[IC] The Royal Guard, this time with Airalin!

[Airalin]

The innkeeper sat at a table close to the entrance of the establishment, chewing on some vulgar substance and grunting words of acknowledgment to a patron every now and then. Intermittently, a serving girl would approach him, and he would raise his voice - and if the whore was unlucky, she'd be groped before she could leave. She would weave between tightly packed tables occupied by the filthy vermin of the city within a litheness that spoke of her true occupation - the sordid sort best left unspoken of. Men would whistle at her as she passed, hastily wiping crumbs and ale from their unkempt beards like the animals they were. Their flushed cheeks would grow the slightest bit redder if the serving girl laid eye on them, and when the did, the women among the peasants would laugh boisterously, snorting and proving themselves to be completely lacking in the etiquette that ought to define their sex.

Fyaira sat alone at a table in the corner of the room, eyes darting nervously back and forth. Everyone else in the whole bloody inn was an enemy - she was completely surrounded. The rebellion was run by rabble of their sort. As far as Fyaira was concerned, every one of the louts was as responsible for her family's deaths as if they'd skewered them personally. They had taken everyone she ever loved away from her. And if she was identified, they would take her life, too.

She lifted a mug to her lips and took a tiny sip, acutely aware of the strength she used to do so. Her body was still weak from her illness, and though she was loathe to drink the same water as peasants, she scarcely had a choice. So she drank, grimacing.

A man glanced warily at her from a table across the room, and she allowed herself to slump in her seat. A merchant's daughter was not so important that she was duty-bound to maintain her best posture all the time. So Fyaira relented, accepted less of herself. The fact that she kept her hood up attracted suspicion enough without offering these dull fools further hints. The rabble would be looking for her.

She sniffled, searching the crowd for anyone high enough born that they might owe her parents some loyalty. She would never escape the city alone - she wasn't fool enough to believe she had the necessary skills - so her sole recourse was to find a man of worthy valor willing to lead her to safety. Yet, should she ask a favor of the wrong person, she would be in shackles within the hour and dead by nightfall. So she sat, mute, never meeting anyone's eyes, as a feeling of dread grew in her stomach. Any moment, they could find her. Any day could be her last.

[Nevix]

Alek could hardly believe his eyes.

It had been, perhaps, seven years since he had last seen her, but there she was. Many things failed him. He had scars as a testament to the times his wits, his speed, his ability to hold his liquor, had all failed him. There was, however, one facet of himself that he was sure that he could trust. His memory.

His father had brought him to court once or twice. Certainly not as often as, say, his real sons, but often enough. On one of those occasions, he had read a book he had smuggled in. On another, he had fallen asleep. On the third, his father forced him to pay attention. On that day, Princess Fyaira had been there. He couldn't help but laugh. This tavern was dingy even by outer ring standards. He didn't even like this place, which certainly said something about the establishment. As he approached the Princess, one of the serving girls bumped into him. Or rather, one of the "Serving Girls" had bumped into him, based on the seductive look in her eyes and the amount of time her flat palms lingered on his chest.

"You look lonely." She practically purred.

"Yes, very." He said. "And flat broke." She rolled her eyes on stepped to the side allowing him to pass. He hadn't lied. He was flat broke. Though, if his plan worked out like he was hoping, it might not be that way for long. He slid into a chair next to the Princess. Before there could possibly be a reaction, he leaned towards her and whispered.

"Have you heard? They say the youngest Princess escaped the Rebels." He sighed. "I do not envy her right now. Imagine, she's got enemies at every corner. Oh, she's doomed. Unless of course, she can find a brave, handsome, fearless soul to guide her to safety. Of course, such a stranger would doubtlessly need a reward. After all, the Princess has a hefty bounty on her head." He leaned back in his chair with a smug smile. "Or so I've been told."

[Airalin]

Fyaira jumped at the sound of a chair sliding to her side. Instinctively, she backed away from the man now sitting next to her. Fool girl that she was, she'd allowed herself to dream up a scenario where a gallant prince rescued her and brought her to his kingdom to rule. Just the memory of it brought heat to her cheeks.

That heat was extinguished as swiftly as a flame doused in water when the man spoke. Obviously, he knew. She was tempted to get up and flee then and there, yet she knew better than to act on that desire. It would draw far too much attention to her, and perhaps someone else would realize who she was. No. She would speak to this man calmly and level-headedly, as mother would have. After all, this newcomer had made her an offer.

"I'm certain the princess would reward her savior very well indeed," she said, meeting his eyes, searching for any deceit there. His suggestion could be a deception, but there was little point in such games. If he wanted her dead, he could have simply alerted the mob and it would be so. But the poor would offer but a pittance for a reward. And that was why he was speaking to her. He wanted to line his pockets.

Fyaira forced a confident smile onto her face, though she was far from assured of her safety. She was used to associating with the greedy. They made the best of servants as long as your pockets were deeper than your foes'. And once she had been escorted to safety, battles would be fought, then she would be the queen. None wealthier.

"Tell me, brave warrior," she said, whispering. "What makes you think you possess the skills necessary to free the princess from a city of louts who would see her dead?"

[Nevix]

"I'm hardly a 'Brave Warrior,' just a half-noble bastard with a gun and a knife." He sighed. "To be perfectly honest, there are better options out there, but I'm the cheapest one. Plus, a lot of these people are distrustful of newcomers. If they see you with someone they've worked alongside, like myself, you'll incur a lot less suspicion." He was going to say something else when one of the bar-goers stumbled towards him. Alek recognized him. His name was Owen, they used to be co-workers. From the looks of things, Owen was well and truly drunk.

"Aleksander!" He slurred. "Wait. That is you, right Alek?"

"Yeah, Owen." He said, inflecting his voice in order to sound less-than-sober. "How are you." Owen looked from Fyaira to Alek with a knowing smile.

"Worse off than you, apparently." He laughed. "Alek, you cheap dog. How could you take a nice lady out to a place like this?"

"Times are tough, friend." He looked at Fyaira with his best fake-drunken smile. "Now if you'd excuse us, things were about to get interesting." Owen laughed and walked away. When he was out of ear shot, Alek cleared his throat with a slight blush. "My apologies. Now, if you accept my offer, follow me. I've got a plan." Without waiting for an answer he briskly walked towards the door of the establishment. He stepped outside and cringed when he realised that a few of the drunks outside were singing a tune about the way the kings head rolled about on the floor.

[Airalin]

Before she could stop to think, Fyaira found herself following the man - Aleksander, according to the other mercenary - with a blush lingering on her cheeks. As she wove through the crowd, eyes downcast, she chewed her lip nervously, a bit surprised by herself. Though she did find it distasteful to be using the services of a man who commanded a lower wage, she just couldn't stand to linger in that awful place any longer. But perhaps working with Aleksander would offer some advantage. Her pursuers would not expect her to employ such a mercenary.

"How dare you imply I would share your - " she began, but her words trailed off as she realized what the oafs outside the tavern were singing about. Her cheeks grew pale, and her hands balled into fists. "Kill them!" she hissed, fully aware that what she asked was not only unreasonable, but foolish. Murders would be investigated, and if the rebels realized she was involved, her execution would be all the harsher. But those louts were mocking Father! Though the king had always been a distant parent with high expectations, on the uncommon occasions when they did speak, she could see it in his eyes - he loved her, and for that, she loved him back. For these men not only to kill him, but to make light of his death... it was horrific.

Her hand was wrapped around the hilt of the dagger concealed within her cloak. It was improper, unladylike to start a fight, and without the element of surprise, she would likely lose. But if Aleksander wouldn't do it for her, she would have no choice...

She glanced at him pleadingly, and immediately looked away. She was a princess. If she resorted to begging, she would undermine everything her father had ever taught her...