The Discussion Syvian stared into the stirring mass within his mug, his brow furrowing and jaw tightening. He would think no more on this, he conjectured, and stood, obnoxiously shoving aside his barstool. As he arose he wisely avoided the glances of the young men sitting near him. Syvian's eyes lingered on the bartender for a moment, who was busy chatting up a few patrons. He sighed, and walked out without paying. Back at the flophouse, he grabbed his iron chest by its handle and sighed the same sigh. Cheers. Called a young man sitting in the corner atop a dirty Cumbrian army cot, name of Darius. I'll be le'in th' Maugers know y' been slashed. Ough'a cover ya. Good luck wherever the 'ell yer goin'. Thanks, mate. Syvian replied, putting a jocular emphasis on the second word. I'll be sure to send word once I've 'it Stillwater. Tell y' mum I've disappeared, nary a word about me fate. ...Goodbye, Darius. Syvian walked briskly out of the side entrance of the cheaply lent property as his body shook with anxiety. He sighed again, this time interspersed with that same anxious shiver that now commanded his body. He clutched the dagger tied to his waist and pulled the discarded brass pocket watch from his overcoat, gazing into it thoughtlessly as he daydreamt. No time to waste, he thought, and immediately shook his head, sensing the illusion within his own thinking. It would be a long trek north, and Syvian would have to go around the commercial district and stock up. Every pence he had was in that chest of his, and it'd soon be all but spent in exchange for supplies. He dodged the glances of other steamrail patrons as his stop approached.