[b]Valfunde Perar
Streets of Deliar, around the corner from the Belt Buckle...[/b]

Valfunde arched an eyebrow as he watched a small group of soldiers slowly make their way towards him, carrying one of their own between three of them. "Halt." The men, really just boys in legionnaire's helmets and gear, recruits, looked bewildered, noticing for the first time that they did not stand alone in the street. None of them spoke for a moment. Valfunde examined their wounded comrade, closely, noting the already dried blood on his collar and forehead. He was an ugly man, pockmarked and scarred hideously, probably the veteran of this group. "What happened to him? Took a fall?" He asked with an official tone, looking over the others for any injury. 

"N-no, sir. Vince took a knock down at the Buckle, sir. From tha' barkeeper." immediately stated one of the soldiers, respectfully at least trying to show respect, despite his eyes and movements being noticeably clouded with alcohol. "How does he fare?" Valfunde responded, looking from him to the other man. He again raised an eyebrow, interested. "He ain't breathin' too well either, sirrah." another of the legionnaires said, grimly, checking his mate. The incapacitated pikeman shifted and groaned for a moment before slipping back into complete unconsciousness. The patrol sergeant took over, moving forward to check the man. "He's down good, strong arm, this barkeepa'." he whistled, looking back at Valfunde, who narrowed his eyes before looking back at the street ahead of them. "Do we investigate, m' lord?" Valfunde nodded, slowly, looking over the drunk and frightened recruits. "Return your comrade to his barracks and report back to your optio before leaving him alone." There was a chorus of half-hearted salutes, and the guardsmen side-stepped to let the little group through. "I suspect there's more to this, but move on. To the tavern."

As they came upon the entrance to the respectably dingy pub called the Boot Buckle, a little place run by a Jymson Fletcher, a rugged older man who usually knew his place when it came to fights. With a wave, he directed two of the guardsmen to stand waiting by the door. Quietly, his sergeant slid open and propped open the door to admit the rest of the patrol, Valfunde walking in second behind another guard. Quietly, the men took up places around their captain, cold eyes watching the bar-goers for any trouble. As he walked in, he unfastened and took off his helmet, sliding it under his arm. It got quieter as those at the bar noticed the huge, armored nobleman stride up calmly to the bar, one hand firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, low in his belt. He grimaced, not wishing to have made such a spectacle in hindsight.

He picked out Fletcher subconsciously, sure to remain neutral-toned here and now. "Master Fletcher, I came across a group of soldiers on their way home from your bar. One of theirs was wounded, apparently something he received here, as I am told." He sighed, looking over the man. "Can you explain why you attacked that man?" He laid a hand on the bar to steady himself as he leaned forward, watching Jymson. "I hope for you that your reason's just, sir, this is not a light charge. You may have nearly killed this legionnaire, messir. Not a good idea." He sensed now the eyes of every one of this man's sworn friends (who doesn't love a barkeep?) bore into the back of his head, a host of hostile eyes looking over. He simultaneously checked his poin curse, snatching gold coins from it and placing them down slowly before the man. Good money. "A round of beer for my men and I, meanwhile, if it shall please thee."