“…had Max take what I found to Ehren to make copies,” a resonant baritone voice is saying as the door opens. Not one but two Alerans in full Legion armor step through the door. One is easily recognizable as the young man who’s been calling himself Captain Rufus Scipio. The other looks perhaps in his early forties and just as much a <i>legionare</i> as the Captain—other than Max, no other <i>legionare</i> has been in the Bar before. Kind of.

“Will it be enough?”

“Sir Cyril should have it within half an hour now,” Tavi reassures his old friend. “And all the Tribunes Stratigica. He won’t be able to bury this. With luck, I might yet salvage something despite the good Senator’s,” in heavily sarcastic tones, “brilliant strategies.

If anyone ever met a seemingly-older, uncertain man with a noticeable brand on his face, they might recognize it on this far more confident soldier following a step behind Tavi.

He nods, studying Tavi’s face closely. “How did your conversation with Isana go?” Araris asks quietly.

Something about the tone makes Tavi turn to return the intense scrutiny. “Fine,” is his mildly puzzled reply. “Frederic’s getting married—not Beritte—and hopefully she’ll say more at dinner—”

“Wait.” Araris nods at the Bar, and Tavi’s eyes light up slightly as he takes in the change in scenery.

He shoots Araris a quick, boyish grin. “Good. I could use a meal before I have to fence with Arnos.” Pause. “Metaphorically, of course. Navaris does his dirty work, after all. Coming?” After all, technically it’s his policy that any Alerans under his command are officially off-duty while in Milliways. If Araris wants to take a little time.

Of course, he doesn’t. Keeping Tavi’s skin together is a round-the-clock occupation, and shortly the two men are seated at Tavi’s favorite table, one with a clear view of almost all the Bar. As they eat Tavi regales Araris with the contents of the letter he got from Frederic, his mood steadily improving.