Jodiah was writing, as he finds himself doing often of late. Missives sent about, trying to dig up any old allies of his that might have gone to ground in Rhy'Din. Orders being made for the silver forge, and business contracts with various businesses for silver shipments, and silver products. The short quill had been kept moist with frequent dips into the inkwell, and Ayreg himself wrote with a flowing, smooth script.

Ayreg was an educated man.

Education brings about a great many things. Chiefest of all, of course, is the knowing of what a man can do, and what a man can't do. A loud thump echoing across the stone floors announced the arrival of that drakkhen, Moon. He sniffed, thumbing some tabac into the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe before lighting it. Educated men know there are many ways to resolve problems and disputes, and not all of them end with the edge of a blade. Perhaps, one might consider, it is always the most enjoyable way of course, but certainly not the only way. Even peace is acceptable, so long as the act of peace prooves one's strength over an adversary.

In this case, though, he would simply lodge a complaint. Icer, the little dragonette and ward of Moon had bitten him the night before. Oh, it didn't hurt -- not even at the time -- but the diminuative creature was beginning to try his patience. Rather than crush the little things back with a solidly-placed boot to the tiny thing's spine, he merely reported the incident and asked that Moon look into curbing the situation. Perhaps, in the future, he would not be so lenient to the little lizard.

Maria Copperfield, who he already knew as Longden's woman down to her toenails, came in first. She began to quietly converse with Moon, who he also knew to be in the service of his rival. Having no great desire to strike at Longden yet, he contented himself with the smoking of his pipe.

It was then that his Dreadlord, Lucretia, entered the Inn.

She bowed her head to him, scraping along the floor in supplication that he truly wished he could smite from her. The most amusing thing of all, though, was the fact that she was dragging a large flail about with her, and a buckler to suit it. Jodiah was no stranger to warfare, but the artilleryman doesn't step away from his trebuchet to nock arrow to bow, after all. Lucretia was a lich. Her power lay in the arcane now. Just what was she planning on doing lugging the large ball and chain about, hm?

And, for the record, steel spikes dragging across stone floors do not make the most pleasant of sound.

Ayreg began upbraiding her for her lack of foresight, when she erupted from her seat and sniped a verbal blow off toward Maria. He leaned back in his chair, content to smoke his pipe as his protege's conflict escalated. Oh, she tried to stand down at first, but Ayreg was not about to allow that to happen. Educated men do not start fights they cannot finish, and since Lucretia's actions reflected upon him, he would not allow her to do so, either.

Maria drew steel, and the game was afoot. Jodiah shook his head, frowning slightly. From that distance, and against a foe as quick as this woman was, a flail was more likely to be a danger or hindrance to the Dreadlord, rather than an asset. Ayreg knew the ways of war well, and flails were very formidable against men in mail who could not move quickly.

This woman, Maria Copperfield, could indeed move quickly. Not as fast as he's seen, but a nimble little minx nontheless. A hand was raised toward Moon as she seemed to ready herself to enter the fray, and a simple shake of his head kept her at bay.

Realistically, the fight should have already been over. The arcane usually trumps the physical -- a lesson Jodiah knows all too well, though he bought it with great pain -- but the Dreadlord was more interested in swinging the flail around like a lunatic. A parry here, a counterstrike there, it was a sort of jerky, less-than-fluid dance being performed by Lucretia.

In the end, the Dreadlord yielded. Ayreg would have to have a stern talk with her concerning weakness in the face of an opponent. Now, her actions had cost himself face, and standing, in the eyes of these creatures bound to his rival.

Ayreg sent Lucretia on her way. He was disappointed in her, and would have to surely upbraid her again over this. For now, he drew his own steel, and turned to Maria. She seemed wary, but not aggressive. She had no reason to be, after all.

He saluted her, in the fashion of duelists of old. He relayed a promise to cross steel with her, himself, soon. He, after all, appreciated an excellent duel, and her forms with the sword were most impressive.

She bowed, assuring him of the fact that she looked forward to, and dreaded, that day arriving. He nodded, faintly, resheathing his blade and turning sharply on his heel.

As he left the inn that day to go about his business, Ayreg looked once more upon his Dreadlord. He frowned, and had the countenance of a father looking upon his daughter with disappointment. He almost considered dressing her down in public, for all to see -- shame was a keen knife when cutting through pride, after all -- but he restrained himself and simply left.

For an educated man, it was the best choice of actions remaining.