Pies and Pints (Open)

[Arlo Creede]

The table, with Qit'ria as the one that started it all, got crowded fast. Soon enough all of them would be elbow to elbow, if not in each other's laps. First the woman that could probably make a dock hand blush with her command of colorful language, who by default declared that at least one or more of them must be pirates, by observing that only most of them weren't. Well he and Vega weren't, Qit'ria wasn't so far as he knew. So by process of elimination, of those who'd arrived by then, it left her, the fellow who looked as good as homeless and a beggar, and the creepy bird creature. Or maybe it was just her particular way of introducing herself. Not that it mattered to Arlo if any of them was or weren't. To each his own. Besides, she had liquor to share.

He barely had time to nod a quick greeting, much less introduce himself before others joined them, and he adjusted his chair closer to Vega's to make room. Then came the fellow with the soulful eyes...according to Vega at least and completely unseen by him. Qit'ria though as always, had her colorful way with language and Arlo smiled when she welcomed him. "It's been a while, yeah," he agreed. The last time must have been when they'd both been snagged and dragged into that strange fog. It appeared she was still carrying round the scars she'd gotten there.

So it seemed to be unanimous, at least where he and Vega was concerned, there was something unsettling about the crimson eyed birdman. Or everything unsettling, such as it was. It might be unfair, assessment at a glance. The fellow might, in complete contrast to his appearance, have a perfectly sunny disposition. He did after all try to smile in a presumably warm sort of way, Arlo observed. He knew Vega was a little uncomfortable and unsure, Arlo could see it just looking into her eyes. He smiled a little, told her he'd have a pie if she ordered one, and as a way of connecting and sending an unspoken message, he draped his arm across the back of her chair, curling a hand around her shoulder in the process.

[Max]

The Rusalka privately smirked as she poured a good amount of rum into the wild woman's ready cup, listening both to the haunting Avriel's assessment and Vega's response to it. Clarifying whether or not she was indeed a pirate might've been the more pro-social choice to make. The very suggestion seemed to pique their interests at the very least. Nonetheless, Max favored the mystery that came with an answer of silence on the matter, even if she'd a history of privateering with the Biqaj.

She'd never been a proper pirate anyways. The last two ship crews she'd accompanied had found themselves embraced by a cold, watery grave. Unlike an eye-raising comment in friendly banter, just how those ships arrived at the bottom of the sea was an interest she had no intentions of piquing in anyone. Not even Merces, who had indeed chosen to make an appearance after all, had been privy to such stories of her past. Thankfully, he'd never thought to ask.

Max snatched up the red-eyed man's cup next and set to pouring him a proper drink, too. She hated the way it was easier to focus on the simplicity of putting rum into a cup rather than dare find his stare. In a moment she was sliding the cup back down toward her feathery acquaintance and settling back in her chosen chair. Vega's offering of food was a welcomed distraction from her nerves that she wasted no time jumping on.
"What he said," she jerked a thumb toward Vega's obviously intimate companion. Arlo, was it she'd overheard on the way to the table? "I'll eat if someone's ordering, thanks." A free meal was a hard one to pass up, especially if most of one's childhood (or rather a lack thereof) was characterized by plenty of food insecurity.

"So," Max piped up again shortly, eyes settled on the table's first occupant they'd rallied around while the Rusalka poured herself another drink. "I know my accent reads 'foreigner' all over it, but you?" She corked the rum bottle and set it in the middle for any of the thirsty to indulge themselves. "Yours is one I've never heard. Where are you from other than south of here?" Perhaps she had no business prying into any details of the woman's life when she'd so fiercely deflect questions about her own. Yet she'd traveled quite a bit, and never once had she come across people who had the same speech accentuation as this one did.

Boxcode Credit: Poppy

[Mercedes]

The fire which incandescently danced about the circumference of Merces irises grew ever-bright as he remained silent among the group. His position had not changed from where he rested originally among the remainder of the group. The Sorcerer eyed the entirety of the room as his once sealed lips parted and his attention had been directed toward Max. Merces elected to turn his back toward Max although such a move was an unwise one. Much like a barrel filled with gunpowder; Merces could erupt at any given time. Conversations were typically made light in his presence, but only those who served alongside him ever came to know that. The demeanor of his paramour had been noticeably different than he had been used to. In a social setting the couple had been night and day; Max the social and Merces the quiet and reserved. He paid closer attention to the unusual hybrid creature than he did anyone else in the vicinity. A perpetual sense of imminent danger ran rampant in his subconscious, and in a sudden rampage emotion seized his mind.

The Sorcerer returned to a place where the once fresh air had been struck with the overpowering stench of charred flesh. Piles of burned bodies, mangled limbs torn off forcefully, and blood filled trenches surrounded him. Murder in large numbers was wrong, criminal and unjust, but for the sake of experimentation The Sorcerer did not hesitate to viciously brutalize them individually, slowly and painfully. Death was important, and a part of the life cycle; for without death Idalos would run rampant with too many creatures to feed. A series of labored breaths stormed his body, and The Sorcerer broke into a fit of cold-sweats as he calmed himself. Over the course of the next several trills his breathing stabilized, and the terror came to an end.

His hands trembled simultaneously, and his once unusually warm flesh had become incredibly-cool for a moment. As a result of the scare he grasped hold of Max's thigh and breathed heavily as he continued to tune into the conversation. The topic had been something in regards to pirates, but continued to switch as they carried on in their conversation. Merces however had not been interested in such petty topics, and wanted to make things interesting. As he finally spoke again; he elected a challenge and his voice rose.

“Fuck all of the talk! I bet I can drink any of you under the table right now. I bet ten gold nel that I'll win.” He spoke with a smirk upon his visage, and wanted to know who the first individual to accept his challenge would be.

[Qit'ria]

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Kashehino Text

Invisible to everyone in the tavern, Kashehino, Qit'ria's ghostly panther companion slinked around, avoiding people as if she were corporeal. She nosed about at various tables, mimicking the act of sniffing, but couldn't experience any of it herself. She leapt upon the quickly filled table, staying at one end, before stretching out longways on the surface. She looked up at Qit'ria, who looked down to meet the eyes that only she could see.

"He is quite handsome love."

Qit'ria ignored her companion, as her own mouth pulled into a soft smile. A proper one. Not one where she tried to show off her ferociousness by presenting her teeth. A pleasant smile, returned to Noth. The server came over, taking Vega's orders, but Qit'ria remembered what Tio had said that night in the graveyard.

Nodding at Noth, and pointing with her fork at the meat pie she was devouring, "One for him."

The woman nodded and made her way off to fetch the food.

"He is still looking your way, darling. And he is absolutely delicious."

"Hush it!"

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud to the panther no one else could see. She leaned back comfortably in her chair, tipping it a bit, never taking her eyes off of Noth. Tio said men like to be taken to dinner. So Qit'ria was bringing the dinner to him. She brought her cup to her lips and drank down the rum from the fat lips lady. She gasped a bit at the strength, but recovered with a smile.

It was so fascinating to the huntress. She could see him smiling, could hear him being pleasant and nice, but there was something more there behind his crimson eyes. Something being held back, something... he could unleash at any time and was choosing not to. She got the feeling... he could kill them all if he so desired. Her smile curled up a bit more mischievously.

At that moment, there was a dull, rhythmic thumping resounding over the bar. A bard by the name of Jovi, a dreamy looking Biqaj, was setting into his performance, with a variety of hide skin drums. It was pleasant. Qit'ria enjoyed the sound of drums, and her shoulders slowly bounced with them, a bit off beat, but she was no fancy dancer, she didn't care.

Qit'ria heard an annoyingly familiar voice challenge everyone to a drinking competition, if she understood him right. Breaking eye contact for the moment, she looked over and saw him, and scowled venemously. Her chair tapped as she got her feet beneath her, ready to stand up, a hand halfway up to draw her javelin. But she stopped. There were a lot of people here. Merces would have to wait to die.

After all, he threatened her, so he deserved it. Damn windspeaker. She should've put a javelin in his back. But making sure the tantrum he threw didn't burn down her forest had been more important. So she scowled at the loud, obnoxious, weirdly damp mage. She pulled her hand back down, flexing in and out of a fist several times. She saw the server coming over with a tray of pies, which she handed out to Vega and the others who'd gotten them. The woman apologized to Qit'ria, the pies were quite popular tonight, so it would be a handful of bits for the one she'd ordered for Noth.

Qit'ria nodded, her scowl slipping back to the more neutral frown she normally wore. Maybe it was the alcohol or the atmosphere or all of the people, but the normally combative woman wasn't feeling like starting a fight. She relaxed a bit, and turned, seeing some space on the floor where people were beginning to dance as the bard picked up rhythm. She smiled.

Something within her stirred. She wanted to dance. She hadn't danced since she left home over a decade ago. Not since she was a child, dancing with her siblings around a campfire. She didn't know about the ghostly hat that always sat upon her head that no one, including herself could see, nor did she know that it was giving her the desire to boogy.

What she did know is she wanted to. She stood up, a bit wobbly, but managable. She downed a long swig of her rum, finishing it, gasping once more. She set her cup down a bit loudly. She removed her javelins, though left the knives and chakram on her belt, setting the spears against the back of her chair. She walked slowly around Vega's end of the table, fingertips tracing along the backs of the chairs, accidentally sliding over Arlo's and Vega's shoulders.

Qit'ria walked right over to Noth, positive she didn't need to further gain his attention. She offered a hand, "Come. Dance."

RunningTab

2 Meads - 2 GN
2 Pie - 1 SN, 6 CN

Running Total: 2 GN, 8 CN

[Noth]

The Avriel quickly came to the grand conclusion that perhaps the reason he had so often found himself extricated out of social scenarios was because they were far too busy for his taste. In the mere span of a few bits, there had already been so many conversations tossed about, so many thoughts and ideas pondered over, and whilst he was not stumbled by the acceleration of new conversational points, it was somewhat discomforting to the bird to be subjected to quite so much information in so short a period of time, especially when so much of it seemed to be just worthless blabber.

Nevertheless, even the most banal of prattle could occasionally contain gems of actual interesting knowledge. Amidst the conversations and the questions, the hybrid listened as the redheaded woman explained that there would be a celebration tomorrow involving the exchange of gifts. That was an interesting idea, he thought, and immediately began to question whether or not he might somehow manage to receive a gift for himself. It was not that he was necessarily needy, but he was also not so humble nor prideful to refuse free things, especially when not accepting anything would be perceived as a potential social slight. He was not here to make enemies, after all, and he hoped sincerely that his exit from Scalvoris would be peaceable and without struggle or conflict.

His questioning of one of the newcomer’s piratical origin seemed to potentially unnerve at least one of the occupants at the table, and she quickly rallied to the defense of the person and their reputation. Her tone struck him as accusatory and disrespectful, the sort of mouthing off that could get someone killed back from where he was from, but he supposed that the people of Scalvoris were somewhat softer and kinder folks. A hint of agitation shone through his crimson eyes, and he locked them onto the girl with a hint of malice, his voice feigning shock, but laced with enough malicious intent that it was clear he wasn’t cowed by the words. “Pardon, Miss… did you have something to add?”

The potential pirate herself seemed disinclined to answer his question, which really revealed quite little as to whether or not she actually was a robber of the sea. On the one hand, a person who was simply playfully creating a ruse would not want to be questioned, because that would reveal that their deceit had been discovered, but on the other, if they really were a pirate, they might want to keep such information somewhat concealed lest they find themselves troubled by such institutions as law and vigilantism. If she was worried about being discovered, however, it didn’t show too terribly upon her face as she reached across the table and poured him a cup of the offered rum. Perhaps a hint of trepidation crossed her features, certainly, but that was nearly everyone he encountered, and could excused as a general reaction.

Conversations carried on as normal, and the Avriel was content to sit and listen, still looking towards the original occupant whenever nothing of intrigue had been discussed, still trying to discern the reasoning behind her actions. Of course, he could simply excuse it as foreign custom, or say that she was somewhat odd in her behavior and that she had simply allowed it to happen, but that would not be nearly the exercise in critical and creative thinking that trying to discern a logical answer for her behavior was, and he was certainly all for exercising his mental capacities.

Rather suddenly, the black-haired man whose very nature spoke of a rather darkling existence arose from his mental slumber, and promptly challenged the occupants of the table to a drinking contest for the grand prize of ten golden nels, immediately earning what appeared to be the scorn and ire of the original occupant. The hybrid actually felt somewhat inclined towards taking him up on it, but quickly retracted any desire when he reexamined his chances of winning. Being around a crowd of criminals and scum had introduced him to many of the stronger variants of alcohol, but he had not quite drank enough to build up nearly the tolerance of those persons who were constantly finding their time taken up by bars and taverns and drinking holes. There was little doubt in his mind actually that he would lose such a contest, and end up far too inebriated to even defend himself should threats arise unexpectedly.

With a mental denial of the challenge made, and the subtle shake of his head to dissuade any further attempts at garnering his attention in regards to it, the Avriel returned his focus to the inhabitant just in time for her to speak to the tavern waitress. She gestured towards the hybrid with her utensil, and promptly spoke of getting him one of something, although he was not quite sure what it was she was retrieving for his sake. Nevertheless, he was perfectly happy with accepting a free gift, and he offered another smile to her for her small act of kindness.

He was somewhat interrupted in his analysis by the sudden intrusion of musical sound permeating the establishment, and crimson eyes flickered around in order to locate their source, eventually settling upon a lone bard playing upon a series of hide drums. He watched curiously for a few trills, before returning his eyes to the table, only to find that the original occupant was hazily sliding along the outskirts of the table towards him. Was she now going to excuse him from his position, or did she perhaps have a question to inquire of him?

Neither, it seemed, for an instant after she had arrived, she outstretched a hand, and propositioned that he join her for a dance. A hint of alarm immediately ripped through the Avriel, who began to question whether or not she somehow meant him harm. After all, he knew exactly what he looked like, and how he acted, and the thought of anyone fancying him enough to offer their hand in dance seemed somewhat… unlikely… unrealistic, even. Yet, a logical assessment of the situation revealed the implausibility of such a scenario, and he relaxed to an extent.

Of course, he couldn’t take her up on it, because he needn’t draw so close to others in such a way. He did, after all, have his precious Nightshade at home, didn’t he? The thought brought a swell of pain to his heart, and he questioned when the last time he had seen her had been. Could it be that she too had abandoned him? Perhaps she had even fallen in battle, and in his absence he would not have known any of it. It had been far too long regardless. A curious thought fluctuated into existence, a sickly scheme contrived by a person who only moments ago had considered the merits of gift-giving. Perhaps… if he were sly enough, he might be able to excuse himself from a night’s payment at the tavern he had been staying, and instead join the woman at her residence, thus securing himself free shelter for the night.

With another smile, the Avriel outstretched his feathered fingers, and wrapped them securely around those offered by the woman.
“I’d love to, though, I will admit that I don’t know the steps.” Regardless, he’d allow himself to be pulled out to the dance floor.

[Vega]

Ever so slightly, she leaned against Arlo as he draped his arm around her shoulder and she grinned at him slightly. Nervous of the scary chap with one wing, no doubting it, but Vega responded to that in the way that Arlo would recognise, having seen her in situations where she was intimidated or afraid on more than one occasion. "Anythin' to add? Nope. Jus' what I said. Jus' how I said it." Yeah, he could jog on too, Vega decided. Big scary looking thing with the stupid pauses in his soft speech.

The pies were ordered and the woman spoke to Qit'ria. Who didn't respond because she was far, far too busy flirting with the one-winged avriel. Vega watched and tried her best to keep her face neutral. She didn't manage it and she glanced at Arlo and grinned. "No worries," she said to the woman with a crooked smile."My pleasure." So, she ordered pies for the three of them, then. Her, Arlo and the woman.

Qit already had one and she had ordered another for the creature Vega was starting to be less afraid of at the thought... no, actually, she really didn't want to think of oozing sore and one wing in that way Nope. No siree. Then, the soggy-looking bloke suddenly shouted. Was he drunk, Vega wondered, or was the woman maybe there to look after him because he was a bit touched? She wasn't really sure but at this point she also wasn't prepared to rule anything out.

Instead, she looked at him and raised a single eyebrow. If he didn't like talking in public places where people gather, she thought, he might want to try a library. Dead quiet as they were. But drinking games? "No thanks." Vega kept herself alert and aware of the placement of the sword at her hip. As was her way, she'd spank first, ask questions not at all if needed to. Frankly, though, this was dull and she moved her foot to nudge Arlo's. "We should make a move back to the Inn." Vega said. "She's off dancin' and we've eaten some pie. You reckon?" Spooky bird-men with one wing and weird damp blokes who huffed and puffed and shouted? Not really her cup of tea.

[Arlo Creede]

When the one winged bird man spoke to Vega, well, Arlo could say he cared much for the man's tone. Not a bit in fact. Honeyed words weren't always very sweet by design after all. But he wasn't in the mood for a disagreement or brawl, though he'd been involved in a number of them over just a few arcs. Sometimes, just because he wanted to. In this case, he chose not to respond, took a swig from his mug and smiled when Vega leaned closer to him.

And though he'd played at any number of drinking games before, neither did that appeal at the moment. The meat pie though, that was more than welcome. It was cold outdoors and soon enough he and Vega would be back out in it. Better to warm the belly some before they went. Qit'ria seemed to be making eyes at the Avriel, which convinced Arlo that indeed there must be someone out there for everyone. It certainly wasn't a match he'd have predicted.

It was a strange crowd altogether, and though the coincidental gathering might be a good story for later, real or imagined, as Vega said, might be better they went on their way. Him and her, that was. So nodding his agreement, Arlo finished his drink and his pie and then stood, taking the back of Vega's chair in the process. "Well it's been a pleasure, all," he said, though he never let down his guard, just in case. Still, if Vega was ready to go then so was he, and with a tip of his hat, they'd be off on their way.

[Max]

Max raised a brow quizzically toward her lover. Merces was usually the quiet and reserved one, but in this instance he had made a show of his entrance. His demeanor at the table had been one that commanded attention. A challenge put out to the others was surely intended to solidify his dominance over the social gathering, and while it was one among strangers, Max had an inkling that his bombast was likely attributed to the nightmarish presence of the half-Avriel. Never before had she seen him eager to cloud his mind with any substance.

Before long the much-anticipated pies had arrived. Each that had requested one found a warm meal placed before them, and Max wasted no time picking up a fork to dig in. It was as good as she could've hoped, and though the flavor pairing was far from correct, the rum washed it down all the same. The crazy huntress garnered her attention twice while she enjoyed her food. Once when the woman seemed to speak aloud to no one that was seated at the table. The second was when she dared rouse from her chair to ask the bird-man to dance. The Rusalka almost choked on her pie in surprise at the particularly bold move. It was a foolhardiness she could respect at the very least.

The tough-minded red head and her man seemed ready as ever to take their leave. After a few bits and no challenge to Merces' boast, the Mixed Race was feeling prepared to follow suit. Maxine threw back a shot of rum and gave her lover a tap on the chest with the back of her hand. "You," she purred. "My house." She placed the glass on the table, gathered up her half-full rum bottle, and gestured with coy eyes toward the door. He'd need no further explanation. By now they'd gotten their routine down like breathing. Lucky for Qit'ria, it would only leave more space for her to make her move with Noth on the dance floor.

[Mercedes]

Merces watched as none of the cowards elected to accept his challenge. Under typical circumstances he would not so much as sip an alcoholic beverage. Rather than take up the offer to drink until one of them fell to the ground. The vast majority of members who remained at the table made their prompt exits. Max however, finished her drink and directed all of her attention toward Merces. In an all too familiar series of actions she tapped his chest, and ordered him to leave with her. She wanted him to go to her house for “purposes unknown”. Rather than defy her; Merces elected to listen and follow orders. The night had been over from the moment that he chose to join the group of people. No one wanted to be friends with a crazed powder-keg like himself.

The Sorcerer had a tendency to be incredibly zealous, and more often than not accidents occurred because he got upset. Rather than elect to remain on the scene, Merces grasped a firm hold of Max's opposite hand. For a moment he watched as some of the others went off to dance, while the other pair exited the door. Merces certainly could use a night of pleasure, and pain at the bedside of his lover. However, he wanted to eliminate the familiar woman that he met in the woods first. She threatened him, and insulted his character simultaneously. Why did she deserve to live when he set others ablaze for less? Some trial she would face his righteous retribution, and be burned alive at his hands. He scoffed, and left alongside Max following the conclusion of his thoughts.

[Qit'ria]

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Qit pulled the man by the hand firmly, to show she was in charge, hoping he could feel her strength in the grip. She led him slowly to the center of the floor, not caring that all eyes were following them now. The liquid courage and dancing ghost hat and the curiosity of this man had truly turned her into an unstoppable force. She stopped and faced him, placing a hand flat against his chest. She could feel the strength beneath the woolen shirt, feeling his heart thump as she looked up at him. Her dark eyes met his piercing crimson ones, and she grinned. A dance of predators was about to begin.

Qit'ria had learned from the follower of Ashan to move with the music and just do what felt right. There was no wrong way to do it if you went with the music. The bard thumped his drums in a faster beat and Qit closed her eyes trying to feel it better. Dunnnna nunnna dun dunnnunnna dun dun. She slid her bare feet back across the wooden floor, keeping her hand on his chest as she put a small distance between them. She drank up the beat, and felt it in her hips. She tried to imagine each hip was a hand on the drum, and slowly started to shake them, one hip forward, then back as the other followed.

As her hips began to get into the groove, and let the motion from her hips wriggling on down her legs. As it did, she widened her stance a bit, feet a bit apart as she hopped a bit to the harder duns of the drumming from the ball of one foot to the other. Legs moving now, her hips took on a bit of a rotation to them, trying to keep up with the faster unnna nunnas. Her exposed stomach undulated as the beat worked its way up to her torso, and soon her shoulders were shimmying. A bit off beat to the current song, but she didn't care.

Finally, she opened her eyes and took her hand away from the man's chest. She stared at him hungrily, reaching out for one of his hands. She felt metal there, and paused for a moment before pulling it up between them. It was an ugly, metallic thing, but seemed functional for armor. Qit'ria never particularly liked the look of metal armor. Slow, clunky, made sneaking impossible.

"No need know moves. Just feel it."

And there she released his hand, challenging him with her feral stare, a forest cat staring down a bird of prey. Challenging him to challenge her. She was no dancer, but was dancing nonetheless. And she wanted him to join her. To prove he could match her in this. Kashehino was purring loudly nearby, tossing out comments about the man, but Qit ignored the panther. She ignored everyone, failing to notice as her tablemates were departing. She was in a hunt. And this man was her prey. Her desire within was welling up, but he needed to prove he was more than a strong body and menacing stare.

So she held her dance as the song maintained, waiting for him to join her, and Qit'ria's earthen eyes never once left the rubies that stared back.