Arathorne could only sit.<br/><br/>And drink.<br/><br/>And look.<br/><br/>It has been nearly two minutes after he had clasped hands with Jahan, the outlander. After the new arrivals had come to announce their intentions, Arathorne had barely gotten any opportunity to speak.<br/><br/>He hadn't gotten any opportunity to speak, in actual fact. So, instead of listening attentively and voicing his thoughts and opinion as any good knight has been taught to by one harsh taskmaster or strict parent during squirehood, Arathorne had been swirling his wine chalice and staring into it's waves. He chuckled to himself as Jahan made his dislike of the Count extremely clear.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Now, now,</span>he would've said, but they never gave pause. Arathorne grinned at Jahan's mocking smile and took a deep draught. After that, his attention once again danced elsewhere. He watched as a barmaid winked seductively at a patron of the bar, swiping her tip, and his eyes were driven to the feminine swing of her hips as she went to fetch another drink.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">How very nice,</span>he thought as he smiled to himself, gulping down the dregs of his chalice. Then the Count spoke again. "Listen, all of you. I know how to get to Vine. I've donated to the mayor's retirement fund. And I've got a nice stash of magical items which can make an impromptu distraction through explosions."<br/><br/>"Distractions-" he wanted to say, but the Zywielite priestess he had yet to notice butted in at the last moment, explaining her magic. Arathorne could only stifle a groan and begin listening again.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">For the love of the Lady let this talk lapse.</span><br/><br/>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>â€œDo you truly think that if guided by me they would see anything other than what you see before you? Feel any threat?â€<br/><br/>Arathorne decided it was time to speak. Polite or not, he didn't care. The bartender had finally stopped entertaining his requests for tops up, and his patience had waned long ago. Turning to the conversing adventurers, remaining on the stool that kept him up to height with the adventurers all this while, he coughed.<br/><br/>"Ahem."<br/><br/>"With whom do I have the pleasure of conversing with?" He turned to the slim blonde man.<span style="font-style: italic">Well dressed,</span>he noted, noticing the embroidered jacket he wore over the white shirt. Arathorne grimaced however upon the sight of the pistol the man wore.<span style="font-style: italic">Guns have no place in the hands of a man.</span>"Allow me to refresh my memories, all the names I've received since the past two minutes have been long wiped from my head. You're...Count Windel Melair? We'll be working together, yes?"<br/><br/>Not bothering to wait for an answer, Arathorne twisted his neck at the Zywielite.<br/>"I don't think we've met, nor have you introduced yourself. Whoever will you be?"<br/><br/>"But no matter," he continued, standing. "I have heard your discussion and I can find no one's methods agreeable. If I'm going to fight for you I fight for you on one condition." Arathorne brought up an armored index.<br/><br/>Both figures remained silent.<br/><br/>"I fight my way, how I want, when I want. That is all."