"What did you say?" Seymuhr asked again.
The crowd had gone silent. Some fidgeted, while others pulled in closer to get a better look at the fight they surely expected to happen. Times were difficult throughout Korin and anyone who went looking for trouble usually found it in relatively short order. I glanced from Seymuhr, whose admittedly short but thoroughly stocky and muscular frame spoke to his fighting prowess, to the hapless serf who had called out the insult. He was thinner, much thinner, and taller, and dressed in patched clothing. One of Seymuhr's maces would shatter his frame. The next blow would turn it into pulpy mist.
"I meant no harm, my lord," he stammered. "I only responded in the Otlyndian way. I thought you might appreciate the jest."
"Ah." I understood then, and hurried to place myself between Seymuhr and the poor man. Otlyndians were, compared to most human denizens of Korin, small of stature. I had heard of a recent trend that was rippling through their society. "That explains it. You see, Seymuhr, the current Otlyndian fashion is to take part of someone's speech and hurl it back at them as a sort of good-natured insult. I think it originated in their children but adults have adopted it because it's easier than thinking on their own."
"It sounds like a dangerous habit," Seymuhr growled. He still had his right hand on the mace that hung from that hip. Evidently he didn't think he'd need the other.
"You're a dangerous habit!" the serf replied, although with less confidence than before.
I pointed to the man with both hands, hoping to prove my point. Seymuhr paused for a moment, then a smile grew slowly. He nodded. The people nearby who had been anxious chuckled nervously. Others voiced their dismay.
Just then I sense another presence. The shadow of a tall man fell over the small gathering and I looked to see one of the guardsmen, arms crossed and scowling. "What is the matter here?" He growled.
"You're the matter here!" Seymuhr responded, his normally gravely voice bright and cheerful. He slapped his thigh and turned back to the serf. "You know, that has its merits."
"You have your merits!" Was the response. Both men laughed. Seymuhr clapped him on the back and he fell, face first, into the dirt. He was clearly winded.
"Seymuhr," I whispered, "You might want to tone your good humor down a bit. You'll kill someone!"
"Is this....man...assaulting you?" The guard asked the flattened serf, investing the word 'man' with contempt.
"No," came the winded reply. He pushed himself to his knees and I helped him to his feet. He gave Seymuhr a wary look and rubbed his shoulder, which looked out of place. "We were sharing pleasantries."
"Well see to it that you do it on your feet," he snapped. He jabbed the poor fellow with a finger and then looked surprised when he didn't fall down again. It was his turn to give Seymuhr and appraising glance, from worn boots to bald head and back down again. "And you! Move along," he added, after a pause.
He stalked back to the shadow of the gate, which was now just a few feet away. I made sure the serf was not injured, then turned back to Seymuhr, whose brow was furrowed as he watch the guardsman.
"Are you mad? Veral Ski may be one of the more enlightened cities in Korin, and therefore tolerant of diverse people and viewpoints, but don't think that you can insult a member of the city guard without consequences!"
Seymuhr sniffed and cracked his neck, dismissing the notion of consequences altogether.
I snorted. "Well, at least wait until we're in the city before you start a fight. Or until I'm in the city, leastways. You might be content to spend your day brawling and shattering skulls, but I have important business here--and I'd rather go about it without being covered in someone else's innards."
We took another step forward. It was our turn.
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