up gently like a mole in a hole, free hand trying to muffle any noise, should there be one. The tips of her free hand felt the one side of her face. She felt hot! Eyes a tad wide, as if she was suspicious of committing a crime (she looked silly), they'd squint to notice Bard taking a long swig of the cider. Hah! So was he the same?! She'd have to unravel this mystery! And yes, this was the beginning of her drunken stupor -- all the random, goofy thoughts.

"We actually met when I beat her father senseless and threw him out of the Notched Axe. The sour old bastard was gonna have me shipped off to the Cidna Mines, but Gwyn, just a young lass at the time, begged him to go easy on me. So he had me flogged instead." Her face scrunched and wriggled, wincing at the thought of a flogging. It wasn't her cup of tea, but maybe... No-no, she didn't want to think of Bard enjoying it. That was a dark, dark place of thought... even if he was a little barbaric and a tad savage...

Her pointless thoughts were ceased with his final statement. It struck her hard... she didn't think Bard would make a comment so foul, so... heartless. "I guarantee you, the Eventine family were the only ones shedding tears when that wicked old grouch finally died." How could he say something like that? She rose from her seat, downing her second glass in one fluid, swift motion (and placing the empty cup against the table-stand) before pacing behind the armchairs, near her bed. It set her off, considering she was with Malavai, close with him to know how he and his sister must have suffered; not just over the loss of one parent, but two. "That was a sick joke." She snarled, pinching the bridge of her nose as her other hand touched the bed-frame at the edge of her bed, gripping it tightly. "So, what? Sure, you got a flogging... but as much as she went out of her way to make sure your parents were comfortable and properly mourned, you go and pull off a joke like that?" She turned to face him, arms flinging about as she gestured with her speech. "Even if you firmly believe that, I was with Malavai when he heard of the news -- and, because of duty, I couldn't join him there in Southpeak; couldn't give him a shoulder to lean on. I still feel awful about that, but I know I probably would have shed tears for the man. I heard he was once a good man and once had better intentions..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to relax, realizing that she might have been out of place. Shoulders sloping a bit, she muttered with a shake of her head. "I'm sorry, it's just-" Rubbing the nape of her neck, she sighed. "I just don't take death lightly..." A weak gaze rose to meet his, jaws clenching as she hinted the obvious: she was talking about her own experience with his death, the grief about Bard.

Maybe she just wasn't ready for his twisted humor, maybe it was the booze talking, but when it came to her friends, she would stand beside them -- on some occasions she found death humorous, but this was one of those rare circumstances, she supposed, that triggered an ugly response. Or maybe, if Malavai knew of Bard and Rae's relationship, she would find the comfort of his arms during that dark time and he wouldn't mention maybe his gruff attitude or whatever -- so it wasn't fair to let Bard get away with a comment like that, not while she was his company.

Bard had a hundred justifications for why he and just about everyone else in Southpeak hated the man. Regardless of his once pure intentions, the former Lord Eventine had become a brute and a tyrant after his wife's death. He'd dragged the entire town into his well of misery, and when people started leaving, he took it out on the few who stayed. The night he'd been thrown out of Bard's tavern, it had been because the drunken sod had been refusing to pay his tab and leave. It was two hours past the inn's normal closing time, but he'd demanded they continue serving. The Lord Eventine hadn't produced a single coin, insisting they put it on his ever growing tab. When Alrik had refused, the man became belligerent and said something...unfortunate...about Bard's father. Taking offense to that, Bard had proceeded to make a brash, impulsive move, just as he had tonight.

He weathered her outburst silently, waited until she was done, and then drained his glass, refilling it. He noticed the drooping of her eyelids and a certain weave in her step as she paced the room. Had she slurred a word or two? It was hard to say. There was no way she'd have been drunk from just the cider, she hadn't drunk enough. Maybe she had already been drinking in anticipation of this meeting? He put the thought aside and fixed Wynne with an appraising look. "It was not a joke, but you're right, it was in poor taste. Given everything Gwyneth's done for me and how close you and Malavai are, it wasn't a thought I should have spoken aloud. Regardless of how his family felt, those of us who had to live through his reign have many fewer fond memories to dull the harsher ones. Forgive me, but that's just how it is. You'd have to have been a part of it to understand. Suffice to say, Gwyn has gone to great lengths to repair her family's name and reputation, and I know the people of Southpeak love her." He sighed, realizing he had upset her. "So how DID you and Malavai meet, anyway? I mean, Gwyn and I go way back, but I barely ever saw her brother." It was a quick change of subject, but he hoped it was also a natural one, making it easier for them to move away from that apparently sore subject.

Yeah, she was hitting a drunken stupor, which unfortunately meant loose lips and an outburst or two of emotions. She was aware of her actions and words, but her mind processed them slower than she could think to retain the information, to refrain from saying it. Still, she had remorse for her statement, "I'm sorry, it doesn't he-*hic*-lp that I'm yelling at you. I'm sure you have your reasons. But..." Her gaze lowered, hands picking and fiddling with another. Malavai had a lot of issues regarding his father, he conveyed them to Raewynne after a little friendly bonding. "Malavai got the brunt of his fath*hic*er's bitterness. As much as he loved his father, he nor his family, I suppose, were sheltered by his actions, either." Maybe Bard didn't know that, maybe it'd give him a different outlook, but she muttered. "Perhaps a heart*hic*broken, bitter man he was... but he raised great children. And, if you lossst something you deeply carrrred about, wouldn't *hic* you be bitter as well?" Gazing up at him, Wynne sort of questioned his experience: "taking his recovery, his parents, his loss of money and being unable to travel back to Southpeak pretty hard". Not that she knew it, but he had to have been bitter at first, no? "Though, you're right... he should have stepped down, shouldn't have put the people through hell -- I know Malavai was fe*hic*arful of becoming like his old man, still is, actually, and Gwyn was fortu*hic*nate enough to step up. In many ways she saved him, so I can only imagine it won't be long that she'll save her people, too." She turned to the windowsill again, gaze lightly focused on the outside world. She might have said too much, but she could confide in Bard, right? Curse her drunken tongue and hiccups!

Of course, when it involved her directly, she didn't want to answer. She tried to make it as clouded as possible, she didn't want to reveal much. "Uh, well..." She paused, rubbing the nape of her neck before she chuckled softly. "Ironically, Lord Barrrrett sum*hic*moned me. He mussst of hearrrd of my--" NO. NO. NO. Don't mention it. Guess it would seem that a drunken mind speaks sober thoughts? "Errrr, anyway *hic*, Lord Eventine asked for someone to keep Malavai safe. Malavai thought it was more for lineage sake, but I'd hope it was some *hic* shred of love he had for his son. But, I simply couldn't say no. Sssso... I sworrrre to protect him, and eventually we became insep*hic*arable friends. It was probably for the best -- being apart of the front lines, being an infantry-*hic*man... would have led to his death." A harsh but truthful comment. Head tilting back a bit, she turned to gaze at Bard before slowly sauntering back to the armchair. She felt better, but her gaze lingered to the empty glass and the bottle of cider. Did she want more? Would he question more of her? Would he be able to tell she was steadily declining into intoxication? W-would he laugh at her?

Bard stared at her for a good, long moment. It now dawned on him that she'd probably been drinking before he arrived, as there was no way she'd be feeling so intoxicated from the relatively small amount of cider she'd had. The start to her story had grabbed his attention, but she slurred off into a drunken ramble. He got the gist of it, but couldn't help but be distracted by her clear inebriation. As she made her way back to her chair, he noticed her eyes lingering first on him, then on the bottle. Was she worried he was going to judge her over being drunk? Or was it something else? He shrugged and poured himself another glass, leaving the bottle open. He trusted her judgement, and if it helped her talk with him, that was fine too. He'd watch her, of course, but no one knew Wynne better than Wynne, even Bard.

"You're right, on all accounts. Gwyn used to tell me some stories, but hearing about it second hand isn't quite the same as experiencing it." He swirled the amber colored liquid in his glass, then took a small drink. "I'm sure there is some lingering animosity in Southpeak towards her family, but to be honest, it's impossible to hate Gwyn. She's gone out of her way to repair the damage her father's done and then some; Always has." He drank more, thinking on it. Gwyneth Eventine held to her pacifism and faith so tightly that Bard often found it hard to understand how he'd ever become friends with her: The two were polar opposites. He supposed that the simplest answer was that she'd earned his respect and friendship through her actions, by proving that she was a worthy friend to have. She'd done more good for his home town than he had in the years since he'd left. "I figure it's about time she was able to build something for herself."

Bard looked into the fire, thoughts drifting to home. It surprised him how much he missed Southpeak. As a child, he'd always wanted to leave the place. Hearing about its decline, about how bad things had become, that all did nothing to damage the nostalgic memories he'd kept of the place. The deep, towering forests of trees, filled with animals and secret places has been his kingdom as a child, running through the hills and wilds like a savage. He longed to see the lake again, and its shimmering waves. His dad had made a ritual of only serving salmon in the tavern when the fish were spawning in the lake, when they were plentiful and easy to catch. Bard knew, waiting for him in a locked chest under the tavern's bar, would be all his parents best kept culinary secrets and recipes. It was a legacy in and of itself, tavern notwithstanding. "You're pretty close to Malavai?" He asked, looking at her. The intent was clear enough, he did not mean romantically, but rather as friends. The look that had been in her eyes when she'd snapped at his joke showed she cared about him. "Good. It makes me feel better knowing you've got someone you trust watching your back."

Carefully, she sluggishly returned to sit in the armchair. The alcohol did hit her harshly, like tripping and banging one's head upon pure stone. Still, she was capable enough to formulate thought and speech, albeit it was slurred and impulsive, at times. Slender hand outstretched, she'd move to pour another glass of cider, eyes darting back and forth between Bard and the bottle. It was kind of humorous, in a sense; the way she tried to play it coy, but miserably failed. She looked utterly suspicious with her shifty eyes, but after a successful pour, she'd bring her hand back close to her frame. And, like before, she settled into the seat like she originally had before Bard welcomed her with his presence, body scrunched entirely on the chair, all snug against it. Her eyes now peered from the furniture at Bard, some of the back of the chair obscuring her face the way it curved inwardly at the edges. So, it was almost as if she was peeking out oh-so nonchalantly; except, well... it was so obvious.

"Yeahhhhh, she's a*hic* purrrrre, honessst soul. Ssssso kind... how could some*hic*one hate herrrr?" It was a rhetorical question, and really Wynne was only reaffirming what the man before her said. Wynne was actually more... outgoing, she supposed? Maybe even bubbly. She found herself taking a drink of the glass, hearing Bard's next slew of composed words. "I figure it's about time she was able to build something for herself." For some silly reason or another, Wynne found her hand with the glass raised, as if to give Gwyneth a toast. "Yeeeeaaaaaaa*hic*hhhhhh! To *hic* buildshhing brrrridgess!" An innocent and sheepish smile upon her face, Wynne giggle-snorted a bit, peering at Bard so purely. She didn't really know what that meant, perhaps it was to solidify their truce to try and mend their relationship. But, it didn't make her look any less drunk, that was for sure.

She felt loose, felt relaxed. It was a cheerful buzz, at most. The previous outburst was kicked from her inebriated mind, forgotten momentarily. She didn't realize notice his longful gaze into the fire, instead sipping more of her drink. It would probably be her last glass, though. Only Bard's words disrupted her noiseless nature -- well, if the hiccups weren't considered loud or obtrusive. "You're pretty close to Malavai?" She nodded profusely, not shamed to admit the fact. "Yeeeuuuup. *hic*He knooows a loooo*hic*t abooot meeeeh." She pressed her face into the siding of the chair, eyes closed. Was the room spinning? Just a tad. She nestled her head against the chair, eyes fluttering open. She caught Bard staring at her. And, with a soft smile, she nodded. "Mmmmh... *hic* You teeeew, Baaa*hic*rrrrrd." In a way, Gwyn was looking out for the ex-bridgeburner. That was her implication. He always seemed to have someone watching over him -- Ephraim in his past. Shae, she could care less about truthfully, but those two - Ephraim and Gwyn - they genuinely aided him. She was glad someone had his back, too.

Bard had to laugh. He'd seen Wynne drunk maybe twice in the entirety of their relationship while he'd been serving with the Bridgeburners, and while this was not the MOST drunk he had seen her, it was still almost adorable. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his lips, eyes lighting with mirth at the very idea. "So, do you want to tell me just what you were drinking before I got here?" He asked, almost curious. Unless the young woman had changed dramatically since their last meeting, a drunk Wynne was practically comedic gold, and could provide him with plenty of ripe opportunities to give her no end of hell for it. Oh yes, Bard loved Wynne, but Bard was an evil, evil man, and no love could be spared from his sharp memory. "I'm assuming it was in your tea?"

If Wynne was already drunk, then Bard saw no reason to avoid the warm, fuzzy embrace of alcohol for himself. He refilled his glass and took a long, deep drink, gulping down the sweet, crisp, tart cider with the practiced ease of a life-time drinker. With the glass half emptied, he licked his lips and grinned at her, relaxing in the chair and listening as she rambled on. A bemused smile tugged at the old soldier's lips, and he wondered for a moment how many nights like this he'd missed out on in that last year. How often had he chosen solitude and alcoholism over friendship and company? Bard had, without even realizing it, cut himself off from his family, isolated himself from his friends, and pushed away anyone who tried to help. It was a stark thing that floated to the surface of his mind, and he took a smaller drink to clear his head of the thing.

"You said Malavai's father hired you?" He asked watching her now, intent on prying at least a little more of her story out of her before she succumbed to the nefarious influence of the booze. "I guess you probably had one hell of a reputation by then." He could feel the warm buzz creeping up the back of his skull and suffusing his brain in a soft, comforting sensation. he rolled his shoulders and popped his neck with a relieved sigh. "You weren't serving on the front lines then?"

Downing the last drink she'd have for the night, or for the moment, Wynne mischievously gazed at Bard from her spot on the other chair, a wry smile tugging at her lips. A low 'hm' reverberated from her throat and closed maw, as if debating on whether or not to disclose her alcohol of choice. Overall, the woman looked and felt tipsy. Her eyes were half-shut, face ablaze with a crimson blush, and her body swayed lightly. Did she wanna share with Bard what she was drinking before? Nope. At first she shrugged in response, before shaking her head profusely. But, that even made her dizzier than before! Oops. Rubbing the side of her head with her right hand, she'd laugh softly. She didn't seem to notice Bard was laughing at her, or plotting an evil scheme to mock and tease her, for that matter. Bard was terrible though if he'd ever decide to bring it up once she was sober -- Wynne only wanted to sleep. She wasn't a drunkard!

But, as Bard figured it out, she'd nod slowly, right index finger pressing against her lip and pointing upward as she made a 'sshhhh' noise. A smile and snicker later, she found herself curling up in the blanket, snuggling against the armchair; observant eyes positioned to gaze at the man she once loved. She couldn't begin to describe how much she missed him, couldn't explain how relieved she was to see him alive. She'd probably never overcome this sudden realization and shock, but it was something she'd never reject. Wynne was a blessed woman, despite feeling hesitant to jump right back into it. Surely she was messed-up, but so long as they paced themselves, then maybe they'd return to a more romantic relationship, right? While her thought process was a little fuzzy, she'd try to restrain from wanting his embrace; but even that might have been to no avail. Closing her eyes once more, she'd find more questions thrown out by Bard.

"Not *hic* hirrred. Requesssst." Perhaps she was growing tired, maybe she didn't want to talk of herself anymore. Whatever the case was, Wynne didn't like that he assumed the obvious: she had one hell of a reputation. Eyes drunkenly fluttering open, she tried to deny any claim that she received a promotion. "Nuuuu, Barrrd... *hic* I-I jusssst put mahh liife to weeeerk. Nuh repu*hic*tation at aaaall." A life devoted to work, to duty. Wynne brushed her feelings aside and focused on missions and tasks. She was implying that she maintained her status and rank -- maybe it was better for Malavai to move with someone of regular rank, not a superior; that way he'd go undetected, unnoticed. While that wasn't the truth, he did work for the commander, Wynne hoped Bard would assume she didn't rise to the ranks. She wanted to make him believe anything else. Anything else. Yawning rather obnoxiously, Wynne muttered. "I diiiid, I diiiid." A hiccup ensued after as she curled up more in the chair. She wasn't tired completely, but it was growing. Hopefully admitting that she did work on the front lines would cease Bard's questioning.

Realizing that he may have defeated his own purpose here, Bard wondered if he should stay. Wynne was clearly out of it, having trouble speaking clearly and now appearing rather tired. Her reluctance to speak about anything of the past year made conversation even more dangerous, and she didn't seem too interested in what he'd been up to either. She must have still been getting over the shock of seeing him alive again, at least that was Bard's reasoning. She wasn't sure how to handle it yet, and like a blundering oaf he'd pushed the issue when the discussion probably could have waited for a few more days. Instead of giving her time to pull herself together, Bard had dropped in on her life like a meteor. "I dunno where a man like Lord Eventine would have picked up your name, but I'm sure he could have done a lot worse." His mind shifted away from themselves, and on to current events. A swift change of pace might drag her out of her drunken stupor. "Gods above know the criminals have been getting mighty bold since the good ol' days."

An still-healing wound along his upper left bicep throbbed dully as he shifted in his seat, causing a flicker of pain. He remembered how, just a week past, he'd encountered a troop of thugs. "I've had a few run in's myself. Put a few down too." The man in charge had been Bult, a member of a local gang that had recently been annihilated by forces unknown. These men had somehow escaped the decimation of the Bonehunters, but had chosen a fight with the wrong bar-keep. Bult had harbored a grudge, and that had got him killed. "Fuckin' Bonehunters, glad I'm not gonna be seein' anymore of their ilk for a while." They'd been a mean, nasty bunch, and Bard was happy to be rid of them. "I dunno if you were in town for it, but there were a lot of weird rumors springin' up about the event. Some people were talkin' like the Bonehunters had wiped themselves out in a coup, or that the government had sent assassins. Then there's talk of this strange fighter with a great black sword...'course that one I heard from some drunken bum, so who knows what he really saw."

Bard had a unique talent for picking up and retaining information. He had sharp ears and a strong memory, and could talk easily with most anyone, provided hostilities were not an issue. He traded rumors and tips for currency and favors, and made sure to keep his ears open for new leads on work, jobs he was more than capable of handling, but others might have issue with. Bard knew there was still good out there to be done, and if he couldn't be a soldier anymore, there was nothing saying he couldn't be a Tavern Keeper and a part time mercenary as well. Businesses needed coin to stay afloat, and it was always good to have options when times got tough. Besides, if he picked his targets and operations well, he'd be doing good for his community and, ultimately, his country. Bard had a unique set of skills, and it would be a crime not to use them for good.

Drunk, yes, she most certainly was, but she wasn't wasted to oblivion to know where Bard was prying. She also wished she could slap herself for letting her maw slip up on a few occasions, letting him know of her information. Still, it was a fleeting thought like most when she faced intoxication. It went in and out through her ears as fast as one could say 'ello. But, as much as she could have said anything, unintentionally pressing her lips against the back of the chair had helped in muffling the sound of her response in regards to Lord Eventine. Seemed her mind did retain the muse to stop revealing information... although accidentally? Thankfully, Bard seemed satiated in his thirst for knowledge, discussing the affairs of today's current news.

She nodded while her cheek rested against the curve of the chair, eyes poised on the man. "I-I couldn't *hic* agrrrree morrrre." If it had helped justify and solidify her response, she was nodding many a time, cheek rubbing softly against the chair in a nestle or two. She noticed the twinge of pain, if he made a subtle wince, but only raised a brow -- something he'd might expect to be in response to his comments about the bonehunters; considering it lingered until then. Since when were there any bonehunters left? Perking up slightly, eyes somewhat adjusting to the light, blinking irregularly, Wynne tilted her head at Bard, wondering if he was delusional. Ultimately, she thought Absi and her eliminated them all, annihilated and wiped their insignificant arses out. Much to her dismay, however, there seemed to be stragglers. If she remembered, she'd have to tell the Descendant of Obscurity about it -- maybe he'd get a good kick and laugh out of it.

"Ehhhh, noooopeee. I diiiidn't *hic* knooow that. Nooopeeee." Was he looking for a reaction? Sitting up slightly, head leaving the soft comfort of the furniture, her gaze shifted toward the fireplace. The thought ignited something sinister about her, in a sense; if he'd look at her, she'd find herself shaking her head, but with an eerie curve of her lips upward into a smile. Honestly, she was trying to contain laughter, her body heaving slightly in response of her containment. Maybe Bard would assume she was about to vomit. The comment that elicited a chuckle-response was none other than: "...this strange fighter with a great black sword... 'course that one I heard from some drunken bum, so who knows what he really saw." Oh, did that tickle her funny bone for some reason. It was ironic that the drunkard knew of the factual evidence, but no one seemed to believe him. Once she thought the urge to laugh had subsided, she'd blurt out. "Yeaaah, I dooon't *hic* thiiink I waassss *hic* arrrroooouuund." It made her reminisce a bit, she wondered how the tall, dark man was doing. It wasn't a while that they last made contact, but it was hardly recent, either. She could only hope he wasn't in custody of someone prestigious and powerful, though, chained up like cattle; that would certainly harm his business and ego, too. Especially the man who claimed to take Colossus down by himself.

Slyly and albeit drunkenly, she'd fire the attention back on him. "Weerrrrre yeew huuurt?" She inquired about the recent incident, gaze sluggishly returning to him. She looked concerned, but a bit foolishly, considering the obvious: she was plastered, just a tad.

He had been, in fact, injured in the scuffle. Some wild girl had been caught in the crossfire, but she'd kept a level head about her and helped Bard bind up the wound so he could get back to Vertholt safely. Now the slash in his arm was mostly healed, though it still required being covered by a bandage. He rolled up his sleeve pat the bicep, showing her the clean, white linen wrapped around the wound. "Not too badly. I've got a tincture from a local apothecary, and it's doin' a fair bit of good." Bard preferred to avoid healing magic when it wasn't entirely necessary. It felt...wrong, somehow, to have magic manipulating his body like that. Even for a good purpose, it still left his skin crawling. As such, he let his injuries heal naturally, aided by herbal remedies and other proven methods. Magic was not always going to be there to save the day, sometimes you just didn't have a mage around. It was good to know how to put yourself back together.

Wynne was obviously having difficulty speaking, and her eyes seemed drowsy and blurry. Deciding that the cider had been a bad decision, he rose from his chair slowly, straightening out his shirt with a sharp tug and rolling the sleeve back down. "I shouldn't keep you much longer, it's late and you've had a bit too much to drink." He walked towards the table slowly, then reached for his axes and slid them through the rings on his belt. "Maybe we can grab lunch sometime? Or any meal, really. I'd like to spend more time with you." Bard came back over to the chair, waiting for her response. "What do you think?"

The news was pressing, urgent. The commander needed to be alerted and notified, immediately. Malavai entered the inn, stomping the snow from his boots before moving to scramble up the staircase, mind focused on disclosing the recent news to Raewynne. While it wasn't dire or life-threatening, it was a situation of importance and needed to be handled swiftly this night. As much as he knew she wished not to be disturbed, Malavai had to state the predicament. But, he'd retain a calm, proficient air about him, not hurried, worried or anything of the sort. Whilst he rapped gently on the door, only a calm, calculative expression on his visage was detected.

Meanwhile, Raewynne noticed the bandages wrapped around Bard's arm. It was a little saddening to hear he received it from a group of ex-bonehunters; she didn't think her past, especially that incident, produce a possibility that would injure Bard -- she didn't think there were any left, and ironically so, would hurt the man she once cared deeply, irrevocably about. However, that wasn't her fault if Bard had a scuffle with Bult and the man harbored a hatred and vendetta against the tavern cook. It was just her emotions getting in the way of rational thought, basically.

She could wallow in her drunken stupor all night, if her sleep-deprived nature would allow it, but as Bard stood to leave, she rose, wrapping the blanket around her frame. Her anterior position followed his as he moved over to collect his axes, finally mustering movement to essentially walk him out. There was a subtle frown on her face, knowing she didn't want him to go, that she wanted him to stay, but she wouldn't plead, wouldn't ask -- although the gaze, longing and saddened, would signal her disdain with him departing. Clinging against the chair, Wynne watched as he approached her once more, nodding to his inquiries. "Surrre, *hic* Baaarrrd. I-I'd liiike daaaat." She tried to form a genuine smile, only to turn her direction to the door. Knocking? Shaking her head, as if to sober up, she be the first to move over to the door, maybe to Bard's dismay, but it was her room, after all.

Opening the door, she was ultimately surprised to see Malavai, but stepped back silently, as if to gesture "come on in." This would allow him the space to gather within the room, allowing her to shut the door behind him. What could he possibly want at this hour?

Malavai raised a brow as Wynne answered the door... she looked... sleepy? Drunk? Now was not the time to be inebriated, plastered and intoxicated. Giving her a look, he swiftly entered the room, about to call her by her real name. "R-" But he stopped short as he noticed the tall man in the room: Bard?! Blushing, ultimately flustered and embarrassed, he apologized. "I-I'm deeply sorry for intruding... But, Wynne, there's been a situation." He felt quite foolish for possibly ruining their time together, but, upon further inspection of the other male within the room, it looked as if he was leaving? Malavai could really only hope things were okay with the two and would eventually work out -- he'd only wish his close, dear friend the happiness she deserved, after all.

He wished he didn't blurt out their troubles, either, not while Bard was in the room... He should have expected something like this, should have been prepared, but it caught him off guard. He didn't say further on the matter, glancing toward Bard as if wondering when he'd depart. It wasn't something a 'commoner' should listen to, after all.

Noticing the look Malavai was giving Bard, as well as the urgency of this discussion, she had to agree with the Sentinel. "Baaarrrd, yeeew *hic* shooouuuld go." Her drunken response had Malavai's expression in shock for a moment, but she hoped the man wouldn't refuse to leave, now -- it wasn't his business, but she knew how stubborn of a man Bard could be.

Shit, Malavai. Did he have to barge in at a time like this? Couldn't it have been after the cook left?

The potential for grabbing a bite to eat seemed to bring a small smile to Bard's face. Wynne wanted him to stay, but Bard didn't think it was very wise for him to stick around with her current state of mind. He seemed to dredge up bad memories for her, even with all the good ones that came along for the ride. Bard wanted to give her whatever space she needed to work things out. Before he could say much more, the old soldier was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Wynne went to go answer while Bard waited by the chairs, and was surprised to see Malavai Eventine push his way into the room. "Malavai? What's going on?" He asked, stepping closer to the two as the young lord announced to Wynne that there was a situation. He looked surprised to see Bard, and suddenly very embarrassed, which made Bard smirk as he folded his arms across his chest.

Wynne tried to convince him to leave, but he waved the idea off with a sharp move of his hand. "Nope, I'm not going anywhere. If there's a situation you're needed in, I'm obliged to lend aid. It's my fault you're drunk anyways, shoulda known the cider'd be a bit much." He shouldered the blame for her drunken state, hopefully sparing her from any future chastisement from Malavai. Before either of them could insist that this did not concern him, Bard worked to make his point clear. "I dunno what you two do for the government, but if there's bloody business afoot, you could use a spare soldier in the fight. I won't make trouble, I just don't see any reason not to go along and make sure Wynne and my best friend's little brother makes it out in one piece."

Malavai's sapphire oculars lingered on the 'elephant in the room': Bard. When the cook asked what had transpired, Malavai hesitantly awaited a reaction from Wynne, as to whether the man should hear it or not. He didn't wish to burden anyone with Ranger affairs, especially since it didn't concern Bard. Wynne was a very secretive individual. Malavai wasn't absolutely sure if he even knew Raewynne was the commander; the way Bard addressed her as 'Wynne' already convinced him that Rae didn't tell him the truth of her existence. Malavai rubbed the nape of his neck as he thought, pondered on how bumpy that would make things for the two. But, while it wasn't his affairs, he could only wish them the best, like he had always mused or spoken.

He didn't expect the man to leave, even with Wynne's drunken command. Malavai would have stated his mind about excessive drinking, but refrained when Bard took the blame. The woman wasn't prone to drinking, anyway; Malavai should have known better that Bard's company would influence her so. He only knew her to drink if there weren't herbs for sleep. Why she had gone overboard, he didn't know. "I dunno what you two do for the government, but if there's bloody business afoot, you could use a spare soldier in the fight. I won't make trouble, I just don't see any reason not to go along and make sure Wynne and my best friend's little brother makes it out in one piece." Malavai sighed as his gaze darted back to Wynne. She was a mess... sure, she'd sober up possibly in a few hours, maybe at the reality of a threat, but she really wasn't in any condition to fight. Still, he wasn't the one barking orders, she was technically his 'caretaker', in simpler terms. While he held her dearly close, like a sibling, Wynne usually led on a cautious but successful path, maybe with an occasional interjection from Malavai, but still. He never doubted her plans, and usually with his tactician mind, they were able to come to a solid medium. He awaited her decision on the matter of Bard interfering, as it was simply not his place.

Raewynne had already predicted the outcome of Bard's response; she knew all too well the man was stubborn, so dead-set on a decision, sometimes. It was inevitable that he'd have to tag along, well, he would refuse otherwise. The only way to shake Bard off would be to move swiftly, but Malavai wasn't as fast as Wynne. And, well, that would be both rude and foolish. She was in no condition to really look after Malavai and herself, let alone the objective of the mission. As much as she hated to say it, she needed Bard's help. Curse him for getting her drunk like this, curse herself too for indulging a little too much in alcohol. Once Bard spoke his piece of mind, Wynne caught Malavai's awaiting expression, giving a shaky nod to continue. She moved to gather her things, placing the daggers within their holster, putting on her coat and cloak of warmth and fur, equipping the bow and quiver to her back. She was preparing, but listening to the best of her ability; surprisingly, she managed to get her equipment on without much difficulty. Now, she only had to clearly hear and assess the status of this predicament... hopefully she could do that. Crossing her arms, she stared at Malavai with squint-eyes, body swaying subtly back and forth.

Approval was all he needed to progress with the discussion. "Milady, Lord Alrikson," He paused as he began to pace about, arms crossed at his backside, clasped together by his hands. He addressed them with an erect, soldier-esque posture, his voice clear, stern. "I was conversing with another soldier near the King's Castle, just to gather any pertinent information, until another soldier approached. He was injured, stumbling and staggering; blood was streaming down the side of his face." His eyes shifted back and forth, from Bard to Raewynne. "He claimed a group of thugs stole quite a few supplies from the King's stock. And by quite a few, much more. When the guards tried to apprehend the thieves, they were outnumbered and outmatched; he was lucky to have escaped." He halted, inhaling and exhaling for a moment, before saying. "Well, there's been a bit of an unusual count in the stock; some crates have gone 'missing' each month, week -- I believe there's a direct source, a leak; someone's been feeding the thieves crates from the inside -- Perhaps they got desperate this time, or whatever, but we need to retrieve the rest, take them into custody; find our weasel."

"So, I offered to take the job. The guard said they're posted just down the traveler's quarry. They're running their base of operations at the Elixir tavern. I hardly suspect they expect any forces headed their way, given the guard was the only one standing... They could be opposition of the king, so -- I found it imperative to act now. Investigate, reclaim the stolen goods, arrest the perpetrators." He glanced at them, awaiting a response.

She was able to grasp the keywords to the discussion. Stolen supplies, thieves, opposition of the King, stationed at the Elixir tavern. They were able to fight back, so she needed to sober up quickly. How that was going to happen, Raewynne didn't know. She looked to Bard, seeing what he thought of the situation. Did it concern him much? If the King lost a few crates of supplies? He was probably indifferent; not like the King helped him with any of his problems. Still, he was willing to aid them because of Wynne's inebriated self, that had to count for something. "Arrrright, *hic* let's go." Her hand rose and adjacent wrist twirled, gesturing to round up the troops and depart. If they were going to do this, then they'd best be quick.

Bard chewed on his thoughts for a moment as Malavai explained the situation. Seemed pretty cut and dry, though he couldn't imagine why the guards wouldn't handle this themselves. As Wynne moved to arm himself, the old soldier began working the details over in his mind. It was a simple job, especially by Bridgeburner standards. Bard was used to messy, drawn out engagements as well as quiet, more stealthful operations, but he was no Ranger. This would be Wynne's ball game, and since he knew she could have given him the slip if she'd really wanted to, he understood that a measure of trust was being placed in him. Bard would do as he was told, Bard would follow orders: The two Rangers would have nothing to worry about from him.

"One guard made it away from the engagement to make the report, were the others killed?" He asked, suspicious. Not of Malavai, no, but of this so called 'survivor'. The government had clear evidence that someone within the Imperial Warehouses was smuggling supplies out, they just didn't have the man responsible yet. When Malavai answered, Bard frowned and glanced at Wynne, wondering if she was thinking along the same lines he was. There was nothing on the surface to confirm Bard's suspicions, but that was why such a move worked so well. It was the oldest trick in the book, and Bard had seen it played out in person once before. "Right, well there's your first suspect for the inside man. If I had to guess, he was probably on duty every time something went missing, and likely making a tidy little profit off the stolen goods." He had no proof, or evidence, just a working theory. "So these thieves, they probably decided it was time to blow town, but they want to make one last haul."

After that, the rest was details. Maybe the guard killed his comrades himself, maybe he let the bandits in and they did the deed. The head injury was a nice touch, but not terribly original. Such wounds tended to bleed copiously, a sight sure to make people less questioning, and it would make a nice counter to anyone accusing him of fleeing the fight or being in cahoots with the criminal scum. "I hope whoever looks into these sort've things doesn't miss the obvious answer." Or, as an after thought, drag his feet long enough for the perpetrator to escape. Now that he thought about it, Bard wasn't familiar with this 'Elixer' Tavern.

Yes, some pieces were slowly clicking into place. It was very suspicious that the man made it out essentially unscathed -- maybe he suffered other injuries, but the fact that he managed to escape while his guard-brethren perished was... peculiar. It certainly raised awareness that something was fishy. And, this was somewhat like a mystery -- it was likely best to backtrack, to reconvene with the injured guard for questioning. Because, even if he sustained some damage, it could have been intentional to make his ploy all the more believable. Rubbing her chin, she returned the gaze at Bard, albeit more drunkenly than usual, confirming that, because of Bard's statement, she was aware that he was the possible leak. "Shooouundsss *hic* like wee *hic* need to shee thish guarrrd. Whereee *hic* ish he?" She now turned to Malavai, crossing her arms once more. She didn't say more on the matter. They needed to find the injured guard for questioning, simple as that. Raewynne looked to Malavai to lead the way.

Malavai moved to the door after Wynne's previous command, the first to exit and show the way, essentially. He was the guide to the mission, considering he witnessed the exchange and heard of the predicament -- he had a clear visual identity of the man, so he could pick him out from a crowd, if need be. He was headed down the stairs when he answered Wynne's question, "My thoughts exactly. He's at the guard outpost nearby in the infirmary. Well, he should be." He turned to glance back at the two, placing the hood above his head as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "If he's gone, we know where he went." It was doubtful he could have passed from those injuries; they simply didn't seem extensive and lethal enough. If he escaped or fled from the bed at the infirmary, then he was likely the perpetrator and culprit. Geared for the cold, shield at his back and sword within his holster at his hip, Malavai trekked outside without pause -- well, if the other two resumed motion, although the cold of the dusk night was high. They needed to travel over to the outpost and interrogate their prime suspect. Hopefully it'd reveal more clues?

She trailed behind Malavai, close to his flank -- Bard would be the last in their room, or at least to close her door. She listened to both (if Bard had something to say), her stance only slightly wobbly. For the most part, she was quiet, taking in the knowledge. Perhaps she was preparing herself for interrogation... it wasn't quite her cup of tea, but sometimes... certain practices were mandatory. Torture wasn't a pleasure of hers, but if it needed to be done, she had to abide by whatever would bring a truthful answer. Sighing softly, she shrugged the thought off, but she was worried. Could she protect Malavai whilst in this state? Hopefully the buzz would wear off, maybe through jogging and sweating, could it vanish. Soon, she hoped; soon. Cloaking her features with a hood, which also provided warmth, she stepped out into the frigid air with a shiver. Despite the warmth of the alcohol gracing her features, it was still chilly, still cold. Arms rubbing one another to warm up, she walked with the two men, glancing around warily. And, well... a thought dawned upon her: if Malavai agreed to help, would the guard have made contact with his treacherous allies? Would they know Malavai was attempting to come for them? Did it put a target on their heads?

Well, the eerie thought made her want to cling to the darkness, to spy on any incoming assailants their way. "Be on *hic* yer guarrrdd."

With their plan of action decided upon, Bard followed the two Rangers out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him. With no cloak, Bard stepped out of the Inn and fell into step behind Wynne and Malavai. His hands remained loose and open, ready to draw forth the Eiphyre Twins if necessary. The veteran soldier's gaze drifted up and down the street, into each alleyway they passed. As Wynne watched the roofs for death from above, Bard watched the streets for less inconspicuous means of attack. If their Guardsman was clever, he'd stay put. The questing party had no evidence to prove that the man was responsible for the thefts, and there were no witnesses to prove he'd been an accomplice to the thieves' raid. Assuming he'd been paid for the job in advance, he was probably letting some healer tend to his wound while taking it easy in the Infirmary. After all, even if the man knew Malavai had gone looking for help, he probably felt confident in his deception, and thus was not preparing to run just yet. "How many enemies should we be expecting at The Elixer?"

Of course, if he had not yet been paid, and learned of Malavai's intent to deal with the situation, he may very well have left the Infirmary the moment his escape was possible. The Thieves were not going anywhere, unless they were coming out to hunt down Bard and the Rangers, which would have suited the battle hardened man just fine, if not for the fact that an ambush might leave Wynne hurt or dead...oh, and Malavai. Couldn't forget about him now, could we?

The younger Eventine led them down one road after another, with Bard guarding the rear while Wynne held the center. The cold night air numbed his skin, turning his cheeks red and making the tips of his fingers numb. It was cold, but Bard could handle the low temperatures just fine. He stopped in his tracks as movement from one of the side-streets caught his attention, head swiveling to the low scuff of foot steps on cobble stones. "Did you two hear that?" He murmured, just loud enough for Wynne and Malavai to clearly understand him.

"I'm not quite sure, but we'd best be aware, I suppose." Malavai whispered to Bard, who was well within earshot. He resumed his gait through the cold, mind recalling the direction that lead to the infirmary. The young lad was well aware of the possible dangers lurking around every nook and cranny. Every corner held the possible chance that a thug would swarm the trio. He realized that they trekked out in the open, they were at a slight disadvantage without cover. Still, the three were capable people -- although one was drunk and it was debatable as to how effective she'd be at the moment -- but they'd make due, surely. Eyes scanning ahead and with each passing street or alleyway, his sapphire orbs hadn't caught any glimpses of suspicious activity; but his ears were honed. At a time like this, the night was still, eerily so. One hand clasped against the hilt of his sword, ready to pry it from its sheath. His ears perked to Bard's voice, as well as the preceding noise, head turning in that direction. "Did you two hear that?" Malavai didn't want to raise suspicion, or to allow any lurking figures to know that he was aware of their presence -- if, of course, they were aiming to get the jump on them. Returning his gaze and head back onto the road, he murmured. "Yeah... keep guard." He didn't stop his walk, ceasing motion might further spike suspicion -- he wanted to appear as if he didn't know, obviously.

Wynne couldn't say the same, unfortunately. Her processing was a tad slow, hearing a tad dull because of her drunken stupor. That and her worried thoughts might have allowed the noise to elude her. And, well, she couldn't seem to whisper or return the quiet chatter between their group. "Ayyyye dun fucking *hic* hearrr shittttz." It wasn't a shout, just a moderate volume. Whether that might have given up their 'position' of the matter, she wasn't sure. She did know how damn cold it was and that she'd do her best to ward off any attackers. That had to be good enough, right? While she couldn't pinpoint the noise, Wynne did, however, spot nothing or no one along her scope of vision. She didn't necessarily watch the rooftops, her eyes might have wandered up there by default, considering she herself was a ranger -- but they frequented the street when nothing was spotted above.

Was there an ambush awaiting them?

Malavai sighed softly, wanting to plead his Commander to keep her tone down, but perhaps thought it best to ignore her -- maybe Bard would do the honors or keeping her hush? Considering he was the one who made her intoxicated; least, he took blame. Maybe disregarding her comment would make it seem as if they were conversing about something else, anyway? Or that she was delusional and drunk? She was drunk, so... least she could play the part. Rolling his eyes and shaking the thought off, he returned to his cautious and guarded state. The Sentinel would do his best to thwart any offenders.