Falon |
Falon was not one for political games.
He knew court intrigue, how to play people, how to seduce and threaten, but it didn't interest him. He preferred his freedom where he could have it; the open road was his home, not fancy feasts and long, dull meetings. Still, he knew the importance of this moment. He wasn't a fool. Choosing the leaders of a military faction sponsored by the King was much more than just some stiff formality. If the Wardens ever grew beyond what they are now (which is not much, despite their numerous talented individuals), they could very possibly grow to be one of the most influential groups in Ellira... and for that, Falon had to be around.
What he didn't want to be around for was a fellow mage flashing lights to make himself look nice and strong, like a bird puffing it's feathers to attract a mate. Frankly, it gave him a headache.
And apparently this guy was going to be their Tactician. Wonderful.
In any case, Falon didn't have any plans to answer to the mage, however powerful and "high-status" he believed himself to be; he didn't have time for flamboyant idiots. However, the Warden's electing their Commander to be Aslaug came as no surprise. She was their most fitting for the job; a born leader. Not that that, gave Falon any pleasure of admitting. He knew full well her views on mages, though she didn't make it a point to shove it in every passerby's face, and that at least, he could respect. Still, she would do well for the Wardens.
As the leaders were chosen and other topics were brought up, Falon slipped more to the edges of the gathered crowd of Wardens until he spotted a certain white-haired rogue, dressed in some casual clothing he found hard to adjust his usual image of her to. Falon himself was dressed in finer wear than he usually was; in other words the second set of armor he had lying around, you know- the one not completely drenched in dried blood, matted fur, and torn leather. The collar was popped, and it was much more lighter and less meant for fighting than his other set. A shoulder pad that shone from being recently polished, and his chest plate were the only real protection he had from it, but nonetheless.
Bringing his own jar of ale with him, he walked towards the woman, nitpicking at the feast laid out on the table, watching everyone sort themselves out with no voice in the matter. But he also knew her well enough as well to know she probably didn't need a voice in the matter. Probably happier now with Aslaug as the Commander than she has been in ages.
"Get a load of these guys." Falon joked, sipping on his ale, standing now at the same buffet table as her, but with a good two meters between them. He put a hand on the table, shifting some of his weight onto it. "Politics, politics, danger, politics! Flashy lights! Politics! Honestly, you'd think someone would come up with better conversations over dinner than this."
Falon knew full well Ezra didn't like him. They weren't buddy-buddy comrades who would take a sword for one another, they weren't even friends. They'd gotten into more than one down-and-dirty fight from bitter disagreements that didn't end well- especially during training. He was sure she regretted the fact they joined around the same time just as much as he did. Their views were polar opposites, yet, Falon liked to think they weren't that much different from one another. Except, perhaps, for the fact that the elven woman couldn't take a joke.
Falon was not one for political games.
He knew court intrigue, how to play people, how to seduce and threaten, but it didn't interest him. He preferred his freedom where he could have it; the open road was his home, not fancy feasts and long, dull meetings. Still, he knew the importance of this moment. He wasn't a fool. Choosing the leaders of a military faction sponsored by the King was much more than just some stiff formality. If the Wardens ever grew beyond what they are now (which is not much, despite their numerous talented individuals), they could very possibly grow to be one of the most influential groups in Ellira... and for that, Falon had to be around.
What he didn't want to be around for was a fellow mage flashing lights to make himself look nice and strong, like a bird puffing it's feathers to attract a mate. Frankly, it gave him a headache.
And apparently this guy was going to be their Tactician. Wonderful.
In any case, Falon didn't have any plans to answer to the mage, however powerful and "high-status" he believed himself to be; he didn't have time for flamboyant idiots. However, the Warden's electing their Commander to be Aslaug came as no surprise. She was their most fitting for the job; a born leader. Not that that, gave Falon any pleasure of admitting. He knew full well her views on mages, though she didn't make it a point to shove it in every passerby's face, and that at least, he could respect. Still, she would do well for the Wardens.
As the leaders were chosen and other topics were brought up, Falon slipped more to the edges of the gathered crowd of Wardens until he spotted a certain white-haired rogue, dressed in some casual clothing he found hard to adjust his usual image of her to. Falon himself was dressed in finer wear than he usually was; in other words the second set of armor he had lying around, you know- the one not completely drenched in dried blood, matted fur, and torn leather. The collar was popped, and it was much more lighter and less meant for fighting than his other set. A shoulder pad that shone from being recently polished, and his chest plate were the only real protection he had from it, but nonetheless.
Bringing his own jar of ale with him, he walked towards the woman, nitpicking at the feast laid out on the table, watching everyone sort themselves out with no voice in the matter. But he also knew her well enough as well to know she probably didn't need a voice in the matter. Probably happier now with Aslaug as the Commander than she has been in ages.
"Get a load of these guys." Falon joked, sipping on his ale, standing now at the same buffet table as her, but with a good two meters between them. He put a hand on the table, shifting some of his weight onto it. "Politics, politics, danger, politics! Flashy lights! Politics! Honestly, you'd think someone would come up with better conversations over dinner than this."
Falon knew full well Ezra didn't like him. They weren't buddy-buddy comrades who would take a sword for one another, they weren't even friends. They'd gotten into more than one down-and-dirty fight from bitter disagreements that didn't end well- especially during training. He was sure she regretted the fact they joined around the same time just as much as he did. Their views were polar opposites, yet, Falon liked to think they weren't that much different from one another. Except, perhaps, for the fact that the elven woman couldn't take a joke.