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[He looks abruptly up, more startled than he would care to admit.]

No. Simply having a walk. What are you doing up there?

Edited 2013-06-19 14:11 (UTC)

[He gives no special attention to learning how to read people, but if there's one thing he is used to noting considering his lifestyle, it's the quick craning of a neck from surprise. He smirks in amusement, although not unkindly.]

I'm watching. [Naturally!] And where are you walking to, young sir?

[It is a fairly hard reaction to miss.]

From a tree. Of course.

To wherever I decide to turn around, I suppose. The point's the walk, not the destination.

[Well of course, from a tree. There's a much better vantage point to be had up there, and there's a lovely 'chair' back built in. In fact right now, Silas is taking advantage of just that, leaning back casually against the trunk of the tree while his legs stretch out in front of him on the thick branch.

Now that is a nice answer, and Peter will be getting an even bigger smile for it.] It's not often I hear that!

Well, if you don't think you'll need protection while walking for no destination, don't let me keep you!

I don't, but I can pretend otherwise, if it will get you out of your roost and convince you to keep me company for a mile or two.

[He really didn't think he needed protection, but the man's got an infectious smile, looks happy and he's already been walking for long enough to appreciate having stumbled across someone else.]

[He shrugs and then nods, already moving to crouch on his branch and begin the rapid descent back to the forest floor.] There's been no real emergencies from other wanderers today, so it seems you're in luck! A traveling companion it is.

[He's actually not the sort to seek out chatting buddies often - he was sincere when urging Peter to just move along if he didn't need help - but the invitation is clearly happily accepted. Besides, if they're lucky, they'll run across one of the multitude of predators that roam through his woods.]

No.

[Ridiculous. And stupid. And ridiculous. And fuck you, Mr In A Tree, maybe he wants to be lost. What then. You can't stop him. You'll never stop him.]

I'm enjoying the journey. That's why I'm moving slowly, thank you very much.

[And to hell with the destination. Fuck the destination. Fuck also maps which are wrong and stupid and ridiculous and would probably be easier if he could do his letters better.

But meanwhile, to hell with everything. Including helpful smug people in trees.]

Edited 2013-06-25 10:05 (UTC)

[Is that so, traveler? He blinks calmly from his perch and his mouth doesn't do a very good job of fighting his growing smirk of amusement.] I can appreciate a man who's more concerned with the journey!

...Are you quite sure you want to journey towards the ankheg who burrows in that direction, though?

[He's just saying, I mean, maybe this newcomer is looking for a challenge. Or to prove himself.

Mostly he seems to be looking for a better map, though, or at least perhaps he should be.]

[That's it. That's just. This is a man who is more than a small percent done. A man who is a lot percent done. A man who will learn how percents work so that he can express what clearly gargantuan percent done he is with all the things.

Firstly by throwing the map up into the air.]

Absolutely. I am just dying to end my day with a face-ful of acid. It will be a marked improvement.

[Except now. Damn it.]

I don't suppose there's a nest of landwyrms in the hills opposite I need t' be worrying on as well, Master Curator?

[His lamentations over his state of complete done are observed with something only slightly above 'dispassionate'. He's not the first man lost, nor the first man furiously so, and Silas has quite gotten used to the abuse that can pour forth from frustration.

The sarcasm is, if course, a humorous change.] Don't be silly! [See, fair traveler? Reassurance is clearly at hand.]

There's naught but a family of yuan-ti that way, although I can't remember if they're halfbloods or abominations... [Well that didn't end well after all. Not that t could be all bad, surely, with how he's taken to grinning down at his new frustrated houseguest.]

[...yuan-ti. Why'd it have to be yuan-ti. Why did the mage who gave him this map have to be so damn far away that there was nothing to kick except for dirt.]

Brilliant. [Up go his hands for a moment, completely lost. Out comes the growl of frustration before he drops them.] Shall I just-- sit here forever, then? Is this spot safe?

While I'm here watching it, it might be. But I don't usually camp out in the same place all day. [Journeys being important and enjoyable and all that.

And then there's a laugh, which you might say was tinged with apology. You'd be wrong, though. It's more of a begrudged acknowledgement that he's tipping the balances a little too far away from this traveler's favor.] There's not really yuan-ti, sir, I'm just enjoying how you carry on. [Oops.]

Well while I can clearly see you're not lost, would you mind if I made a suggestion?

[...done. Done, is the word. It is the only word.

He needs a moment to press the heels of his palms against his eyes, to think happy thoughts like he's been told to and breathe deeply and all the good things.]

Only, sirrah, if your suggestion will get me somewhere I can conceivably-- [And each point is ticked off on his fingers.] --earn the money to purchase an ax, purchase that ax, return here easily and chop down this bloody tree.

[Not so deeply breathing. Possibly tree-kicking. It's been a long day.]

[There really is an ankheg, though, so he's only been lied to once. And it was worth it. Incredibly so.

He's slow in leaning over his branch to stare down at the offensive attack on his current favorite tree, and he doesn't even draw his bow despite the threat against his forest. The man appears to have the physical power of a just-woken kitten, so he's not too worried of his kicks or his theoretical future ax. In an even voice:]

If you'd really like to get me on the ground for a tussle, you could just ask. [Or even, apparently, merely suggest it - for without his asking Silas is sliding and dropping from branch to branch to end up on the forest floor. Arms crossed, he just smiles, because this man is really too much.]

[Real ankhegs never make things better. They always ever make things worse. Always.]

A tussle? [He should be more concerned that that's the word drawing the other man from the tree. He really, really should. And yet.

No one else is going to kick the tree. It's all on Cynric.]

Not at all. You look like one of those-- [Vague handwave to go with the next kick.] --'I know how to use a sword' types. I'll have none of that. Much better t'-- chop down a tree. Worst it can do is fall on me.

You hoping your shins are sharp enough to cut it down?

[Because the kicking, while it's dislodging a few leaves from the lowest branches, seems unable to strike proper fear into the heart of the offending tree.]

And swords aren't my favorite, actually. [But no, Cynric's far from wrong. The mentioned weapon is hidden in a tree about half a mile to their west, though; his current stronghold for the week. Or day.

He has daggers dotted around on his person, though, if that's more to his taste.]

You don't seem like you usually fight with an axe, yourself. More of a wordsmith? [He's just going to settle in and watch him kick himself out, assuming that ever happens.]

[It's satisfying. There are a lot of shins he's imagining on the lower trunk of the tree, and they're being kicked at least half as much as the tree is. It's probably a very nice tree, after all. The tree isn't the problem. The need to kick things--and the lack of being a fighter with swords and axes at all, much to Davroar's disappointment--was going to come out one way or another.

Probably better against a tree than a warrior. Or an ankheg. Or even a boulder. Kicking a boulder hurt like such a bitch.]

Lover over fighter. Man of peace. [If he uses his off-shoulder, he can slam it against the trunk without damaging the lute. Impact still minimal.] And all that rubbish. What the hell is this tree made of?

[Yes, the peace is very obvious right now. It's much akin to petting kittens, if said kittens were clawing constantly at your arms.]

Iron. It was forged as a lookout tower and simply appears as a tree. [That's as true as the yuan-ti, in case there was any confusion over his love of deadpan.

But he's not got as much love for tree-kicking that goes on so long, and if Cynric doesn't notice in time he's going to find himself grabbed by a fistful of his jacket and dragged back several feet, away from the tree. At least Silas doesn't seem interested in starting a proper scuffle without a unanimous vote, because that's all he does. Love the tree-kicker, hate the tree-kicking, the saying goes.]

Who gave you that map, exactly, if it's been so useless? Or can you just not read it proper?

[It's not so much the situational awareness that gets the attack against the tree fading into more of a bard slumped face-first against a tree. It's more the same thing a person sees when a kitten's been attacking its reflection in the mirror for more than a few minutes straight. The energy just saps away and leaves a slumped, unhappy ball of fur. Or bard, as the case may be. Dragging off is probably still for the best, lest he get a second wind.]

It's a picture. You don't have to read a picture.

[Maybe the words on the picture which indicated which was was up. But fuck those little scribbles. Who the hell needed them.]

[Well now he just looks sad, and Silas is a little disappointed that it seems he really won't be getting a sparring partner from this. Fine.]

It's more a figure of speech. [He's not caught on that his new companion can't read, but he's probably not going to press the issue far enough to find out, either. Unless he tries to scroll directions down for him, of course, which he may end up doing if Cynric continues being a stubborn ox about taking a guide to help him.]

Right then. What's got under your skin so much, now? You weren't exactly smiling when I first saw you. You been lost that long? [There's some amusement at that, of course, because there's a sun above them and how lost can you get when you have one of those on-hand?]

[He's a Charmer, not a fighter. But who the hell has the energy for more than a few spells a day? Or, more importantly, for battling with a tree and casting? No one. No one is who.

There's a list a million miles long as to what's got him scowling. There's the fact he can't remember his last actual meal. There's the fact he's not gotten proper sleep in the last week's travels. There's the fact it's hotter in valleys and forests and lowlands than it has any right to be. There's the fact he'd been cheated out of the last commission that should have come his way for helping out idiot heroes who couldn't stop themselves dying.

None of those are good for picking.]

I've got-- I've got somewhere t' be, and that-- map's got me nowhere near where it ought have.

[It sounds like he has quite enough to compose a very moving ballad on the subject of, one which Silas may or may not bother listening to through its entirety before interrupting him with a pity-thrown cooked fish or the like. Honestly, no need to be shy.

But what he settles on is still right up his alley, and Silas is back to a self-assured smile.] You seem a busy man. [That's probably sarcasm. Cynric doesn't exactly dress like he's due in a court sometime soon.]

Well it so happens that now that I've been disturbed from my nap by someone trappling through the undergrowth fit to wake a bear, I've got free time. [Oodles of it. The forest doesn't keep schedules very well.]

Where've you got to be, good sir? Maybe I can make up for my teasing earlier.

Not a busy man. A stupid man. [Honestly. Call a spade a spade, sir.] A stupid man who makes irresponsible, puerile promises.

[But he had made them--or at least the one that required him to be somewhere by tomorrow--to a little girl. A not-so-little-anymore girl who needed to be given a birthday present.

Which is most of what's got the angry kitten turning into a sullen cat, attention downward because asking for help is not his most favourite thing in the world.] Need t' get to Minwick. Or t' near Minwick. I'll know my mountains once I'm close enough.

[He'll nod to that, but stupid doesn't mean without merit, so he also stays to listen.

If only Cynric had felt like sharing that story - assuming it's true - because it's quite the heart-wrencher, isn't it? How noble of the stupid traveler! Even without the tear-jerker, however, he needn't worry for being judged. Silas leans forward a bit, down towards where Cynric stares at the ground, as if trying to coax a small child into looking at him.]

That so? Easily done. Freely done, too. All you needed to do was tell me.

[Bah. Bah and also hmph. His nose wrinkles almost unconsciously as he jerks back a hair, attention flitting from the ground to the sky a moment.

Being treated like a child means it's okay to act like a child, clearly.]

So help me, sirrah, if you say you're going to give me a map, I'm liable to go learn to use a sword.

[Because kicking didn't work so well, clearly.]

I wouldn't dream of offending your delicate sensibilities in that way. And I've seen what you do with maps that you don't care for - I don't have an infinite amount of paper laying around here, to waste some on you. [Well, actually, the trees are... Nevermind. They're clearly off-limits for making into paper-appropriate pulp.

Nope, it's time that he stopped leaning into Cynric's personal space and started off - literally. He's striding off into the apparently-supposed-to-be-a-path to the northeast of them, finding where to walk amidst the undergrowth and tangling tree limbs.]

Come along, then. Let's finish whatever it is you've started.

[You practically demanded that he lead you there, after all, what with making maps against the rules.]

[...that is not a path. That is walking through the forest. That is some ranger bullshit. That is not what he wants at all in his life.

But that's northeast, if the sun isn't lying. Damn it.]

So about this 'freely done' business, aye?

[You'll find ranger bullshit is exactly his favorite kind of bullshit, and that he enjoys sharing that affinity with anyone he happens to catch wandering too aimlessly through his woods.

Have a raised eyebrow over his shoulder for your troubles, Cynric, but he's going to keep up the fast pace through the vines and bushes.]

About it? Do you not know what 'free' means anymore than you know to read maps?

I know people say free more often than they mean free.

[At least, for all he's a complainer, he's keeping pace. The forest isn't the mountain, but he's managed well enough in the past and he'll manage well enough now.]

Find, really, there's usually some catch or other.

[And the pace-keeping is appreciated. If this man is in a hurry, better to get him there sooner than later.

But he looks, if anything, a bit disappointed, if only at the topic at hand.] A catch. [And then he scoffs, because really?]

No, I mean free. This is my job, you could say, but my payment is living here. You couldn't pay me nearly as well as the forest does, and I wouldn't want you to try.

[But curiosity, not greed, beckons his attention.] Do you have something to give, anyway? You look...

[Well. Hmm.]

...just barely self-sufficient, at the moment. I wouldn't take money or supplies off you, as you are.

[Live long enough on both sides of catches and learn to assume everyone's always offering one. There's no helping it.

And there's no helping the momentary stumble he recovers from as he scrambles to keep pace more properly.]

An' more than just that, sir. There's the orphans t' be feeding. [Probably a joke, if a stumbling and slightly breathless one.] Besides, 've got words. Words are more'n worthy for a bartering price.

[There's a slow wave of incredulity spreading across his face at the idea that words would pay for anything.]

Do you often eat just your words? [He looks like he survives on air, to be sure. Silas shakes his head and laughs and while he means no harm, there's something undeniably dismissive in his tone. Not so cruel as judgmental, just shocked and set in his own ways. As this stranger is no doubt set in his own philosophies.] I've found actions speak stronger.

[Oh, sir. Oh, now the words have to come out. It doesn't matter he'll be half-breathless keeping up and talking himself blue in the face. Words are happening.]

That'd depend on-- what you mean by eating words, wouldn't it. If you mean do I often admit I'm wrong about things, then certainly not. Who's got-- the time to admit a million wrong predictions in a day? If you mean do I literally eat transcriptions, then also-- certainly not. That's ridiculous. The binding gets in your stomach for ages. But--

[He can't flourish his hands and keep his balance. Bah.]

--if you mean do I often pay my way with speech and song, then I'd have to say I rarely eat anything but, sirrah.

[Well now he has to contend both with looking ahead to where they're going, and to craning his neck back around regularly to watch Cynric, because this isn't a display he feels like missing. The returned argument - and the obvious fact that he's stepped on some passionate ground - doesn't bother him, instead it just sets him to smiling a bit more absently and thoughtfully as he takes it all in.

A discussion hadn't been in his agenda for the day, but if that's to accompany their journey, then he'll dive right in as well.]

Well your own way with words is certainly a show in and of itself, isn't it? [Now that you seem finished, sir...]

And it's fine and good that you eat by trading songs and speech, but I mean more of... Well. Let's say you, the set-upon traveler you are, get lost with your terrible map and fall into a deep hole. I come across you sometime later.

Would you rather I stood at the top and commiserated with you, gave you all sorts of words about the situation? Or would it be better if I went and got you a rope to climb out with? [Think of the orphans, good sir, surely you don't want them to starve if you're trapped at the bottom of a hole. --And then Silas laughs and points a finger at Cynric.] No, now you're about to argue that your own words would have led me to you and gotten you out, aren't you?

[And they've then quite proven that words are a bit useless, aren't they? Just going around in a circle disproving one thing after another until there's nothing left but the actions you take outside of them.]

Ab--

[Whoops. Tripped. Give him a minute to get back on his feet. At least he's a fairly durable sort of bard, mountain-raised rather than courtly-trained.

Once he's back on his feet again, there's a moment's scramble to be caught up again.] --absolutely, yes. You or whatever non-terrifying creature could be arranged. Don't you-- tree-folk-types-- [For being a wordsmith, 'ranger' is escaping him at the moment.] --talk to animals? Honestly.

[Hey, he can appreciate a durable bard - it means he doesn't have to keep as close an eye on him, clearly, because he's actually more shatter-resistant than all his bony limbs would suggest.

Just let him mouth 'tree-folk-types' in repetition before answering. Words, so important. So valuable. So incredibly amusing.

The question, though, is the first thing that seems to upset his balance. His aura of confidence is at least sufficiently lessened for the moment.] As...as a spell, yes. Not just whenever I please, at least not like a proper language would sound. Body language and a few noises suffice for most animals talking to each other, doesn't it?

[Okay so maybe words aren't his favorite for a myriad of reasons, and his own stubborn one-language brain is one of them. What then, huh. It's not that uncommon. Lots of people talk to animals just using their spells-- he's watching you, Cynric, watching very carefully.

That hole that's mysteriously appeared can be arranged, sir, if you're not polite.]

[Dragon-proof. He's officially dragon-proof in proven tests and trials. A little forest isn't going to keep him down. Just possibly keep him from getting 'home' in a timely fashion.

The slight shift, at least, is encouraging. Everyone ought to be on equally shaky footing for things to be fun.]

But dunna the point stand? Fall in a hole, someone or thing comes, you use whatever words it is t' get to help and Bob's your uncle.

[Words. Best of pals for people-types. Right, Silas? Right? Everyone loves words?]

[And Bob's your-- but he actually doesn't know anyone by that name-- whatever. City-folk talk. Or something. Screw idioms or colloquialisms or whatever that phrase decided it could mean outside of strict meaning.

He sighs at Cynric, exasperated but eventually ending the hard stare in a chuckle.] Alright. They're useful. For inspiring action.

[Speaking of action, just where are they walking? The forest trek is instinctive for himself but guiding another means a little more concentration than he's been giving-- oops.] Don't step on that!

['That' is evidently a spot just in front of Cynric, that Silas had known to take a broad step over. It's one of his snares, harmless really, and perhaps even amusing to see a bard hanging by an ankle from a piece of strung rope, should he not avoid it.

But. Fair is fair, so a warning he gets.]

[He's ready to get to arguing again. He's on top of his next set of words.

But he's only maintained durability by listening to other people when they speak. Particularly when they speak about stepping places or ducking spells about to go flying.

Stopping short is easy. Moving forward again? Less so.

He's going to be told where to step instead, right?

Right?

New friend?

Silas?

Yes?]

[Good that he stops, but now Silas's brow is slowly creeping up his forehead as he waits. Takes in the expectant look.

New friend? He's flattered. He's never met a savior of orphans with a penchant for words and song before.

But really, the hold up. Why.] Just...step around it, or over it, your legs are like a spider's.

[It's right in front of you, can't you see that vaguest of uneven ground that he clearly left behind so he'd know where he left the snare? Honestly, some people.]

[The hold up because "don't step on that" is not immediately explicable as "there is a trap there" versus "there is a giant snake you can't see" versus "I am clearly fucking with you again." Clearly.

There's a half step back before he moves forward again, clears the lines that become obvious only once he's looking for them.]

Much problem with invaders in this part of the woods?

Human ones? Not really. Mostly just travelers like you - well, not usually like you, specifically. [See, Cynric, you're special. He's even going to give you a nice big friendly pat on the shoulder for noticing that trap all on your own and avoiding it.] That snare's for animals.

Just because I live as one with nature doesn't make my diet like a monk's, you understand.

[Bah. Bah on being special and bah on back-pats and bah on how are they still not out of the woods. Was he not clear about the orphans or whatever half-truth he had possibly already forgotten?

The mention of monks, of course, gets the faintest rolling of his eyes as he bobs his head.]

Suppose that makes this whole 'one with nature' thing quite worth it, then? Fresh meat?

[The woods will end when they see fit to end, minstrel, and not a moment sooner - and it's his own fault for being so lost because of the letters on his map. He seems like he could use some more back-patting in the nearby future, perhaps it'll improve his temperment.]

's certainly one of the perks! Does being one with your instrument keep you from having your own fresh meat, fiddler? [The lute is not a fiddle, but nor does it have a name in Silas' mind that he can recall with any certainty, so a fiddler Cynric is.]

[Lutenist. The word is 'lutenist.' Most people don't know it. 'Fiddler' is, at least, closer than many guesses.]

Not from it or in a wealth of it, really. More that being up in the mountains keeps everything from being particularly fresh at all.

[Although they were definitely going to a valley now. Details.]

Doesn't get more fresh than living right in front of you! [There's a laugh in his words, tumbling across the valley they're rapidly descending. It's decidedly moister, down there, exposed tree roots occasionally slippery and a few trickling streams criss-crossing around them. They'll be approaching a river, in fact, at the very bottom of this valley, halfway between their start and the mountains Cynric has requested.]

Does this mean you're not a hunting man? [If not, what on earth has he been living on while lost in the woods? His lute seems safe from gnaw-marks.]

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...your icon. We're surrounded by Silases.

I can go on. B|

god clean yourself up Silas, you're a mess.

We're all just lucky Cynric's mess is less self-inflicted than Silas'?

True, I imagine there's a good deal less naked self-flagellation in his daily life.

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