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It isn't the first time that she'd happened across bandits on her journey before—indeed, once upon a time, she stood with their ilk and done much the same, albeit with much more success—but to attempt such folly in the bright glow of the afternoon sun… well, Myra will make sure this is their last heist.
At her side, Urianger shows no sign of alarm, but when he is largely obscured by his hood, and hidden still behind an almost chilling passive, he would not give anything away even if he'd wished it so.
"Well, here are the bandits you were so worried about." Myra is not uninterested, but she is certainly indifferent and unimpressed; their numbers are few, and their organisation is lacking. Why Urianger had her accompany him on this errand when he is more than capable of dealing with this ragtag group is beyond her, but there will be time for questions for later. For the moment, she readies herself, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulder as she steps forward to unleash her own unique blend of diplomacy; the kind spoken with a flurry of fists and blood, for that is the only kind that bandits understand. And as luck would have it, it is a language that Myra is fluent in.
The fight is over before it really begins. She didn't expect them to put up much of a fight, least of all when she is in possession of the sort of strength she has now; she's barely worked up a sweat by the time those still capable of moving think to flee, and figuring that beating is a thorough enough lesson, one that will be felt right down to their bones for days to come, she lets them go.
"Amatuers," she mumbles into the wind, "hardly worth the effort. You're sure you couldn't handle them on your own?"
Behind his goggles, Urianger's eyes slide closed, committing the image of her—her grace, brutal as it may be—to his memory. It's true that he could have fended them off on his own, but her protection was not why he sought her company today. Still, that isn't anything she needs to know. "Better to err on the side of caution, my lady. These roads are oft fraught with dangers these past moons."
She hums at that, either incapable of finding fault in his reasoning, or simply not wanting to. "Well, they're dealt with. And unless there's anything else you need out here, we should head back to the Rising Stones." Though a suggestion that would normally require input from the other party, Myra has already walked by him, back in the direction of Mor Dhona, but not before she gives him a light pat on his shoulder as she goes by.
Urianger allows himself a smile, pivoting on his heel to offer a courteous bow towards her back before he follows her lead.
He's tinkering with the device before him, laid out upon one of the tables in the common room at the Rising Stones. After he'd returned with Myra, no worse for wear after such a long day, she retired for the evening, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his findings. At least until he hears a chair scrape across the stone as Thancred seats himself nearby. He reclines casually, the chair tipping back a little too far for Urianger's liking, but he says nothing; whatever it is Thancred has to say—and he most certainly intends to voice something, if that smug look on his face is any indication—then the chair tipping backwards is the least that karma could do for him.
The silence reaches an obnoxious fever pitch, swelling with anticipation that Thancred deliberately lets build and build, until finally:
"Fluent as you are in many spoken tongues, you're not the most graceful when it comes to this sort of thing, are you?"
Urianger is unperturbed, focusing on the click and whirr of the device that's now in his hands. Hmm, it doesn't seem to hold aether as well as he'd like; perhaps a second trip (with her) will be in order once he's fashioned a more suitable vessel. Though Urianger faces the problem he holds in his hands, his eyes, hidden behind the tint of his goggles, are on his—at present—other thorn in his side.
"Whatever dost thou mean?"
Thancred lets out a breathy laugh, just a short, but no less amused huff as his chair tips back just a little further. He sways back and forth in his seat a little, maintaining perfect balance between the safety at his front, and the danger behind; truly much of his life has been lived in this way. "Oh come now, surely even you could have done better than that poor excuse for a date. Rather than stumbling blindly in the dark, was a simple lunch not an acceptable means of spending time with her? Did you even consider asking me for ideas?"
It was foolish of Urianger to think he could deceive Thancred, at least in matters such as these. "Had I done so, thou wouldst simply have told me to—and I quote thee—'bed her'." The thought, the very words themselves, bring a tinge of colour into his cheeks, warming his face right to the tips of his ears; how crass of him to have uttered them, least of all in regards to their champion.
"Well," Thancred begins, still swinging back and forth, still swaying, his eyes drifting upwards towards the ceiling, "Myra is a very direct woman, is she not? Perhaps the most unambiguous path is the correct one in this case. I don't particularly feel she is the type to be moved by grand gestures of romance—shall I give you some suggestions as to technique then?"
There's little to no indication on Urianger's part, that it was his foot that casually slid forward to tilt Thancred's chair back the rest of the way. He fumbles, fists opening and closing, grabbing at the very air itself for purchase before he goes down with it, sending a crisp crack through the rest of the common room when it hits the floor.
He does, however, take Thancred's intent to heart. Clumsy though he may be in this regard—and this regard alone—Urianger is ever studious. For the moment however, short stolen moments with her will suffice.