- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
Despite interacting with these fellows for a few hours at most, Estefania made with a long-suffering sigh as nearly each member of the table—a table which, mind you, was settling into the peace that waiting for a meal inspired—bolted off to parts unknown. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She knew where they went. The horned barbarian plucked Vivi from Anais's hold then lunged out the tavern, her heathen babbling an earful even over the din; action taken by the tiefling, especially one that vaguely resembled manhandling and kidnapping, usually would have gotten a more severe response from the condesa… One would half-expect her to get up, skirts swishing, and give chase after the two. But she doubted Aeor could do anything criminal or cannibalistic within a so-called seer's village, leaving Eastmire was out of the option, and there was an overabundance of water around in case the carbuncle needed to defend herself. With these in mind, the noblewoman suppressed a grimace as more furniture was overturned and the sounds of feuding Liam and Zenzi intensified.
So. There she was, hands folded over her lap, trying to keep a straight face as ice curled up around them, overturned stools and ripped planks of wood scattered about the vicinity.
"Glut yourself on whatever fare you would like. The others will have to deal with the consequences of walking out during mealtime," Estefania replied, a bit irritated, and waved her hand dismissively when the redhead piped up about more food. She had to deal with more immediate concerns, like property damage. Estefania warily eyed the head waitress, who smacked the bar with her towel and wiped her face down with a hand upon catching a glimpse of the destruction. However, the mention of that man—noteworthy in that he was the only one in this pit to have an inkling of sophistication—roused her curiosity once again. "Aren't you more eager to learn how he knows Corrin?"
"Oh, and I think Liam's calling you," the condesa added, voice completely neutral, and jutted a finger towards the retreating duo. "I can stay here and deal with this. Hmph."
"Barely an hour in, an' you folk 'ave wrecked a great deal," Mabel grumbled as she neared the newcomers, now (privately) regarded with an equal amount of exasperation and ill will. The frail-looking girl pushed the pouch of money Jeb had left behind towards her, and the weary waitress snatched it up without a second thought. "Now let's talk compensation, yeah? I ain't a stiff, but I am this close to kicking y'all out." She brought her calloused index finger and thumb together so close one could barely see the gap.
@Fox of Spades
Bran knocked, and the sound seemed to stretch in the darkness. The vines dangling above the knobby, washed timber swung gently along with the night breeze. There was no response for what seemed like an eternity, until…
There was the muffled noise of glass jars falling and rolling across the floor, followed by a string of curses so colorful they could be used in a theatrical play and dramatized as high prose. A staccato rhythm—one, two, three, one-two, three—rapped against the floor along with a shuffling, dragging groan, both inching closer and closer.
"Juuuuust a moment! Just a moment, please!" The airy, aged voice of a woman called out, barely piercing through the thick and chaotic tangle of shrubbery that coated the great hut. The telltale flicker of magic coursed through the air, and an eye-searing violet sigil appeared over the door before seemingly burning away into nothingness. "Ooooh, there we go."
After a couple more beats, the wide door creaked open, revealing a hunched figure that barely reached half of Bran. At first glance, the ancient woman seemed to be wearing a baggy cape; upon closer inspection, it was a combination of several tribal-looking cloths dyed in deep, vibrant colors draped over one another. The elder had her shock-white hair pulled up into a loose bun; several strands had escaped their confinement and left it looking as though a couple of birds tried to make a nest in it. Her skin was covered in wrinkles and pockmarks under intricate, faded tattoos, which curled across her frail limbs and continued on under her the hemline of her clothes—a serpentine path of ink. Her face, when she tilted her head up at her strange nighttime visitor, was kind, even if most other features were overshadowed by a rather bulbous and exaggerated nose. Her eyes remained closed even as she said, "Sorry about that, dear. Used to be we don't use any fancy security in these parts, but nowadays… Well, let's just say we've had the occasional tourist trying to make off with one of my "potions." I hope they like pickled watercress. The only thing magical about them jars is my mother's pickle juice concoction."
Behind her, something scaly moved—and a large reptilian eye opened, its sharp gaze directly trained on the intruder. A massive tail curled up, spanning the floor until the narrowest point—as big as a human hand—flicked past the rectangle of light coming in through the doorway.
As if sensing the creature's response, the old lady snorted. "Now, now. Don't mind Ernest. He's a sweet thing." And then she smiled, waiting patiently for Bran to talk.
@Redshift @Fox of Hearts @Rosé Moon