It was a regular evening at the base of Hadrian's Wall. Well, as normal as an evening can be with six Sarmatian knights, hundreds of Roman soldiers, women, children, and merchants running around. So, all in all, it was a regular, foggy, and non-descript night on the island of Britain.

In the tavern, a few of the aforementioned Sarmatian knights were sitting at a table, drinking and enjoying each other's company, when Galahad trudged over and plunked his grouchy behind on one of the hard, wooden stools.

"What's the point of life anymore?" Galahad asked. His voice was a little hysterical.

"What's the matter with you, now?" Gawain sighed.

"I am so sick of all of these Romans," Galahad said, pointing a finger and making a circular motion toward everyone in the bar. "And their high-and-mighty attitudes!"

"We're sick of your whining. Get over it. You're a man, now, Galahad. You sound worse than Four." Bors said, referring to his fourth oldest son who liked to whine a lot. Lancelot liked to say that Three, the good fighter, was his. If Bors was ever in a joking mood, he would correct the sex crazed knight and say that Four was Lancelot's son.

"I'm four and twenty summers, Bors. I have been in this service since I was nine. That's how old your Gilly is, right? Imagine him leaving you right now." Galahad said.

"Galahad, we all left home when we were young. You forget my tribe was indebted to twenty years, not fifteen." Gawain said. He had been taken from home at nine and had met his friends when he was fourteen and already a seasoned trainer.

"It's not the same!" Galahad insisted, stabbing the table with his dagger he kept at his waist for such dramatic times as these.

"That's enough. You either shut your mouth or I will shut it for you." Tristan said, dangerously pointing a knife at Galahad from where he was leaning against a post, eating an apple.

The knights all knew Tristan would make good on his threat, but Galahad obviously didn't. But, wagering from the smell coming off of him, he was intoxicated. Galahad stood and Dagonet sighed, going to his room and getting his healing supplies. He was so sick of Galahad's bipolar attitude toward life on the island. Everyone was, but none more so than the dark and mysterious, hawk-befriending scout.

"Prove it, Quiet One. I dare you. Come on, hit me!" Galahad exclaimed, causing heads to be turned.

Tristan walked over to Galahad calmly and stared him down. Galahad immediately regretted his challenge when Tristan grabbed him by the hair and practically dragged him to the courtyard, where he threw him to the ground. The young knight sobered up instantly.

"Ready you blade. Not that it will do you much good." Tristan ordered. Galahad scrambled to his feet and put his hand on the hilt of his sword, not entirely sure if he wanted to take on the scout. In a blink of an eye, Tristan roundhouse kicked Galahad across the face and had a sword at his neck.

"Do not hesitate. Do not whine. You whine again and I will sacrifice you to the Woads myself." Tristan said and walked away.

An hour later, after Dagonet made sure Galahad didn't suffer any severe damage, the six Sarmatian knights were sitting together, drinking and laughing and joking around together like brothers, not even mentioning the little spat from earlier, either because they had drank so much that they couldn't remember it, or because they were already passing out on the dirty tavern floor.

It was a normal night at Hadrian's Wall.