The Thirsty Wench wasn't a place that Alaric would normally frequent. Not that he had any objections to establishments that offered...other pleasures in addition to spirits. It was only that he'd never much luck in attaining commissions while hobnobbing in the more seedy establishments. Men and women who could afford his talents often weren't looking to commission a portrait if they were out slumming, after all.

So why was he there today? Simple: he was on a break. Even an artist who was as talented as he was needed to step away from the canvas and go into the uglier parts of town to "clean the eye-palette." And oh, what a cleansing his eye was getting as he stepped into the establishment.

As soon as he was through the door, he was set upon by a woman. He had no objection to indulging in that sort of pleasure once in a while, but he politely declined her advances, "Perhaps later, my dear, after I've had a drink or three," he gave her a dazzling smile which she quirked an eyebrow at him with a knowing grin of her own.

"Don't take too long, dear," she said to him before flouncing away.

He sat near a man that was smoking at the bar, leaving a customary one or two stools between them. He removed his hat from his head, nearly stabbing himself in the eye with the feather that he always kept in it and ran his hand through his blond hair, "I'll have an ale, good sir!" he chirped before handing the bar keep the coin for his drink. Once he had his drink, he took a healthy swig and let out a deep sigh, "Hit's the spot, doesn't it?" he said more to himself than to the man sitting near him.

Count Ellery needed a break so he could just be Anslem already. Stable management since 5:30 AM, business brunch at 10, Estate planning at 13:00, tailor fittings for three hours, business dinner for four hours and he was exhausted. He just needed somewhere to go where people didn't know him. No bowing and scraping, no drivel, just a chance to literally and figuratively get away from it all. A filthy little tavern might be just the place to slum it and not have to play the part of anything for the rest of the night-or at least for the next couple of hours. 

The tall, perfectly dressed gentleman stepped through the door, instantly accosted by a common looking woman. It took a brief moment's self control not to instantly curl his lip and be caught out of countenance before this presumptuous little baggage. With shining blond hair Anslem looked down his nose at the woman and responded with a dismissive smile,

"I'm not currently looking for a commoner with a... great personality. Try again when you're not so poor."

Harsh? Maybe. But truthful? Absolutely. Why did the poor people have to be so.. ugly? He refrained from shuddering at the mere thought of purposely spending time with a dumpy sallow complexioned common tart. Although a higher class, well-dressed, better looking tart, he'd consider. 

It didn't seem overly crowded and for a low life slum tavern, it was reasonably clean, so he walked regally to the bar with his walking stick and sat down. 
"Brandy or good red wine. And nothing cheap." Anslem ordered brusquely, his cool blue-eyed gaze driftting idly to the patrons around him. One of them was smoking and for a brief minute, he longed to go back to his old vice. He let it drift over him and pass through. Addictions made you weak and an obvious target that's easily controlled. Definitely not something he'd want to go back to at any cost. It was nice to be near the smell again and he savored it. 

A blond man near him seemed to be common as well, but at least he had an eye for appreciative aesthetics. He appeared well presented and nicely groomed, so Anslem felt a little better in choosing the place. As long as he wasn't presumed upon by an ugly common tramp again. 

Dresden hadn't been in the tavern for too long, maybe half of his ale was gone, when another man walked in. He generally kept an eye on the door out of habit, and at first he's only snorted. The guy didn't look like much, and didn't look like he belonged in the place. When the guy sat down at the bar, Dresden took a closer look at him. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Then when he spoke, he did so with a sound of positivity in his tone. Something about it irked Dresden. Why was this guy so happy?

Then he said something that sounded vaguely meant for others. Dresden lifted a brow, his mug hovering by his face. "As much as cheap ale can," Dresden said, turning so that it was clear his speech was directed at Alaric. A hand gestured to the hat he'd sat down, and the feather that had almost taken his eyesight. "What's the, uhhh, that hat thing about?" He asked plainly. "The big feather, and all."

As he took a drink from his mug, an unfamiliar sound came from one of the working women and drew his attention. Over the rim he watched as gasped, huffed, stomped her foot, and turned away. She stomped all the way across the room, drawing the attention of a lot of others in the tavern, and rushed upstairs. Both of Dresden's brows lifted as he licked his lips, watching this new man come to the bar as well.

"And I thought you looked like you don't belong, but..." he muttered to the man with the feather-hat, gesturing toward the man who'd walked in. As the guy took his seat next to them, Dresden took another drag from his cigarette but nearly choked on the inhale when the guy asked for brandy or good red wine and nothing cheap. In a mixture of laughing and coughing, he rested his mug on the bar and tapped his chest with his hand. He wouldn't say anything to the man just yet, but Dresden couldn't wait to see him take a drink from whatever the barkeep served.

Alaric studied the man over the rim of his glass as he took another healthy swig. The man seemed so serious. If he were a subject of one of his paintings, he thought that using dark earthy tones would suit him...perhaps a single flower in a vase in the background for a touch of whimsey, something to balance the somberness of the piece. He didn't think that this man would be a patron of his anytime soon if his state of dress correctly indicated his station in life. "Ah yes, but there is a certain charm for the cheap spirits, is there not? Nostalgia for younger days when one cannot tell the difference between a good brew and hog swill."

When the man asked about his hat, his grin grew even wider as he regarded the silly thing, "Ah! A good question my friend. This," he gave the hat a light slap before pointing at the feather, "Is my lucky feather. You see, when I wear this feather in my hat, good things tend to happen to me. For example," he held his hand out like he was about to tell a grand story, "I may obtain a commission by a filthy rich patron who wants to make his home an exhibit to his vanity, or perhaps to have his knew wife immortalized while she is still young and pretty. Or my favorite," he winked, and most likely would have elbowed the man in the ribs if he were close enough, "find a pretty young thing who is willing to model for your painting in a rather scandalous state of undress," he laughed, "It's a wonderful feather. Almost supernatural."

He had just been about to tell the man what he had named his feather when he, too, saw the woman storm off, "Too much rejection today?" he asked rhetorically then saw a very exquisitely dressed man approach the bar and rather rudely order something expensive. Alaric, had he not been an experienced tradesman, would have frowned at how uppity this man was being. However, years of experience taught him that when someone had a lot of money and power, they could afford to be condescending toward others. This man, figured Alaric, must have a lot of money to spare.

"Excellent choice, my lord," Alaric was not above brown-nosing. And oh, did he plan to get elbow deep with the flattery, "Although I doubt this establishment has anything that would be worthy of your refined palette."

The little tart had made a scene of storming out noisily and Anslem found the behavior typical and quite de rigueur of the lesser class. They're expected to act poorly and he watched her childish acts through the mirror he faced as he sat there. The barkeep smirked with open scorn and reached for the top shelf to bring down a bottle with dust on it. Filthy! Well he'd brought himself here of his own free will and it would be in his own best interest to carry on if he wanted to be in the right frame of mind for tomorrow's appointment with a Marchioness.

An amber fluid was sloshed messily into a small glass that resembled nor smelled anything like brandy. Hm. Curious. Dresden appeared to be coughing over the quality of his own drink so Anslem took it as a warning on what he was about to imbibe. He lifted the glass with a well made hand and knocked back the drink, suddenly making the well known grimace that only one drink on Terra Nova would cause a person. Whisky. Very bad whisky. 

The blond man coughed as he grimaced, wholly unprepared for the sheer nastiness of the alcohol ripping down his throat as he inhaled the rough fumes. He brought a hand to his mouth and coughed twice more, gathering his composure at the assault on his senses. How utterly repulsive!

"Whisky!" the Count managed to sputter out after he'd caught his breath. It was literally top shelf and grossly dusty, implying that the common rabble couldn't normally afford it? Or was it the opposite? 

Anslem turned a sleek blond head to the men sitting next to him and noticed the furthest man was pointecly watching him for some unknown reason. Looking at the two beside him, he addressed them with a friendly enough tone,

"Are you regular patrons here? Is.." he paused to gesture at the whisky before continuing, "This the normal quality of drink dispensed here or is it their version of what they consider good?" 

Once the conversation started, Anslem was a bit startled at Alaric's ostentatious commentary, though he wasn't the type to show it outwardly. With the showy feather as a part of his raiment, he was most likely a starving artist. The 'my lording' and sudden lofiter speech, easily clued him in on the stranger's mindset quite swiftly-- money grubber. Some people were addicted to tobacco, others were addicted to money. 

"Indeed my good man. " he agreed amiablly with Alaric. "Are you an artist?" Anslem asked the question so obviously expected of him, always willing to play the part. No horses were involved, so he was free to downplay any sign of normalcy or intelligence on his part.

Smirk still resting comfortably on his face, Dresden nodded. "Mhm, there's a charm to 'em, alright," he agreed, and the charm was that they were cheap. That was all that was necessary. After drinking from the bottle of smooth, earthy whiskey that Augustus Rainecourt had in his little hideaway apartment, everything kind of tasted disappointing. He was already used to it.

The story about the hat seemed far-fetched. It seemed like bullshit. Dresden leaned slightly on his shoulder, looking over at the man as he spoke, blowing the smoke from his cigarette up into the air instead of in the mans face, like he wanted. He'd come to the Wench to get drunk, not to get into a fight with some artist. Not that he'd lose. "If all that's true, that's some damn feather," he said, another drink of his ale. As pretentious as it felt, he couldn't help but chuckle. If the man was using his art to swindle men out of their money and women out of their clothes, Dresden really couldn't hate the guy too much.

The other guy, on the other hand, was something he'd have to consider. Dresden watched the barkeep pull the old bottle down. It had been forgotten up there, the legionnaire was sure of it. As the glass was poured, Dresden finished off his cigarette, tossed it on the floor, squished it under his heavy boots, and pulled another one out. He was just striking the match and taking the first puff of this second cigarette when the newest of the three began to cough and sputter at the taste. Dresden nearly spat the cigarette right out of his mouth, but managed to catch it just in time. This time he didn't bother to cover up his laughter. Maybe this night would be entertaining after all.

The question made Dresden shrug. "Dunno, never asked for anything other than the house ale." He reached into his pocket and pulled out another coin, which he slid across to the keep. "One of what he's havin'?" Dresden said. The keep filled another glass, barely quarter of the way full, and offered it to Dresden. He looked at the amount of it skeptically, lifting a single brow, and sighed. "You're a real penny pincher, you know that, old man?" The barkeep just grunted.

Downing half the liquid in one go, he smacked his lips, as if really tasting it, then nodded. "Yeah, this is actually pretty good. Definitely the best they've got here. Reckon you came to the wrong place if you want anything better, my lord," he said, finishing off the glass and sliding it, empty, back to the barkeep. Then he went back to his ale. No use in wasting money. The artist took the time to brown-nose. Of course he did. This guy was obviously made from money. Every hair and thread in place. Even his shoes looked clean. Dresden took another drag from his cigarette.

"I'm here often 'nuff lately, haven't seen either of you two. I'm Dresden Drake, legionnaire." He offered a handshake first to the arist, as he was closest, and then leaned around him to incline his head properly to the noble - he would have offered his hand, but they didn't usually like to touch commoners. "What brings the two of you here, if not the delicious ale?"

Alaric did not try the expensive brew that the noble had purchased. He currently had the funds to indulge, but he'd rather spend his money on something that he'd want to drink the entirety of. Instead he watched the other man down the drink, watching for any sign that it was as vile as the noble claimed. He couldn't tell. The beverage could have been the nectar of the heavens, or something extracted from the pit stain of a beggar, but the man did not show any sign to indicate which it was.

He shook Dresden's hand when the man offered it, the smile never leaving his face, "Alaric Melbourne, artist extrodinaire," he would have bowed were he were not sitting. If the noble offered his hand, Alaric would take it with a hearty shake, "I am giving my eyes a rest from staring at the canvas," he shook his head thought about his current painting, a frown threatening to appear on his otherwise jovial face. A baroness had commissioned a rather lurid boudoir portrait as a gift to her husband. This would not have been a problem for Alaric, except for the woman had a shape that reminded him of a snowman, and she insisted that he show off her "wasp thin waist." He had had enough of an ordeal fitting her within the frame without the trouble of figuring out how to invert the shape of her waist without it looking like she was cut in half.

He really should have charged her more.

The guy sitting farthest from him seemed to be laughing at the awful drinks and equally poor service in general that was offered at this clearly inferior establishment. But he looked to accept it as normal so he only observed him in silence. Anslem watched the man closely as he judged the drink with what appeared to be based on solid experience as a regular patron, finding no deception in either his words or actions. The barkeep did indeed skimp on the drink level and he narrowed his blue eyes. Poor quality, poor service. Well there was nothing about it that money wouldn't instantly solve quickly and efficiently. 

Anslem nodded back politely at the title acknowledgment, graciously accepting it as his birth right. The man was no fool as he took in the noble's appearance from top to bottom with a sternly appraising eye. The introduction made him give the man a second look and he noted the strong military posture, despite the setting. 

"Well met Mr. Drake. A legionnaire keeping Lorendale's citizens safe in our homes. Thank you for your work good sir. I am Count Ellery." he answered respectfully. Although he didn't have the intense training that the other man did, his own brief five years of tutelage with a sword was enough to make him deeply appreciate the hard work involved in such a profession.

Featherboy introduced himself but appeared at a loss as to how to greet his betters. Anslem arched an elequent eyebrow at the guache greeting but inclined his head and responded politely nonetheless,

"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Melbourne." Oh that boy would make a fine chew toy to muck about and play with. He'd give the boy some money--after a long and merrily amusing dance. He hadn't asked a single thing about anyone else nor did he venture to further any interest. How uncivilized.

With a stern look he motioned over the barkeep and said,

"Keep that bottle on the bar for we three gentlemen to imbibe, as I'll buy it." The sleek blond man slid a generous amount of money forward to ensure a better attitude from the help. It was sometimes the only way to get decent service from such peasants. Dangle the money and they forgot any ounce of pride. Destestable. 

The Count took another drink of the cheap whiskey in the spirit of things and still made a grimace at the taste. Loathesome poison! Dresden's question was polite so he responded in kind,

"I'm here after a very long day and wanted to escape to something different. I have a bit of a sticky situation tomorrow and I need to work out the logistics of it. A high status appointment but not a buyer in quantity so I'll have to toe the line between proper but still make a profit wihtout hurting dignity. A night out for a few drinks seemed like a good way to work it out. As a soldier and an artist, you must both have some very interesting work tales to share, yes?"

A few short laughs in the form of air shot from his nostrils was all Dresden could manage when the noble thanked him for his work. "Pleasure to meet ya, Count Ellery, and no need for thanks, my lord, but I appreciate it all the same." Dresden's job wasn't all that exciting to him. Ten years now he'd been part of the legion, and the big stuff happened rarely. There'd been the Coheed invasions right after he joined up. Then the whole Eldouir trial fiasco, and most recently that attack on the Allemeade estate which resulted in that one guy being hanged. But otherwise, the every day stuff? Boring.

Still, if the richer man wanted to supply the three of them with that middling whiskey, Dresden wasn't going to complain. "Awfully generous of you, my lord, couldn't thank you enough. Maybe next time we'll all run into each other elsewhere and we can buy you a bottle of somethin'," he looked pointedly at the barkeep with a grin, "a little better." The old man rolled his eyes, but he was happy to take Ellery's money, supply Alaric with a glass, and wipe the dusty old bottle clean. At least there was that.

As he finished off his mug of ale - no need to waste it, the whisky would still be there - Dresden listened to the noble rant on about his problems. Apparently some higher noble was coming to purchase something, and the whole deal was giving him some trouble. But he neglected to mention what his line of business actually was. Maybe it was purposeful. Not all nobles liked to discuss their work with commoners. "Ay, a few drinks'll work out just 'bout anything, that's for certain." Dresden agreed. "To my shame, I've not got much to talk 'bout. The day to day of a legionnaire ain't all that excitin', I'm afraid. But our painter friend here," he said, pointing his cigarette toward Alaric. "Apparently has more than enough stories for both of us. Nothin' goes better with a drank and a cig than a good story. How 'bout somethin' that lucky feather got ya into, yeah?"

He paused, thought of what he'd just said, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a beat up, flat tin and opened it up, offering it out to both men. It held six or seven other cigarettes, hand rolled. "Y'all want one?"

Alaric took Count Ellery's distain in stride. He had not been the first snooty noble he had dealt with and he certainly wouldn't be the last. He returned moneybag's nod with a smile that nearly took up his whole face.

"Yes, very generous, my lord, quite generous indeed," Alaric said as the cup was placed before him. He was never one to reject anything that was offered for free, "We simply must return the favor soon," He gave his cup a little sniff before imbibing. He made a face. Not the worst he had, but it was a close thing. Enough of his patrons...or perhaps he should say enough of his patron's wives had been so kind as to share some of their collection of spirits that the artist was capable of telling which was a good vintage and which was not.

"Ah! I see we are all here to 'get away from the world," he would have slapped his knee in delight if the bar had given him enough room, "And what a...delightful," he eyed the barkeep who narrowed his eyes at him, "establishment! A place that will surely wash away the woes of everyday life, yes? Perhaps, inspire some of us to the correct course of action, eh?"

The Dresden Drake fellow had brought up Alaric's lucky feather, which was just the thing to make him forget himself, "Ah, my lucky feather has been very good to me. Very good, indeed," Alaric gave the feather in his had a delicate touch. He turned to Count Ellery, "Before you came, My lord, I was just telling our good legionnaire friend here about how good things tend to happen to me when I wear this feather in my hat. For example," he grinned, "Sometimes I get a commission from a buxom lass who wants to surprise her husband with a lurid boudoir portrait. Or," he held his fingers up as if to tell them to keep their silence, "But there is a case in which I was so unlucky that the lady I am currently painting is less buxom and more...unconventionally voluptuous," it was Alarics way of calling people quite fat, "She commissioned me for a very special painting, but the poor thing wore a dress that was two sizes too small for her. I barely ducked out of the way as one of her buttons flew off her dress," He pointed to his eye, "If I hadn't worn my feather, I would be missing this very eye."

When offered the cigarette, Alaric refused, saying, "No thank you. These hands are for painting, not for smoking, I'm afraid."

"I'm quite sure you're being modest Mr. Drake. I'm told that a legionnaire's job is ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent terror." Anslem stated with a laugh. "It's a sure thing you've at least a couple interesting tales to while away the hours."

The offer of the cigarettes sitting so temptingly close had him pause for a long moment, eyeing them longingly. After a bit of deliberation, he took one of the proffered cigarettes and thanked him gladly. It would be churlish and rather bad manners of him to refuse after all. He'd bought them a few drinks, so the man simply offered what he had. Or so his temptation justification went on in his head as he looked to Mr. Drake for a match to enjoy his renewed vice.

He inhaled slowly, relishing the forgotten bite of the smoke as it curled around his mouth. Why had he ever given it up when it was just what he needed right now? 

Alaric's story was flamboyantly amusing and Anslem laughed, starting to finally relax at long last. A couple drinks, a cigarette and a few fellow strangers to just merely exist nearby. They were other men, so Anslem felt he didn't need to worry against expounding further on financial matters. 

"Indeed, Mr. Melbourne, sometimes Ladies can be quite the delicate problem. I'm trying to run a profitable horse breeding business, Ellery Equines. I mostly supply large amounts of horses for the local Marshall, other businesses and large households. My upcoming appointment however, is simply a Cover which wouldn't even pay for a day's worth of food for the stallion she'd need. But the Lady in question is a Marchioness, so not only must the topic be carefully broached in delicate terms for her female sensibilities, but proper acknowledgement of her title as well." Anslem took another long and satisfied drag of the cigarette and grimaced down some more of the bad whiskey. 

"So I won't make a whit of profit from her visit tomorrow. Her single mare's visit wouldn't pay for the grooms needed for showing or the multiple stable hands' day of service. But she's of noble blood, so I need to get what I can to balance the ledgers, but keep her propriety intact. Bluntly put, I need to play the part of the Count to her Marchioness, not mention anything too much about her seeking a stallion to Cover her mare in a one shot deal, and not lose too much profit on her one and done visit." 

The Count's blue eyes lingered over the curious feather, and he said with a hearty smile,

"Please tell me some stories to make me laugh! Make me forget business and high blown manners if only for a short while, I implore you both!"

Dresden nodded to Alaric when he rejected the cigarette offer, but when Anslem took one of the cigarettes, Dresden pocketed them once more and then supplied a match to the noble. He was still chuckling when he put the matches back in his pocket as Alaric complimented the 'establishment' - if you really wanted to call the Wench that.

Taking a drag of his own cigarette again, Dresden leaned against the bar and listened to the story told by the painter. His most recent commission was from a noble lady who had let herself go but was clinging to the days when she was still a thinner woman. At first he was only smirking. It was made funnier by mention of buttons flying, though, and Dresden outright laughed, tilting his head back somewhat as he did so. "Reckon that feather is good luck, then," he added, flicking his ashes onto the floor on the other side of himself, away from the two men. "You get that sorta thing often? The, uh...less attractive ladies, tryna feel young again and all that?"

It was Anslem's story that intrigued him, though. At first he couldn't be sure. There were a few marchionesses that he could be speaking of, but it was quickly narrowed down: a Marshall family, a marchioness, and one who cared greatly for horses? Well, that could only be the Kane's, and since Lady Helena likely wasn't still riding horses, only one of the Kane's could be going to meet with Ellery: Scout. "That does sound like a frustratin' situation, my lord." He wasn't surprised that the man hadn't made the connection. While plenty of nobles had gotten all up in arms about the rumors surrounding himself and Scout, it was unlikely that any of them actually remembered the name of the legionnaire she had been rumored to slip away with in the courtyard.

"Huh, well, you were right when you said that thing about one percent terror, I guess. But terror's a little different for everyone, ain't it?" He shrugged. "You'd be surprised how often wives throw their chamber-pots out windows onto their husbands heads. That's...pretty awful, objectively," he smirked, taking another sip of the whisky. "But if ya want somethin' real good...let me see. Oh, yeah! Alright, so," he took another drag of his cig, tipped the ashes once more, and held his hands out in the air as he began to tell the story.

"So me and my partner at the time, this man named Douglas, are out on patrol. It's real late, gotta be after midnight, and we hear all this yellin'. So we go lookin' for it. There's this loud crash, and we turn the street corner, and there's his big wooden chest in the street and clothes scattered all over the place, more comin' out the window. This man runs out the front door, nothin' but his undershorts, right?" He's already laughing to himself as he tells the story. "He's yellin' 'dammit, Gina, just gimme the keys!' And the woman, she was his wife, is yellin' out the window 'you're never gettin' these keys, I'm throwin' 'em in the river when the sun comes up!' So obviously, we gotta handle this. Typical martial fight, we think, right? Until we hear a third voice."

Already a little parched from the story, he took another drink from his glass. In the corner of the tavern, behind Dresden's back, two men were stirring. Their eyes were on the trio of men at the bar, and they had scowls on their faces, but for the moment they weren't doing anything other than staring. Alaric and Anslem might notice them if they were turned to listen to Dresden's story, but since they were just other patrons of the bar, it was very possible they could go unnoticed.

"So we're tryna calm them down, but they're both just yellin' at each other and won't listen to us, until the husband grabs me by the jacket and says 'she locked her in there!' and me and Douglas, we're confused. 'Locked her in where, sir?' we ask, because we don't got a clue. That's when we hear it...that third voice again. It's a womans voice from inside that wooden chest! His wife caught 'em with his mistress and locked her in the damn chest! Before we say or do anything, the wife goes flyin' out the house, runnin' down the street with the keys in her hands. We had to chase that woman six blocks and tackle her to the ground to get them keys back and unlock that poor woman from her box." He laughed to himself, shaking his head.

"But," he continued, lifting an index finger. "Twist is, mistress didn't know he was married! Soon as she got outta that box, she jumped on him like a hog in mud. It took both of us to pry her off."

Alaric listened to Moneybags recount his troubles with his lady client with genuine sympathy, "Quite right, My Lord. Even though the only thing I know of horses is how to present them at their most magnificent in a portrait, this sounds like a delicate matter indeed. I could not imagine how awkward it would be discussing such a thing with a lady of any station," Alaric was glad that he never had a client try to talk about trying to impregnate a horse during any of his painting sessions. He had many stories of rather lurid and rather alarming things that had happened with his various clients, but none of them discussed breeding anything other than their children in front of him, "Such matters, as you say should be handled with care."

At Dresden's question about ladies trying to recapture their youth in his paintings, Alaric nodded profusely, "Oh Yes," he took a drink of his beverage, "and it's not just the women, mind you," he shook his head and looked from one man to the other, "You would not believe how many shriveled old men want me to paint a nude portrait of themselves," he shivered, "and it's not tasteful, either. No, they want their," he paused long enough to check around them to make sure that no lady, painted OR noble, was present to hear, "third leg swinging like some shriveled dinner bell. Disgusting!" he made a face, "I don't even want to imagine where they want to hang it," then he added with a wave of his hand, "The portrait that is. Not their...bell."

Alaric listened to the legionnaire tell his story of an affair gone terribly wrong, and his laughter came out louder than it would have if he didn't relate to it so much. He had once been a character in a similar story...only he was in the position of the mistress locked in the box. But that was a story for another day, "That poor sod!" he said instead, even as he thought the man was an amateur when it came to dallying around, "Caught in one lie after another. Tell me, good sir, did you think he would still be able to sire children after the two women were through with him?"

Alaric noticed the men eyeing the three of them, but he payed them no mind. They were telling rather animated stories and laughing at them, so he could only assume that that was why they were looking.