Phyllis
```Kiril Bloom
Araedia, Delekou```
He was happy that they seemed to come to an agreement, even if it was vague and they were relative strangers. The wanderer figured that if he had made a bad decision he'd be capable enough to defend himself, and if he were to be robbed or something he had little he could not regain. Again his gloved hand went to the ring on the chain about his neck. He frowned briefly, deep in thought, as the cute barmaid made her way back over to the pair.

His thoughts were interrupted quickly and his hands found the wine glasses quickly, one placed in front of Jora and the other finding its way to his lips. He ran a hand through his hair as he set his own glass down across from the imposing woman, adjusting the knot at the top of his head to ensure that it had stayed sufficiently in place. A cleared throat and a few coins poorer, it was back to business.

"I have none of that. We'll be walking, unless you'd like to split the cost of a cart. I've typically been doing that. If you prefer walking, though, I don't see any harm in it. Is there a specific thing you're looking to find in Erillia? I think seeing the nobility would be interesting. You'd probably find good work there, too."

He didn't have the first idea what he needed for camp. Besides what he had learned in a classroom he wasn't particularly learned in any sort of practical traveling matters, survival or otherwise — he largely moved from urban center to urban center with a covered wagon separating him from the rest of the world.

"I'll have to ask you to keep a secret for me, though. It will be exhausting to need to keep such a thing from a fellow Northerner."

He raised his eyebrows conspirationally, but said nothing more until she replied. It was meant to be a bit of a bait. To be fair, this was part of his trade. Rope someone in to a story, ensnare them so that they just *Had* To stay listening until the end. How would he be able to pay for his wine if he couldn't do something so simple?
Sergio
Jora Sylgritte,
Araedia, Delekou

"Camping it is then." She sighed."We'll swing by a general store when we're done here. I need a new bowstring and a whetstone—my skinning knife is getting dull."

Whilst their drinks were being served, Jora glanced over her broad shoulder, eyeing the droves of horse-drawn wagons going in and out of Delekou. Though their funds may have been lacking, she could always bully some poor farmer into giving them a free ride. After all, it's how she got here. But threatening people in broad daylight probably wasn't a good idea; especially since her presence alone drew enough suspicion already. 

Still looking back, she blindly picked up the glass that had been placed in front of her and took a hardy sip, only for her face to momentarily light up at the taste. She preferred bitter drinks herself, but good wine was good wine and, most importantly, it was free. 

"Not really. Like you said—that's where the wealthy folk would be, and those with heavy pockets tend to have an enemy or two they need "Taken care of"." She answered.
 
She cleared her throat and faced Kiril once more, eyes falling to the ring dangling from his neck. There was definitely some sort of sentimental attachment there, especially considering how often he reached for it—almost habitually. It took a while for the most recent revelation to sink in. She wasn't particularly bothered about his origin to begin with, regardless of what it may have been, but now he was just giving her mixed signals for ostensibly no reason. Her brows furrowed. She drew from the maroon liquid once more and scooted closer; the spine of her chair bumping against the rim of the table. Her grin returned:

"You know, for someone who has a secret, you sure seem eager to tell a woman who slits throats for a living about it."

One of her fingers tapped against the transparent glass of her cup. If nothing else, he had certainly gotten her curious. 

"So, who you hiding from?"
Phyllis
```Kiril Bloom
Araedia, Delekou```

The tan man smiled widely at Jora as she took his bait. He did his best to not mentally congratulate himself because of it; instead, he rose his glass and muttered a small cheer before he took a drink. It was the same thing he'd been drinking before, but his face lit up all the same. Good wine *Was* Good wine, free or not. Afterward he set the glass back down, adjusted in his seat so that he could see most of the garden from his vantage point, and then swung his head to and fro to ensure that nobody was eavesdropping. This was not done in the same flamboyant manner as the rest of his gestures. It was natural.

One gloved hand found the other, and his left hand had its glove removed. The hand underneath it was warped, pockmarked, and scarred. The skin had only recently finished healing thanks to the poultice he'd been tipped off about in Astoria. There was no more pink, angry flesh, but there was plenty of visible damage. He flexed his hand and then balled it into a fist. On the ring finger of that left hand was a perfectly singed black scar, where something of great heat had burnt and charred him. His right hand, after placing the left's glove on the table, again went to that ring on the chain.

"My hand leaves me in quite the predicament. A great story, to be sure, but a bit too outwardly noticeable for me to be particularly interested in showing it off. If you hear tale of a man with a scarred hand, you must act like you've not met me, and in return you will have my debt."

A silent question was posed to her, eyebrows rising and the glove being placed back on his left hand. He flexed and balled his hand again to make sure it was in a comfortable position. Would she be able to keep his secret? There were untold dangers about him, untold souls chasing the pair of them if they were to depart ... But he'd done well so far. He was able to sit and drink wine in a quaint garden without much of an issue or concern.