Alan
Steppes were hardly Orlaith's favorite climate, but she could find beauty in them nonetheless. Wide, sprawling horizon with a slow slope, revealing distant plains and foothills. The sky seemed so large here, unlike most of Lymia. She could watch the drifting clouds all day, and in fact she had. The daylight was dwindling and she guided her steed in towards one of the few building she'd seen that day. Luckily, it was an inn. 

A curved sign swung in the breeze over the door: **The End of the Road**. Ominous though the name night be, it didn't stop Orlaith from hitching and tending to her dear horse, supplying him with feed and relieving him of his saddle for the night. From the small stable, she made her way in to the inn proper to find a surprisingly raucous den of laughter, card games, dining and drinking. 

Orlaith paid for a room for the night and settled in at the bar with a mug of local beer and a plate of famous *Vuuntuuta* Hard cheese as she awaited for the hot portion of her meal.
Arnold
Squeezed into one of the chairs around one of the ongoing games of chance, Rásmos hummed pensively at the collection of cards in his grasp. It was a shitty hand but he couldn't help but wonder if he could play it off as something more than it was. The other players, all silnari, seemed a bit on edge as the silvery brayer took his time. Some showed impatience in a subtle scowl, a grumbled word, or a light tapping of a finger. Others were keeping a bored look on their face despite the rising concern that the brayer might not understand the game at all... Or fearing his reaction should he lose.

Finally, the man scratched one of his horns and lifted his pale orange eyes from his cards to the dealer sitting across from him.

"Hit me." He chuffed confidently, smirking a bit as he imagined the ropey silnarian man actually try to punch him.

"That's... Not how the this game works." The dealer explained as others stifled laughter and smirked.

"...What do you mean, isn't that how you ask for more cards?" Rásmos asked as his little fantasy bubble was popped, leaving him in the grip of reality.

"Not in this game, no. You can check, fold, or raise." The dealer explained, his patience strained.

"...What's the one that means quit, 'cuz this shit's boring." Rásmos sighed, giving up on any idea of winning.

"Fold." The dealer said tersely, but the brayer wasn't listening.

"Yeah, great. See you runts later." He said, rising from his chair with a creak just as the front door opened and a new face entered the inn.

*Another silnarian... Dressed nice and that's a long fucking sword she's got, damn. What's she all about?* He pondered as curiosity lit up his gaze. Bidding farewell to the other gamblers (who were devastated, truly, to see him go) he plucked up his big straw hat and plopped it on his head, threading his horns through the custom-cut holes in its top. Then he clopped slowly to the bar and took up a seat beside the dusky-skinned woman.

"Evenin'." He said with a grin. "I'm Rásmos."

The brayer's words were spoken in Silnarian, but with a Hasaapian accent that made his heritage just as clear as his beastkin body.
Alan
Orlaith's burgundy eyes were already on Rásmos as he approached her, not so much because of any specific interest in him but rather because he was very large, loud and very unique in this den of men and elves. Her eyes widened as the beastman sat beside her but she tilted her head in a courteous greeting. She could practically hear her mother's words on diplomacy in her mind, not that this meeting was to be an intense negotiation but rather '*Be polite, you never knew what a new acquaintance might have to offer*'.

She cast a brief but appraising look down the minotaur, attempting to be sly to avoid being rude. He was not just physically imposing but also bore a club-like weapon Orlaith had never seen before. Her own weapon, an estoc, hung at her side over the edge of the stool and a small leather backpack was wedged between her stool and the bar. Slung across her back by a strap was a rosewood lute.

"Greetings, Rásmos. I am Orlaith, bard, wanderer, perhaps even a card-game mentor if you wished it." She replied warmly, head tilting briefly to the gamblers remaining at their table across the bar. "It's good you got out, I was thinking that short-haired man might be cheating anyway."
Arnold
Orlaith's once-over found Rásmos's silvery-white fur covered a brawny body adorned in a sleeveless tunic and stained brown pants. He wore no shoes, for his dark hooves were as sturdy as they were travelworn. Two black horns protruded from either side of his head, just above lightly curled bovine ears, one of which had a metal ring through it. Pale orange eyes peered over his septum-pierced snout at her with jovial surprise and amusement.

"Cheating? No... Really?!" The man balked, looking back to the group with narrowed eyes. A heavy fist slowly curcled and he briefly imagined reaching for the wooden grip of his kanabo that peeked out from over his shoulder. Then he re-evaluated the scenario and realized that the short-haired silnarian was likely unarmed and to assault him here would a disgraceful act, even if he might have deserved it.

"Little fucker." Rásmos grunted, shaking his head as he turned back to face Orlaith. "Thanks for the tip, but I was more interested in that long blade you're carrying. Don't know a lot of bards who pack weapons like that. You look kinda dangerous."

That last statement was made with clear approval and a firm nod of his horned head, making some of the longer hair along his head sway with the motion.
Alan
"Oh! Dangerous?" Orlaith repeated with surprise and flattery as she understood the brayer's implication. She looked down to her blade and pressed her palm at the pommel, not with any intent to draw the sword but rather as a gesture of affection as anyone might pat the haunches of their favorite horse.

"Ah, this is a House Tyrathea blade borne of Prasian metal and Lymian craftsmanship. You won't find any other quite like it, though many just as finely crafted. It is expertly balanced and well, if you think I look dangerous then perhaps it has served to scare off some would-be bandits in my travels as well." She laughed briefly, a sweet noise to cut through the wistfulness that seemed to have been building through her speech on the weapon. 

"It is rare to find a Brayer so far out of Anushken." She commented without judgement, but raised her brows in question to Rásmos. "What brings you to the steppes?" 

"Here's your meal, love." The ruddy-skinned Fricharii innkeep uttered as she laid a wooden bowl with steaming hot stew before Orlaith before puttering away. She tilted her face out over the bowl and inhaled with fluttering eyelids. "Aahh... Treacle and I have been on the road for some time now, so usually we've got without a hot meal. This will go far to ease my weary bones—oh, please, though. I don't mean to be rude." The elf pulled her half-eaten plate of a collection of hard cheeses over to sit on the bartop between Rásmos and herself in offering.
Arnold
A snort-laugh of amusement rushed out of the man's snout to Orlaith's surprise.

"Uh, yeah. Dangerous." He reiterated, gesturing broadly to her attire. "Fancy, yeah, but that doesn't mean you aren't dangerous."

When she described the details of her weapon and its composition, he flagged down the barkeep and quietly ordered a flagon of cold ale as she spoke, returning his attention to her after only a moment. Her laugh was certainly a lot sweeter than the stammering guffaws and chortles of the card-sharks he had been carousing with since tromping through the door.

"Scare off? Don't tell me you haven't used it before!" Rásmos gasped before shaking his head and waving a thick finger about, finally pointing at the estoc. "No, I bet you've run one or two dumb fuckers through with that blade before."

He scanned her commentary about being a brayer far from Anushken for any sort of slight or insult, but found none. Glad to have someone who wouldn't begrudge him a conversation just because he wasn't born in the right place, the brayer flashed a grateful grin and gladly mashed a bit of cheese into his mouth.

"Out here trying to solve a mystery." He replied between chomps of hard cheese. "No luck so far... But hey, maybe you know something I don't being a bard and all. Know much about a moon symbol with twelve stars around it?"

The design was traced on the bartop with a small piece of cheese wielded like a piece of chalk.

"I'll clean it, I'll clean it it!" Rásmos promised, putting up a hand to ward off the barkeep's dour stare for making a mess. His attention was on Orlaith's face however, hopeful and waiting. "If you don't know, how about your friend Treacle?"
Alan
Orlaith gained a bit of a crooked smile, apparently rather enjoying the prospect that she might be both 'fancy' and 'dangerous'.

She had been about to explain that she had indeed used her blade when Rásmos came to the same conclusion, albeit in a somewhat more coarse manner than Orlaith might have. She laughed again and nodded in amused agreement before taking a swig from her own mug of beer. "Right. Ah, yes. I've done plenty of training, sparring and unfortunately some bandits along the way who apparently didn't think I looked dangerous *Enough*." She grimaced. "Sometimes I can slip off of my horse and lose them in the terrain, but not always. I don't take pleasure in it, but if it's my life or theirs. Well... I choose mine." 

"A mystery?" She repeated, dark eyes gaining a sheen of interest as she watched the brayer trace a symbol in cheese on the countertop. *A mystery was perfect fodder for a song!* He turned the question on her and she deflated just as quickly as she had perked up. "Oh, damn it. No. A moon with twelve stars. Hm. In Silnarian faith," She touched her chest, indicating that she took part in this as well. "There are five gods, but sometimes a mortal will perform an act so heroic, so selfless that they are brought under the protection of the gods. Ynris, God of the Beyond, has doted upon such a hero named Orgar. They are a patron of the stars... Hence why I tell you of them. Ah—and there are twelve such heroes! I'm not sure if that is the association you seek though." 

Orlaith took a couple spoonfuls of stew and another swig of ale as she left Rásmos to contemplate her words for a time. As he asked about Treacle she spluttered and nearly spurted ale over the countertop. 

"Hah-! Ah. No, no, I think not. Though he'd dearly appreciate if you offered him some cheese, the glutton." She replied wryly before explaining. "Treacle is my horse, Rásmos. Heh. How did you come upon this symbol you now wish to learn about?"
Arnold
Rásmos slapped a heavy hand down on the cheese-vandalized countertop and guffawed along with Orlaith, finding it just as hilarious as she did that her horse might know anything about the symbol. When the laughter quieted, the brayer let out a content sigh and shook his head.

"Yeah..." He began, pausing to lick his palm with a wide bovine tongue before smearing it over the cheese moon in an effort to clean it off. "...I doubt your God of the Beyond drew that symbol in the mud of my pig pen back in Anushken. Unless he really wanted *To Jinkkyok* Ham. Could've just paid in silver like everyone else did, if so..."

The barkeep delivered the ale with a disgusted yet resigned look as Rásmos wiped the cheese from the bar with his own saliva and elbow grease. The brayer just accepted the drink with a nod of his horned head, then knocked back a swig of the cool ale to interrupt the creeping sadness that threatened to invade as he discussed the moon symbol and the truth of what it meant.

"So that's why I'm here now. Traveling the world while trying to figure it out... Just so happens that I'm here right now, so... Cheers!" He said with levity, raising the mug after taking a big gulp only to take another heavy drink immediately afterwards. When he set it back down, the drink was half-gone already. Rásmos didn't seem to mind though, for he was content to sit and chat with someone who was interesting, deadly, and amiable.

"How about you, Orlaith? What's got someone like you out here in the steppes?" He asked.
Alan
Though Orlaith laughed with Rásmos, his loud guffaw brought the rest of the inn to a quiet for but a moment before it resurged, brighter and louder than before. Across the way, one of the other silnari playing at the card table shot up to her feet and was berating the short-haired elven man and the one remaining elf. Her eyes bulged a little at watching Rásmos drag his tongue over the countertop, her eyes flicking briefly to meet the gaze of the perturbed innkeep where she stood at the far end of the bar, arms folded. 

"Ah, hum. Rásmos? I think the folk here are rather partial to their cheese. Using it as a drawing implement may not indeed have been their favorite." She wasn't sure what to say about the tongue-to-countertop business, surely that would be rude in any culture, wouldn't it? Instead she just drank heartily of her ale to dull the second-hand embarrassment she was feeling. 

"I doubt that as well." Orlaith agreed regarding the lack of Ynris' involvement in Rásmos' life after a moment, noting the soft sadness beginning to invade his expression before he dashed it away much like she had: with ale.

"Our quests are similar in a way." She began, lifting her mug to clatter against the brayer's before she too took a sip (significantly smaller than any of his big gulps). "My family were attacked, and... I'm not certain how or why, but the assailants laid some terrible magic upon my father and a blight upon my sister. If I can learn about it, perhaps I can find some way to cure them." This wasn't even half of the real reason why she had left her home, but it was the pretty version. That's what bards did, wasn't it? They told pretty stories.
Arnold
"I cleaned it up!" The brayer protested as he furtively wiped his messy hand on a cloak hanging from the stool to his right, even as the owner sat on it. "Listen, it's not like I had anything to draw with or I would have. Now at least, you know the symbol I meant!"

He nursed his ale as Orlaith recounted her history, growing somber at the mention of blight and terrible magic wielded upon her family. He wondered what the structure of her family life was like, how they all viewed one another and were viewed by their peers. Was it similar to how he honored and loved his own parents? Did she have a nick-name from her father like he had from his mother?

*She understands the pain and loss, all the same.* He thought soberly, watching her out of the corner of his eye while pretending to keep track of the feuding card-players. *Unless she's bullshitting me, but I'd like to think she's not.*

Then he truthfully focused on the group as it broke into bickering with the short-haired man at the center of it all.

"I'll be damned! Guess he was cheating after all. How'd you know?" Rásmos remarked with a wonderstruck look to Orlaith, breaking the brooding mood the brayer and silnari had found themselves in.
Alan
The tholian seemed to find the big man's protestations amusing and as she wasn't looking to drag out the matter of cheese markings or spitshines any longer, she simply nodded. Her eyes also drifted over to the card players as their ruckus became louder and more boisterous. To Orlaith's surprise, the petite though muscular fricharii woman who had been yelling at the short-haired man stopped yelling and instead rushed at him. She plowed him right into the wall. The innkeep started shouting too as fricharii fist met smug lathian face. The remaining silnari, another lathian but with long blond hair was trying to pull the woman off of his friend. 

Orlaith seemed to have no qualm with simply watching to see how this played out, even turning in her stool to properly watch the brawl. 

"Ooh-! Ah, it was the long sleeves. Sleight of hand I think, though he's very good. Plus the last guy who was sitting where you were *Also* Got up huffing about it being no fun." She spared a teasing smirk towards Rásmos. "So it wasn't *Just* That you don't know how to play. Hah." 

She sipped her ale and reclined back a little against the bartop after removing her lute and laying it across the bar, careful not to bump her stew. "Would people like a song about a brawl? Maybe with a far more likable protagonist than our cheater. Hmm."
Arnold
"Yeah! Break his fucking nose!" Rásmos hollered from the bar the silnari started to brawl. A fight was getting his blood pumping, especially with the knowledge that the one who had cheated him was currently getting his head rattled against the wall and his face tenderized by the righteous anger of another's fist. They seemed on par with one another at least, unarmed and of comparable size. Their disagreement would be resolved one way or the other, though he didn't love that another silnari was trying to intervene.

"...Listen, I know how to play cards." The brayer assured Orlaith with defiant mirth, putting out a hand as if he could physically stop any assumptions she made that were coming his way. "Just got a little mixed up. Thought it was a different game than it was."

He took another hefty swig of ale as she spoke about a song, but it piqued his interest so much that he grunted with interest despite a mouth full of alcohol. He swallowed hard, set the mug down just as hard and pointed at Orlaith with a grin.

"Yes! You should sing it while that guy gets his ass beat!" Rásmos wheezed with laughter.
Alan
"Ah, I see." She said, though clearly didn't believe him *Or* That she took some pleasure in teasing the big man. 

The cheater had whipped the fricharii woman around and now was shoving her against the wall and punching her in the gut. The innkeep had arrived to start to pull them apart but the other lathian was pushing her away, trying to earn his friend a few more moments of valor and victory. 

Orlaith grimaced a bit to the meaty slap of fist to abdomen and the gnarly wail that came after the instigator raised her knee into the cheater's groin. Rásmos was right. A brawl *Would* Make for a fun song. She pawed a hand out onto the countertop for the neck of her lute but found only air. Frowning, she spun and started looking all around. Her soup remained, her backpack was safely wedged by her stool, but her lute was nowhere to be found. The fight forgotten, the tholian gained a panicked look and hauled herself up and partly over the bartop to look down behind in case her lute fell over. It wasn't there either. 

"Where- Where is my lute?!" She exclaimed, head whipping up for her eyes to pan around the bar. With the innkeep involved in the fighting, there was no one behind the bar to keep an eye on the bartop. All eyes in the room were all the brawling silnari. All but the ones of the person who stole her instrument. 

Orlaith shot to her feet, tore her backpack out from under her stool and swung it over one shoulder onto her back as she made several quick strides to the door to the tavern which she kicked open. Had anyone come or gone? She hadn't seen. "Gah. Cesin take you! Give me back my lute!"