[Exalted] A Kingdom of Cinders

You take a thin wooden case off the back of your horse and unclasp the locks keeping it sealed tight. Inside is your spear, its blade folded facing down the dark lacquered haft like a branch bent in half. Your father had it commissioned for your eighteenth birthday (just one year ago) from an artisan in Nahael. The city is famous for its polearms, considered some of the best made in all of Creation, and secret techniques preserved from the Shogunate are passed down by master to journeyman. Pressing two switches at the hinge where the haft meets the spearhead, you set your weapon to its full length. The golden inlay on the three-foot steel blade shines brilliantly in the light of Luis' torch and your own makeshift lamp (now slowly dissipating into the air where you left it). You loop a long strip of leather around it to carry it on your back and turn to face Luis, who seems a little awestruck by your display of wealth.

Luis snaps back to attention when you meet his gaze, and says, "I-I'll take good care of your horse. Blessings of the saints and dragons upon you, my lord." He bows, takes Tireless' reins, and then heads off into the night, presumably to take your horse to be quartered with the village's goats. You haven't seen the latter, of course, but you certainly can smell traces of their passage here and there on the road to the inn. You thank your lucky stars (however few of those your family may have) that you've got boots on. In a minute, you arrive at the entrance to your destination; the door to the building is painted a faded yellow, and the windows flanking the door are too clouded to see much but the vaguest suggestion of furniture, the flicker of candle light, and the silhouette of someone moving around inside. You take a second more to ready yourself and then step inside, taking care not to get your spear stuck on the doorway.

The place is, unsurprisingly, deserted; apart from an older woman in a blue dress, currently flitting from table to table trying to clean up a variety of hastily-abandoned dishes in the common room, and a snoring mass of greasy black hair slumped over a table on the northeastern corner of that room, you are alone. A shrine to the Saint of Travelers, one of the worthy dead worshiped by your nation, flanks you to your left; a small wooden image of a robed woman bearing a staff is flanked by burnt incense and a clay bowl filled with tiny clippings of silver dinars offered to her. The innkeep appears not to have heard you come in, and before you can say anything, she turns, spots you, and utters a awkwardly stifled scream before dropping one of the mugs she was carrying to the ground. It hits the ground and shatters into pieces, and the poor woman's eyes start to tear up as the man wakes up from all the commotion.

As he slowly rises to attention, you still can hardly see any bit of his face; long tangled curls of hair are stuck to it with sweat or gods knows what else, and an equally nasty looking beard covers the other half of his visage. His arms, however, are on full display; his sleeveless grey tunic reveals the thickest ones you've ever seen in your life, even larger than that of your castle's blacksmith, and up and down their length are tattoos, each appearing to have been inked by a different hand. His bloodshot eyes first glance at the host, and then you, as though he were a starving wolf peering through a thicket at two hares. He speaks in a slurred, scratchy voice, "Fucking typical, can't get a moment of rest... Another beer. Now." He shoves his own mug forward, and stares down the woman in the room with you.

The innkeep silently moves to serve him before you speak up. "I am the Lord Synetos Ramiros, and I co-"

"I don't care what house of inbred scum you come from, you girly runt." He doesn't raise his voice at all as he insults you, but his head turns towards you, eerie eyes looking you up and down. The proprietor clasps her hand to her mouth, and looks back at you, shock in her eyes.

You glare at him as you say, "I am of the Dragon's Blood, same as-"

"Dragon's blood ain't worth piss either. World would be a lot better off without it."

You've never been treated like this in your whole life. Even your grandfather, as harsh as he can be, is not this uncouth. You reach deep in yourself for Essence, committing to a more forceful approach.

What approach do we take? This shall grant us skills for future use.

[ ] Command him to behave. You have been trained to lead through sheer force of personality by your grandfather, and you hope this display will humble him.
[ ] Take a diplomatic route. Your father, Lord Dimas, is an empathetic and patient man, and his skills have passed down to you.
[ ] Study him. Your studies included those of the nations and city-states beyond Amaya, and those tattoos might reveal something you can use.
[ ] Attack. You'll not let these insults on your house and your person slide, and he seems drunk enough that you can take him.

Rather than castigating this man with the full force of Fire (or running him through with your spear), you breathe in, filling your lungs with more Air. You feel a calming wave of coolness spread from your chest to your head, and as you exhale, a small cloud of steam flows forth from your lips. Head cleared, you hone in on his tattoos, cross-referencing them with your cultural and historical studies of the greater Southern Threshold. For starters, it's a tradition among the outcastes of the region who ply their trade as mercenaries to get a tattoo for each new employer or campaign, as a form of advertising one's skills to future buyers; the fact that his arms are absolutely coated in them (and no doubt, his thick torso has room for far more) says he's done quite a lot of touring. The oldest tattoo you spot, its ink faded to a faint grey on his olive-brown arms, is a peacock, its tails fanned out and its claws clasping a mace and a crossbow. You recall a war that Urim, the Peacock City, waged against raiders from the desert about fifty years back, in 682; the timeline matches up with the age of the tattoo.

You then begin to take in the rest of the tattoos, a map of a life of violence forming within your head. He went to the east, to the Empire of Prasad, judging from the design of the broken-tusked elephant on his left bicep. Then, back west to Chiaroscuro (a map of the city's harbor on his right fist), followed by the recently conquered Realm satrapy of Gerun, symbolized by High Realm calligraphy in the shape of a hawk, the city's former coat of arms; you think it says, "To victory and jade well earned". Little tattoos fill the spaces here and there, one-off jobs you lack the context to understand. But one you spot is so very familiar to you: a burning rose, a bitter reminder of the Espina Rebellion. A secessionist movement in the north broke off from the Kingdom of Amaya after a devastating famine; you were born during the final year of the conflict in 713. Your grandfather lost his arm aiding the king in crushing the rebels, whose banner was a red rose on a yellow field.

So, you've got someone who has been campaigning for at least fifty years; in the Realm, an outcaste with that level of military service would be retiring with great honor and marrying into a patrician family. Even in the Threshold, you figure he'd have saved up a nest egg and would begin building up his own legacy, but instead he's here getting blackout drunk. His tattoos end abruptly around two years ago; the last conflict inscribed upon him is symbolized by a scepter with a diamond's head: the symbol of Rankar VII, Despot of Gem. Young Rankar VII's campaigns to conquer the region around him have described as downright genocidal at times, from what traders coming up from down South have said.

Your thoughts take only the blink of an eye in real time; by the time you are finished examining him, he's just begun with a new insult for you. He spits on the ground and says, "What, lose your courage, you beardless worm? That's nobles for you: all talk. You cowards sit back and let others do their dirty work-" He belches, as though he were almost about to throw up, and then resumes, "-but there's nobody here on your side, boy." You've decided that fighting him would be a measure of last resort now; even if he's about to puke, he'd still probably mop the floor with you. Still, there are other tactics to try.

[ ] Empathize with him. He's had a hard life like your grandfather. Get him a beer (a very watered down one) and sit down with him.
[ ] Inspire him to shape up. This is pitiful! He's a Dragon-blood, he's participated in so many wars, and he's acting like this? Raise him back up.
[ ] Engage in some trickery. He passed out before you got here; drink him under the table and deal with him in the morning, when he's sobered up somewhat.