The Old Ways (Open)

So lost in his own musings as he was, Tristan was taken aback when so suddenly addressed. Blue eyes lifted over the rim of his mug and focused on the man sitting only a few seats away. Recognition shone immediately in the brunette’s gaze, for it was the man from the meeting at the Temple. Ronin. Giving a lethargic smirk that was still warm and inviting, Tristan straightened up where he sat and grasped his mug in a blistered hand and lifted it a bit to acknowledge his conversational greeting. “Something like that,” Tristan murmured in response, his tone strangely raspy from all of the dust and ash of the old smithy. Clearing his throat in attempt to quell it, he lifted the mug to his lips and cooled his parched tongue with another swig of drink, resisting the lure of a tempting cough afterwards. Gods, but if this stuff wasn’t strong. The man made a mental note to stick to only one pint for the evening. Turning in his seat so that he was facing Ronin, Tristan held his mug in one hand and leaned an elbow against the bar top. “I found an old smithy in town and I accepted the arduous task on restoring it. It’s a bit of work, but.” He paused with a shrug. “I’m lucky to have had some help.” Sitting at a tavern and sharing a conversation over a pint wasn’t something that he was yet used to, and he hoped that his mannerisms wouldn’t come off as awkard. For so long, Tristan had traveled alone and kept to his own company; being addressed so brazenly was a bit strange, but not necessarily unwelcome. Ronin seemed like a genuine sort from their brief introductions, and Tristan felt no need to be cautious as to his motives. At least, not yet. “And yourself, my friend? No offense, but you appear as exhausted as I feel… And considering I can barely feel my hands, that is quite an impressive feat, indeed.” tristan I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way