#rafad

[sylvanasses-blog]

a birthday rafad for @theargentleper, by the very talented @owligator

[itswarlockry]

a very fancy boy / scruffy merchant boy for good friend @khaadim / @theargentleper ;w; thank u so much for the commission <3

[sylvanasses-blog]

rafad...

[sylvanasses-blog]

Now I pay the price

 Of the human race’s vice

 And I was promised

The glorious ending of a knight

But the crown is out of sight

[thunderbluff]

what makes you soft?

tae and raf finally stop avoiding eachother and get to know eachother a lil better. also this happens almost immediately after this. 

Taera looks briefly out to the sea, then around the beach before settling on him. "My apologies for interrupting you... I can leave you alone now, if you would like."

Rafad takes his time considering this, clasping his arms behind his back as he also gazes out to sea. "I think ... I would prefer the company, m'lady. There is so little I know of thee, outside of thine valor in battle. Thou art carrying a softness of thine own, akin to mine." He glances back up at that gently-glowing flower, speculative, "What is it that makes thee soft, Commander Brandt?"

"There are too many who would prefer to turn a blind eye, to make things ...easier on themselves. Or they are afraid of what will happen, should they be the one to see the hurt in others, and help them." Taera heaves a heavy sigh, looking up at the sky. "I have been the one who needed help, and I have seen those with the power to save so many abandon me and those I watched over. I never want to be that person, Rafad." She had seen that glance, and now pulls the flower back out of her hair so she can look at it, rubbing her thumb gently over the petals. "And when you do not have the strength, there are those in your life- past or present- that you would do anything for. When you do not have the heart, borrow theirs."

Rafad looks up to the stars as he listens; his face remarkably calm. “Thine compassion is the seat of thine valor.” He murmurs - almost with an air of wonderment. “We often spoke of thine skill being unworldly. That thine strength came from some bright fount of righteousness within thee. But it was thine compassion…” His brows furrow. This was a lot for him to consider; a man so driven by machismo and avoidance. “To think a bulwark of faith can be built upon tenderness. ‘Tis poetry, m’lady.”

Taera looks up at him, and is reminded of him recognizing her, apologizing for her death (and immediately inviting her back to the Crusade). Of course, being who she was, people would recognize her- speak of her too-  but... it’s a little surreal to hear it after so long. Especially how...revered he makes her sound. "...Thank you, I have heard similar before. It is always interesting to hear that it be spoken of with such an- " She continues to absentmindedly pet the flower as she pauses to think of the proper word. "Such an air of rarity. But that is why I am what I am, I suppose. What of you? What makes your softness?" She feels she might know at least… partially why… but it is polite to ask ya know.

Rafad chuckles then, but it ends on a sad note. “I am hardly soft as I once was. It was stolen from me the day I became afflicted with disease. I was a different man then, who knew no violence and cared not for war. Mine heart was full of love for people and all their little dramas. The details that oft’ go unnoticed.” A pause. Another leap of faith - his natural distrusting nature being pushed to its limits. “But … being reminded that there is yet some humanity left in me … being treated like … like a brother, perhaps, hath brought back mine spark. To be looked upon not for mine ugliness or mine rank. Given a chance to let down mine arms and share companionship.” A tight frown as he looks away, as if embarrassed. It's ok Raf she knows ur fukcing gay. “The fact that I was seen, and not rejected. That hath opened up a door long-closed in mine spirit. It is painful, verily, but I am … still grateful.”

“I hope the door remains open for you,” Taera hums, looking out to the sea. After a few long moments she slowly lowers herself to sit cross-legged in the sand, briefly placing the flower on her knee so she can pat the sand and invite him to sit.

[sylvanasses-blog]

RP logs - Just Guys being Dudes

Courick and Rafad attempt to have a serious conversation. Like most other things the two men do together, it fails horribly.

Rafad had been avoiding the good Father for a considerable amount of time now … not that he could be blamed for it. The events of the Collective Nightmare had shaken him, and he had little time to sort out his own trauma surrounding the event. He was too caught up with Argent Bonding Activities and recovering from other emotional demands to worry about what the dream had revealed to him. Not yet. But the stubborn silence between himself and Courick could not last; there was simply too much left unaddressed. The leper departs from his modest camp just before dawn, after a long period of private reflection and prayer. His mind is clear. He pays no heed to where his feet take him - letting the natural gravity of the world push and pull him as it pleased. He always arrived at the same place.

Courick stands at his eternal vigil, facing the ocean. He is pouring over a book, occasionally glancing up at the sea. He's humming to himself as he reads, his face looks surprisingly calm and content compared to the wild look of a blood-crazed madman he wore last night, in the collective fever dream. He might hear the other man approach, but does not greet him other than a polite and cordial nod of the head and a soft grunt. For someone who often claims to be silvertongued, he can be rather curt .

Rafad stands apart for a long time - watching Courick read with that impassive, slightly confused expression he so often wore when they were alone. They had not parted on good terms. Well, honestly, they rarely did … but refusing to talk about their arguments afterwards, no matter how explosive, was a staple in their tentative friendship. Not this time. The leper approaches to take his customary place beside the priest, his voice quiet. “I see now. The logic behind teaching Canthar as thou did’st.” If Courick were to look at him then, he would note the conflicted furrow of Rafad’s brow as he ventures to do something virtually unheard of ... “I apologize.”

"Explain my own logic, as you see it, Adal." He does not bother looking up from the book, nor does he dare show the cover. It's smut, isn't it? "How do you see my own actions?"

Rafad flinches ever-so-slightly at the use of his name, but he remains steadfast in his unnatural humility. He could sense it - the wall so hastily rebuilt; the ire and resentment they both still carried for each other. It was an unconscious knowledge, but it afforded him greater patience. There is a strange look on his face as he struggles to put the concept into words.Like it was familiar. “It is … safer for Canthar to have some way to harness his fears. That way they are controlled, and he remains aware of his own state. It is not offensive magic that thou hath taught him - but self-regulating.” Good God, is Rafad showing a spark of intelligence? Well, sort of. Mostly he’d just listened to what Canthar’s opinion on the whole mess was.

Courick smiles, mouthing 'told you so' and closes the book, setting it down. Face down. "Exactly. Before you leap into the fray, spitting judgements, try to understand the other party. " he pauses, taking off his glasses to run a hand down his face. " Thou art...keen to do so. As am I. A fault you and I both share. "

“It is our mutual faults that bind us so, father. How else would’st thou pass the time if I did not keep thee in constant conflict? There are only so many books to read.” Rafad smiles back, nodding towards the novella at his feet. A smile that is small and relieved and perhaps even mischievous. “I am harsh with thee because-” a conflicted grimace. How can he make this Not sound Completely Gay. “-because I … worry. Call it a failing of mine. Mine duty to protect can get, ah … out-of-hand.”

"I am a cleric of the Holy Light, former high priest of Andorhal and a former captain in the Forsaken war-machine. I think. I can. Handle myself. " He makes very intense eye contact with Rafad as he speaks. His eyes burn with holy fire.

Rafad’s smile doesn’t wane - indeed, one of his brows raises in amusement. “Ryan, I do not doubt thine prowess in battle. Mine concern is for thine spirit. How many times hath thou sought out mine counsel on matters of faith? How many times hath thou praised me for mine tenacity with this task?” He shakes his head gently. “I hath noticed a … nervousness about thee as of late. And thou art far more defensive than usual. I know thee, Ryan, and I can see when something is amiss.” He glances out to sea, his smile fading out of respect. “I only wish to make sure thou art well.”

"I'm fine, friend. This dreaming demon business does make a man nervous...No matter! As I told the boy, fear and anxiety should be harnessed as a weapon. That's why I taught him. He needed a way to control it. " Courick smiles to himself.

Rafad Doesn’t Believe That For A Goddamn Second, and it shows on his face. But he leaves the issue be. “-Just as thou need’st a way to control thine own.” He notes, lacing his hands at the back of his head, arms raised. “Would it kill thee to deal with thine problems like a normal person? It’s easy: simply ignore thine fears until they build within thee like a geyser, explode, and scald anyone within a mile’s radius. It’s worked for me.” A cat-like grin passes over his lips for a moment.

"Your bottled up emotions are like an apothecary's mixture meant to be hurled in barrels at a sleeping Alliance troops to poison them, sounds like. " Courick rolls his shoulders and holds his arms behind his back, chuckling to himself. "Granted, that's one way to do it. Some of us might prefer to harness negative emotions into volatile shadow-magic to unleash at any given moment. " The cleric clears his throat. " To each his own."

Rafad just barely leans sideways towards Courick, head low and voice conspiratorial, “Mine method is still better. Less risk of unleashing the howling armies of Chaos and whatnot.” A nod towards the ocean. “I pray thou shalt use restraint, ‘lest … They begin to see thee as Their next weapon of mass destruction.” Rafad, of course, refuses to say ‘Old Gods’ - a superstition of his. “But thou art the priest, not I. Just remember what we face. And for Light’s sake, if thou art planning on losing thine entire mind again in order to feast upon carrion, warn me first.”

"Feasting upon carrion, you say? Hmmm. Is this about my actions in that collective-dream? I'm not normally like that. I know forsaken who constantly crave flesh and such. Been there, done that. Won't do it again." He tugs on his collar a little, turning to Raf. "Restraint is practically my middle name. I'm a priest, remember? Biting my tongue when sins are confessed to me, biting my tongue when fair maidens called my name. " He coughs. "Ahem. Don't worry about me."

Rafad laughs at that - harsh and disbelieving. “Thou art the pinnacle of restraint, Ryan? Saints’ bones, were that the truth, the rest of us would be gluttonous savages! Restraint! From thee! I’ve never heard such nonsense.” He’s just giving Courick a hard time, but. Well. He does have a point. How many times has Courick’s lack of reservation gotten him into trouble? How many vows has Rafad seen him break? Courick’s word was as good as sand for the foundation of a castle. “And I’ll worry about whatever I please. Such is mine right to a free will.”

"Fine then. I suppose it is. Uh." He glances at Rafad. "Nice. To have someone watching your back. But when I watch your back and you watch mine... Does this make a circle?" The man goes silent, narrowing his eyes as he's trying to figure out something.

Rafad raises his brow. “I … well, generally, when a pair is covering each other's flank, they fight back-to-back. So there is naught behind them to watch.” He wrinkles his nose, puzzling out the logistics.

"Fighting back to back but staring at each other's asses is a rather... inefficient way to fight, don't you think? Heh." He chuckles a little, looking at Rafad with a spry smirk. "No mater the specifics of it...I have your back, you have mine. When you walk into the fire, I'll be at your side."

Rafad crosses his arms, voice raising in volume. “Who said anything about staring!? There’s no staring! Unless there’s something thou art failing to tell me, and the demons shall be spawning from thine nether-regions.” Rafad’s smile returns brighter than ever. “Despite how oft’ we argue, Ryan, that was an agreement that never changed. Nor shall it ever. I shall do mine part to be more … understanding, so long as thou doest thine part to use more of that ‘restraint’ of yours. Deal?” He holds out his hand - suggesting they should shake on it.

With a flick of his hand, holy fire ignites Courick's hand and the sickening smell of burning flesh fills the air. He does not shake Rafad's hand but holds it out. Waiting. An exercise of trust, perhaps. Flashing yellowed teeth, Courick grins wildly at the other man.

Rafad’s eyes flash strangely … his jaw setting with an almost cruel, salacious grin; both challenging and vibrant. “Into the fire? But of course. Thou art so insistent.” He doesn’t hesitate. He reaches forward to seal the pact.

Courick shakes his hand. His handshake is incredibly firm. The flame is white hot and hurts like hell, but that's expected of the man's holy magic. After a moment of hesitation, Courick leans his torso in and pats Rafad on the back with his free hand. A bro hug. How quaint.

Rafad, for his part, manages to stay upright and relatively silent through the whole thing, though the gritting of his teeth is quite resounding in the close-quarters. His returning grasp is just as strong; sheer stubborn defiance of the pain that burned so easily through his linen bandages and into his flesh. His shudder would have gone unnoticed if Courick hadn’t went in for the Bromance Pat. Maybe it was just a natural response to how badly that Holy shit hurt. Maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t surprising. “I cannot abide thine theatrics, Ryan.” Rafad rasps good-naturedly; though with an edge of … satisfaction on his voice, if it could be called that. “Return to thine books. I shall be at mine post.”

Courick lets go of him and extinguishes his hand. He bends down, picking up the book he set down, wordlessly turning it over and showing the cover to Rafad. It's the shitty elven knock off smut, the one Lanfear gave him a while ago. A wild grin splits across his face. "I'll be glad to return to them, ser."

Rafad immediately snatches for it, aghast. “I TOLD HER NOT TO GIVE THEE SUCH SMUT-” His consequent hollering can be heard from all the way across town. Ah, yes. Bfs (best friends) once again.

"You told me to keep to my books, and I will do such!" He steps backwards, holding the book above his head. " Don't take it away either! If this isn't in good condition by the time I give it back to her, it's highly likely she will, uh, actually kill me... This and a portrait are the only things I managed to save during the invasion. It has sentimental value."

“Sentimental value mine entire ass!” He barks, though his scuffling dies down somewhat. He still occasionally swipes for it but he’s far, far too slow. “-such things are not for thine eyes! Most of it is utter fiction anyway! At least … I should assume so ... let me read it as well, oaf - it is mine right!”

Courick holds it defensively to his chest and opens up to a random page. He scans some of it, and points to a passage. "This part...describes...Fadal's, um, unmentionables, as a holy rod. It's shoddy smut, if you ask me. " He shoves the book into Rafad's chest. " Take a look at that shite yourself, man."

Rafad would’ve blushed something awful if he had the capability for it. He, too, grasps the awful thing close to his chest - refusing to actually look at it. “Light raze it, man, how much of this nonsense did’st thou read!?” He asks in exasperation. “Wait … just … don’t answer that. I shall prune this mineself and … I’m going to have a long talk with that woman for this …”

"I read enough to get the basic gist. " He looks Rafad up and down, a big dumb grin gracing his face. " How'd this book come to be, Rafad? Didst thou bed an authoress? You must've gotten to know her pretty well, according to chapter 17."

Rafad takes a moment to drag his hand down his face, hissing, “Look, Ryan, it was a long time ago, and I … I was a very different man, and …” That Amused Inspection Courick’s giving him has him all flustered, aww. What a huge baby.“-I didn’t even know such drivel existed, though it’s not … surprising. Knowing elves. There’s … dozens of women who could have penned this idiocy. Tens of dozens.” A squint. “... hundreds, really.”

"Hundreds? HUNDREDS? How many light-damned elves did you bed? Holy Hell, Rafad. I knew you liked elven ladies, but not... Wow. Okay. " He lets out a low whistle, obviously impressed in some way but Rafad's record number of bedded elves.

Rafad’s grimace is only a little bit ashamed of itself. He runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. “I can only estimate, Ryan. But I was there for over a decade, and … uh … I rarely took to mine bed alone. Quel’Thalas was quite cold at night, could’st thou blame me?”

"I do suppose Quel'thalas is a much colder climate, being one of the northernmost parts of the Eastern kingdoms... Lordaeron would get cold too. Sometimes one would have to share a bed with the other priests and clerics to keep warm..." Courick furls his brow, thinking. " Not like that!"

“I should hope not! I've heard enough of thine failures with thine vow of chastity.” A pointed stare, followed by a thoughtful pause. “I couldn't imagine trying to live that way. I’d probably die, Ryan. This affliction is all that keeps me from continuing mine … endeavours. ‘Twas a veritable sickness! Sometimes I think they did me a service to curse me so.”

"Do not sexualize two priests spooning each other in bed to keep warm, thou foul fuck. Light help you in all your afflictions. I wonder now, what would've happened if you had became a priest. The chaste thing isn't that bad. One learns to live with it. There is so much more one can focus on if they aren't worried about getting thine dick wet. Excuse my crudeness." Courick crosses his arms, making a white person grimace.

Rafad makes a disgusted, offended noise. “Don't call me a foul fuck, double-foul old fuck! For thine information - bedding one another was an important form of Elven politics. I was securing alliances! Twas no different than holding an in-depth conversation! They made very little fuss about it … so long as the rules were followed.” A nervous laugh. So much for that, eh Rafad?“The priesthood would have never called to me back then. Verily, methinks I am closer to it now than I ever shall be. Perhaps I have thee to thank for it.”

"Thou art a triple foul-fuck for explaining me the, eugh, delicate intricacies of quel'dorei bedding politics. I'll have no more of this mess. " Courick tries to look serious for a few moments, before breaking down in infectious laughter.

“No time for this mess, but plenty of time for this mess!?” Rafad proceeds to thwap Courick upside the head with the smutty novel, grinning like a fool. “Were I a priest, Ryan, I'd pray for thine deliverance from thine own willful idiocy!”

"Were I a priest, I'd pray for... Oh, wait! I am one!" He clasps his hands together, bowing his head. " Are you there, light? It's me, Ryan. My friend Rafad is a foul-fuck of the highest degree. Please smite him off the face of this accursed planet. Signed dutifully yours, Father Courick."

Rafad cackles and drags Courick into a full-on goddamned headlock. I'm glad these two are literally 14 year olds. "DEAR LIGHT-" he exclaims loudly, "-KNOWING THAT I, ADAL ASSAD, ART THINE MOST FAVOURED CHAMPION; I BESEECH THEE TO PURGE THIS QUADRUPLE FOUL-FUCK FROM MINE SIGHT, FOR HIS VERY FACE OFFENDS ME-"

Courick squirms in the headlock, cackling madly. His glasses fall off, onto the dock. "Light, I call upon thee in this time of need, smite this quintuple foul-fuck, for his massive, pustule arms doth choke the very air out of my lungs! "

“-LYING-” Rafad continues to bellow, now smacking Courick repeatedly on the top of his head with the novella as he maintains his chokehold, “-IS A MOST GRIEVOUS SIN, AS THOU ART AWARE, LIGHT; THEREFORE I WOULD ASK THEE TO BIND THIS ETERNAL FOUL-FUCK’S TONGUE WITH SILENCE SO HE MAY NO LONGER PROFANE HIS STATION. AMEN.” He releases Courick all at once, guffawing. “I hope thou art suitably admonished, old man!”

He steps back, cackling like a madman, taking a moment to fix his severely jostled hair, running fingers through it. "How dare you assault a priest of the holy light?! It shall have thine head! Light, doest thou hear me? This...madman!" An accusatory finger is pointed into Rafad's chest. "Has the gall to lay a hand upon my pure and and sanctified holy vessel." His voice drops down into a stage whisper. " I'm the holy vessel."

Rafad looks down at the accosting finger and back up at Courick’s face, patting the strap of his arbalest ominously. “Keep up thine prattle and I shall ensure thou art the holiest vessel in all of Azeroth.” A promising smirk proceeds him swooping down to retrieve Courick’s glasses; placing them precariously atop the cleric’s head. “Thine spectacles, father; so thou might gaze upon the enormity of thine bullshit.”

Courick takes his glasses off and puts them on Rafad instead, adjusting them a little for him. "Here, this may help, for now you can see your own bullshit as clear as day. " The priest chuckles at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Rafad stands up straight - pushing the glasses further up his nose with a haughty sniff, eyelashes fluttering. He sticks a hip out and holds out the novella with a limp wrist, his posture both foppish and painfully theatric. “Yes, well-” he wheezes, mangling an attempt at Courick’s low-Common accent, “-if thou were’t as wondrous and perfect as I, thou would'st see that purity is in the eye of the beholder - and I hath spent enough time admiring mineself in every available reflective surface to know that I am the purest of them all-”

Courick catches immediately to what's going on. He stands on his tip-toes, puffing his chest out, putting his hands on his hips to try to look as big as possible. Clearing his throat for a moment for dramatic effect, he begins droning, imitating Rafad's thick accent. " I am the purest of all, as I've bedded over ten thousand elves. The light doesn't give a shiteth, for I am an exemplar of the faith, a pure and shining beacon of piety, justice and religion. Also I'm a leper."

Rafad crams his hands flat against his cheeks in mock-surprise, dropping the novel altogether, “Ten thousand elves! Deary me! Were I not so busy making love to mine own ego, I would fail to bed even one!” Rafad pauses in his mimicry for a moment, leaning forward to whisper, “Thou art not flexing enough, Ryan, and it is ruining mine immersion.”

"Oh, how could I forget." He rolls up the sleeves of his robes and flexes while also still precariously balanced on the tips of his toes. " I love mine own muscles and fantastic physique!" He barks, mocking Rafad's accent once more. " I also love elven women, beer, football, wrestling, being illiterate and staring at boobs." Courick slaps at Rafad's arm."Why don't you work out, priest? I know you envy my musculature. Do you not like to wrestle and stab each other like Men? Let's get in a fistfight and then talk about women's asses to prove our masculinity to each other.”

Rafad’s tone keeps its breathy lilt, but his next words are simpering and over exaggerated, “Oh, Rafad, I could never - I hath skipped leg day for mine entire life and I am far too busy staring dramatically at the ocean; reading filthy smut about mine companions.” He whips his head towards the sea, placing a hand over his heart. “Verily, I would prefer to reminisce about mine former conquests as a Snake Charmer while blathering on about psychaglagy and crop-farming. Mine schedule is far too occupied. I must tickle mineself with shadow-tentacles at noon and then proceed to flatter mineself and starch mine robes for the rest of the evening.” He can't keep it up. He bursts into uproarious laughter, slapping Courick heartily on the shoulder. “Light! Should we switch places, Ryan, none would be the wiser!”

Courick joins in the laughter, wheezing as his shoulders shake up and down. "As I've said many times before, why didn't you become a priest? You're almost as good as it as I am. Minus the magic, methinks you've all the credentials. " He quits laughing and stands bolt upright and begins speaking in Rafad's voice. He does a pretty good job imitating the nasally, atonal drone of the other man. " Nay! I was too busy fucking elves and shooting people with mine... argbalestic...Abalone...arcanist...arrow-shooter to consider such a career. I would miss the warm embrace of my traveling kodos too much."

Rafad nods solemnly, his grin infectious, “Answered thine own question, father. I do not have the patience for it, either. Mine faith is too private a thing to share with some motley congregation. They would ask far too many questions.”

Courick grunts, lowering himself back down from his tiptoes. "Hmmf. Too bad I was never a crusader such as thee, shooting my argeblarest at the scourge...you'd be a good priest, Rafad. They way you counseled Lady Brandt and Loviata. Thou art a natural, methinks. If not a priest, a therapist or counselor." Courick reaches out and awkwardly pats his companion's arm.

Rafad wrinkles his nose at the thought, shrugging. His eyes follow Courick’s hand out of habit, and his natural flinch-upon-touch response is less dramatic than usual. “It is no talent. I was a commander on the front-lines; knowing how to calm thine soldiers was necessary. It was a part of mine training that I took quite seriously, considering our ... tasks …” He falls silent then, and it's clear he's avoiding the subject. Northrend was never easy to talk about. “Anyway, I’d go mad if I had to act in such a fashion all the time. Healers and priests are made of sterner stuff than I.” An affectionate smile. “Must be all that restraint of thine.” He's never going to let that one go, is he?

Courick snorts at him, sneering a little. "Oi! shut the hell up about restraint. Light above, I'm trying, okay? At least I am making attempts, at least I still have the capacity to learn and grow. You are watching my back, but will you get off it? Light help me."

Rafad’s >:3c is disturbingly spot-on. “Where's the fun in that, Ryan?” He teases before waving a hand. “Alright, fine. I'll not harass thee but once or twice a month on the matter from now on. I have seen the improvements within thee, and I am grateful for them.” He means it - and that's conveyed in the gentleness of his voice. Not to be caught being too sappy, the leper clears his throat and bends down to retrieve the discarded biographical smut extravaganza. “I think I hath wasted enough of thine time this morning; verily, the sun doth rise. I have some reading to do, if thou doest not mind.” He gives the book a little shake, brows raising loftily

"Hmmph. Enjoy chapter 6. Her descriptive language is impeccable..." Courick giggles. "You have fun, now. Don't get too into it."

“Don't get too into it? Pah. I already have been.” He tucks the book into his belt with a roguish wink - wiggling his fingers in that silly little wave he's seen Courick do numerous times. “I'll keep thee posted on its authenticity. Light carry thee, triple-bastard.”

"I suppose you've lived the events of that book...Light help you. I sure can't. " Courick snorts and bows his head in respectfully at Rafad.

Rafad continues to wave as he turns his back to walk away, laughing. “If the 8-pack on the cover is to be believed, some artistic freedom hath definitely been taken. Good day, Ryan.”

Courick looks over Rafad once more and rolls his eyes, throwing up his hands as he turns around to watch the sea again.

[sylvanasses-blog]

bishop takes the knight For @khaadim And our mutual love of ingmar Bergman's 1957 surreal drama-fantasy film, the seventh seal

[thunderbluff]

anyway this snippet from tonight gives me life

Rafad: He thinks his wit does him well, my lady, when it makes him naught but an insufferable old fool.

Father Ryan Courick hops on top of the log and tears off a long strip of bark dramatically.

Taera Brandt: If he think his wit so sharp he will cut himself on it.

Father Ryan Courick snaps it in half, ignoring the conversation somewhat.

Rafad: Verily; he has and shall again!

Taera Brandt nods Solemnly. “Tis a shame I must be here to sop up his bleeding hand. And yours, I might add. In a more literal sense.” She gestures to his ankle.