[Memory] A Witch Walks into the Bar

[Jenson]

6 Loshis 2715
Mid-Afternoon

"So, Beatrice, Your Highness," the Wick hummed to the kitten, "What do you think to having other people here? Entertainment for a dreary day? You think that's a good idea? Do you? Fun attracts people. And people get thirsty."

She yawned, seemingly disinterested by the notion.

There was a patter of rain from the outside, a distinct sound that permeated through the panes of the Bear and Boot; a muting sound that bled into the voices of patrons. Within the scent of tobacco and wood smoke mingled with the dampness of the world beyond, the inhabitants at various stages of drying off. They drank their pints quietly, a few others playing with a set of cards - idling away the time before their various work duties began once more. It was far from busy, a dozen or so bodies of the working class were spread across the tables - primarily labourers with a sailor or two. It suited Jenson just fine, it allowed him time to quietly gain a reading of the day and prepare for the evening to come.

It was at the bar that Jenson quietly worked, the current task was shifting the various caskets of alcohol and checking the contents. Beatrice, the kitten, quietly inspected him as he worked - quietly nosing at him from the safety of the bar top. There was a curious look, a small burbling trill escaping from her throat, the tail raised and bushing out when he brought one of the empty casks down from the racking. Squire's Delight was always a popular one with the midday crowd; it provided enough to take the edge off the day, but had a tendency not to inhibit enough to prevent them from working.

Pulling out the tap, he caught the distinct scent of stale ale and the slosh of sediment in its base. An acrid smell, one he was accustomed to. He quickly stuffed a keystone plug into the hole left and shuffled it to one side. The was a small, quick glance to the patrons. It was calm, all clearly subdued by alcohol and the warmth that the hearth embers made. A crack of wood as it splintered and spluttered, the layer of ash ever creeping outwards. A single deep inhale, there was nothing to worry on. His hand gave the kitten a gentle pat upon the head, fingers pushing away the paws that looked to ensnare it. His own voice purred, "Watch the bar."

Releasing himself, he watched the kitten roll and stare at him. A shake of the head, she gave a bound off down the length of the bar before pausing at the end. He left her there, turning his attention to the cellar trap door and the rearranging of stock. It was some minutes after that he resurfaced however, grunting as he shoved the heavy keg up. It landed with a satisfying clunk, the heavy inside slopping as he caught his breath. Easing himself out, he gave a nod to a patron who was hovering patiently for a refill. Cheeks puffed, he gave them a nod and took the tankard from them - he did not pay too much attention to the appearance. A parting of lips a flash of teeth, "What can I get you, boss?"

[Aziza]

Loshis 6, 2715

Money made the world go around or rather... it would let her go around the world. Money had gotten herself and her mother this far, a necessity to get them across the water from Mugroba to Anaxas, but now they were effectively stuck, at least until they could raise the coin for a kenser and supplies. They hadn't been stationary for long - they'd only just gotten settled here - but she already loathed the prospect of being here for an unknown period of time. It could be days or it could be weeks. Worse still, it could be a whole month, maybe even longer. Aziza had no idea if these Anaxi would want to accept her services , let alone pay for them. She'd encountered some uncomfortable attitudes while travelling here, some poorer Anaxi galdori who'd been on the same boat as her quite negative towards herself and her mother. The racist attitude was unexpected, the treatment of wicks in her homeland far more accepting, but here? She didn't know.

Still, she had to try to ply a trade and wandering around, waiting for someone to sustain an injury so she could step in to provide care hardly seemed like a sensible business model. So instead, the girl had every intention of telling fortunes. Thus, she found herself a bar near to where she had their kint parked, deciding that she needed a place to set up business and somewhere that she could return to again and again in the coming days, build up a reputation and make herself easy to find. A bar was a logical choice; alcohol made most people more open to the sort of thing she offered, more open to crossing her palm with money.

This place would become her local - The Bear and Boot - and so when she stepped through the door, she took the time to take a good look around, taking in the largely open space, the little stage for a performer and the bar itself. She ran a hand through her braids, metal bracelets on her arms jingling as she considered her plan of action. Best to talk to the barkeep, let him know what she was doing because otherwise, he might not appreciate her trying to set up shop without permission. She couldn't exactly do it under his nose, there were no nooks here to hide things, and if she wanted people to come here seeking her, it was best not to piss off the owner.

She headed for the bar, fishing out some of the precious coins that she possessed with the intention of buying something cheap that she could nurse for a house or two. There was another customer ahead of her but the kitten had caught her eye, the little ball of grey fluff, a delightfully vital thing. While she waited for the barkeep to conduct his business with the one before her, she grinned, reaching down to pet the little thing. It was lovely, truly lovely and she was half-inclined to snatch it up and take it back to the kint although Zala, her osta, might eat it for a snack.

"Ah nanabo! You're lovely, ent ye? Oes, ye are! I could have you for yats! Oes, I could," she cooed, unfastening one of her woven bracelets to dangle it invitingly over the kitten's head, wiggling it back and forth. She smiled affectionately at it, cooing and purring at it until the witch was sure that it was her turn to be served.

"Hesta! What ye got that's cheap and benny? What would you say is benny?" she questioned, modulating her Tek a little but her accented words still feel thickly, her Mugrobi origins betrayed in her voice, even if he'd somehow failed to see it in her skin. "What's she called? She's a sweet nanabo, fair sweet." She wasn't trying to butter him up. Okay, so asking him for a recommendation, that was a bit of buttering but for this, she was genuinely interested in the little cat. Maybe her behaviour towards it would endear her towards him but it would be a bonus if it did, not the result of an ulterior motive.

Best to take things slowly for now though. There was no rush to tell him about her purpose here.

[Jenson]

There was a mutter of something closely resembling ‘Mud Guard’ from the Patron. The Wick kept the teeth exposed, corner of his lips curling. The pint tankard was claimed, a firm slam down of coin as he pivoted and turned. The dark stout burbled from the barrel, forming a creamy white head while the muddy brown liquid - hence where it got is name – filled the rest. He gave the patron a small attentive look over then; heavy coat, knitted under jumper, human, collection of tattoos on his fingers, he guessed a long hall sailor having returned to docks. He slid the tankard back across and watching the Patron stumble away with it, he frowned.

Beatrice meanwhile was entranced by the bracelet. Nose twitching, eyes growing wide as it became the focus of attention. The head followed, a low, trilling noise escaping before the paws swung out. Reared up, she attempted to bat at the end of it – and then promptly fell back to the surface of the bar. The kitten huffed. Jenson saddled up in front of the newest patron then, hands planting to the side with the kitten flailing between them. He raised a curious brow to the creature, the same, soft voice escaping, “Your Majesty, you mind?”

The Kitten eyeballed him for a moment, then decided his left hand was the next victim. She continued to bat at his knuckles as he addressed the stranger. A broad smile, though there was a momentary blip in his features. A small blink that tried to filter through this woman’s accent. It was not just a stranger, it was a foreigner. In his bar.

What she human? Wick? Golly? It was hard to tell given the obvious differences in culture and race that presented themselves.

“Well, aren’t you an exotic one?” A small, playful wink. It allowed him a moment to try and gauge her. It was her who had been fussing at the cat, that much was apparent, “Apologies for the weather in the ‘arbor, I can assure you that it’s not always like this.” There was a small wince when Beatrice nipped at him, and he gave the kitten a small tap on the head, “Really? Now?” She did not relent. Sighing, he continued. The free hand gave a firm slap to a racked and tapped barrel with a Brown fish upon its surface, “Cheap? For you? I’d suggest either Fisher’s Brown or Squire’s Delight once I tap it,” he nudged the other barrel with his toe, “takes the edge off the day but not too strong. Benny though?” he whistled , “Mud Guard, though strong and cheap?” he fumbled under the bar then. A notable loud clunk as he placed a yellowed bottle on the side, “Yellow Rot whiskey,” Even without opening it, the distinctively sharp smell crept forth, catching at his senses. He nudged it forwards, “sniff alone blows most boots off.”

Jenson nodded towards the kitten, who by this point was laying prone on her back, tiny paws hooked in with the eyes darting between them, “This is Beatrice. Or Bea. Or her Highness, or your Majesty – likes to try and act all princess and glorified like,” He eyeballed the creature, “Not fooling anyone of course.”

He shifted then, releasing himself from Beatrice, reclaiming the tap and taking out a wood mallet. The fingers ran over the top of the barrel of Squire’s Delight, fingers locating the keystone plug. With a grunt he pulled it out, and placed the tap in place – gently hammering it in. With the fit tight, he hoisted the full barrel onto the rack, “Tell you what, I’ll give you a taster.”

He produced three metal tumblers, and he poured a mouthful or two’s worth of Fisher’s Brown, Squire’s Delight and Mud Guard in respectively – before nudging them to her. He watched Beatrice squint at them, before gently wriggling away back down the bar. Something else had clearly caught her attention for the moment. He watched, yellow eyes attentive, counting the rings and piercings that adorned her alongside the multitude of trinkets that hung from her form.

“So, what neck of the woods you from?”

[Aziza]

Loshis 6, 2715

The kitten seemed to enjoy her attentions, the movement of the bracelet enticing and hypnotic. Aziza couldn't help but be pulled in by her play, her excited movements as she hunted it. The teasing swishes of the woven material had her rearing up, trying and failing to hit it as she collapsed in a heap. The wick chuckled at the sight, on the verge of reaching out to tickle her with her fingers - even if it meant getting scratched - when the barman finally turned his attention her way. She smiled, shifting her gaze to him as she assessed him curiously.

She felt the brush of a field against her own, cluing her in to the fact that he was magical. The Mug witch didn't know anything about the Anaxi and the traits that marked specific races. However, she knew that he was neither human nor passive. It didn't feel as strong as many gollies' fields she'd encountered so she was inclined to think he was a wick like her. If he was working here and speaking this way, it'd make him a tsat though and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Didn't matter how she felt about him personally though because she simply needed his bar and his cooperation. However, his manner offered her a source of amusement.

"Me? Exotic? Oes, 'spose I'd seem so to ye," she responded with a laugh, running a hand through her braids so that the feathers and fabric danced. Let the city boy see the full extent of what exotic entailed. Let him get a good eyeful of what a real wick looked like.

"Weather ent nothin' to fuss about. It is what it is, ent it? Wetter'n what I'm used to, oes, but it's fine," she added with a shrug, the smile returning as she watched the kitten annoy him. "She's fair sweet, ent she? I'd rather have her than a drink, 'specially as she seems a nuisance. I'll take her off your hands," Aziza teased with a wink, reaching down to tickle the animal's belly.

In truth, she hadn't really considered what she'd drink, figuring that a recommendation from him would settle a lot of things; she'd get her drink and he'd no doubt be pleased with his work. It hadn't worked out that smoothly though, especially as she foolishly hadn't paid enough attention, not until the barman was talking about tasters and setting out tumblers. She should have just named something but the young woman had been too slow. The drink had only meant to be a prop, something to sit on the table and be sipped at over hours.

"Ne, ye don't have to go to trouble over me. Don't wanna be one to make qalqa over nothin'," Aziza pointed out, too late as he poured out a measure of each. By Hulali, she couldn't be any worse at this sort of thing if she tried. Smiling her thanks, she lifted the first of the tumblers, sniffing at its contents before she took a mouthful, swilling the liquid around on her tongue as he watched her. Seemed she wasn't the only one to be weighing up people today.

She set the first tumbler down, her expression thoughtful before she picked up the second, turning the contents around the container. "Mugroba. I'mma witch case that weren't clear. You? You're wick, ent ye? Don't talk like one, ne, but ye ent human, I sense that."

The spoke considered him over the top of the tumbler as she tipped it back, testing this new sample before picking up the last. This one was the one he'd named 'Mud Guard', she was fairly sure, the one he'd classed as 'benny'. The other two hadn't been bad per se, and the witch certainly wasn't one to be picky, but they weren't fantastic. "I'm Aziza by the way and ye are?" she asked, giving a slight bow before she tasted the last sample. As soon as it spilled over her tongue, she knew it was the one.

Nodding her head appreciatively, she set it down on the counter top, pushing it towards him. "That's the benny stuff, I'll take that, ye chen and... if it ent ne problem, I'd like to do a bit of qalqa here, fortunes and the like. Ent ne vodundun, I tell ye. Didn't want to set up with ne permission, ye chen? S'all right with ye?"

The witch smiled broadly, radiating hopefulness as she waited for his answer. Surely he'd say yes because well... why wouldn't he?

[Jenson]

bear and boot| mid-afternoon

6 LOSHIS 2715

"Her Highness is a fickle being, say it too loudly and she may take you up on it,” he gave a glance to the kitten. She was currently aggressively swatting at a beer stain, "Very sociable. Though… well. She may have a stubborn streak in her. We’ll see, she’s young.”

He kept the small curl of lips upon his face as he watched, judging and weighing up the expressions upon her face. Did he pick well, or was she merely playing service to his suggestions? She had been watching back, that was obvious – perhaps it was due to the clear differences between them. Something wild was behind her shape, both enthralling as a concept yet also terrifying for his city mind to comprehend. Yet, something else itched at him as she crossed the threshold of his field. It caught him off guard, his mind far too distracted by the other activities of the bar that it had simply become muddled in. He had to focus more than he would have liked to gain a sense of truth.

Wick was the answer to his earlier question. He let his focus fall. He presumed Spoke shortly after given her sense of dress.

”Jenson’s the name, drink is the game. Trouble is all part of the job. T’is the right of this barkeep to ensure a patron gets what they want – bottom of the spice pack or not,” There was a bow in reciprocation, as he ducked beneath the bar to and pulled one of the tankards forth, the pub symbol embossed on the front, ”Got to have a good poison.”

There was a blip again, the small crease into neutrality, the small tensing of knuckles. With it came the small stroking niggle in his mind, the thing that firmly jabbed at his ego. For a moment he felt unclean, perhaps suddenly all too aware of the faint layer of grime that covered his shoes, the faint bits of sweat that clung to the back of his neck. The stroke became a grasp, digging in and refusing to let go.

You are filth-

He forced his hand up through his hair, shaking out both curls and thought in the process. He hummed, ”Aye, and what of it?”

The smile was plastered across his face, whites of his teeth on show as he gestured to the barrel of Mud Guard. He gave it a firm tap, “And for today’s poison for the lass.” Filling it up with relative speed and sliding it to her he continued to speak, “Mugroba eh? Is it true that it’s just sand further than the eye can see?” His eyes by this point had shifted to the braids and feathers that hung around her head; he resisted the idea of reaching out and touching, ”Quite a journey though, must be plum knackered after that.”

The Wick paused to the final question presented by the Witch. The yellow orbs looked past her, scanning the tables and room for space, counting the patrons and working it out in his head. He nodded, slowly at first, ”Can do. Though, reckon you should get in before they start getting guttered. So, find a space and make yourself comfy. Shake the tankard when you want another.”

Beatrice by this point had padded back up the bar, a squeaking meow erupting from her throat. Tail curled up, she gave curious glance to the pair of them before batting at the hands that were available. Jenson sighed, lips pursing into a line as he saved the tumblers from destruction by kitten, ”Fortunes? Like with cards and stuff, with the pictures on them?” He raised an eyebrow, ”Unless you mean the gamble sort. Roll dice and the like.”

A cough snatched his attention. Another patron hovered at the bar now, demanding with a slur for a drink. Judging by the way he was swaying on the spot however, he was reaching his limits already. He quietly filled the tankard up with a weaker drink, and set the man on his way. There was a frown as the drunk slid back down to the bench. He muttered, ”Moony.”

He spoke out to Aziza, ”And if you start getting bothered, holler.”

[Aziza]

6 Loshis, 2715

The young woman smiled at the notion that the cat would simply switch allegiances because she said she'd take it. Animals could be fickle things, she knew, and possessed a unique intelligence, but she didn't think that this Beatrice could read so much into her speech. She appreciated the humour of it all the same. "Cats can have odd personalities, I hear. I have an osta. Not the same but... similar, I think. Hanaa takes to everyone, tekaa or jent, but she comes back to me. Ostas are... something else though, ye chen?"

She leaned against the bar, idly tracing patterns in the grain of the bar top while he set about ducking under the bar for a tankard, the witch smirking a little at the talk of poison. "I hope it ent real poison you're givin' me. Well, long as it's a benny poison, s'pose I don't mind much," she remarked with a chuckle, adjusting the bracelets on her arms which seemed to have gotten into a bit of a tangle. The metal ones jangled and clinked, the woven ones scratching against her skin a little as she tugged them around.

Her head snapped up when he spoke again, his voice softer as if he was speaking to himself, his words at odds with the current situation. The young woman opened her mouth, shut it again, opened it once more and then thought better of it. Aziza talked to herself all the time, often disregarding when other people were present so in truth, she couldn't judge. It was better to simply let it be, she decided. It was none of her business, probably hadn't been meant for her ears at all in any case. Instead, she waited patiently for him fill out her drink, accepting the tankard with a grateful smile on her lips.

Picking it up, she traced the embossed symbol of the bear, fingering what appeared to be a boot on its head. She cradled it, considering him with her head cocked. "Oes, there's a lot of sand but we've more'n sand, ye chen? There are towns and cities, places that move, more'n sand," Aziza explained with a laugh. "Not just sand but ne, not tired, not really. I'm used to travel, to denk, ye chen? Maybe not, tsat," she teased, raising the tankard to her lips as she took the most delicate of sips; she didn't wanted to drink it all too soon.

Tsat or not, he'd agreed to let her work here and that was all she needed, all she'd come here for. The kitten had returned and so she took a moment to play with it, wiggling her fingers at it as it swatted at her. She was a rambunctious little thing, very entertaining, even if she seemed a little potentially destructive in the bar and it didn't seem to amuse Jenson. His questions were met with raised brows.

"Ne, I don't mean games of chance and vodundun, dze," she retorted, pulling a face and tutting. "Ne, I don't have cards with me and they aren't like that, Jenson. Ye are such a tsat. Don't even know about fortunes." She shook her head in mock disappointment, waving a hand in his direction by way of farewell as she went to find a corner table at which to nestle herself.

She set her tankard down, taking off her cloak to spread it over her seat, marking it as hers before she sat, considering the bar at large. Now she just had to work out how to get people to come to her. Should she just call out, declaring wares the way one might do in the market. That felt a bit crass, possibly ineffective but... beggars certainly couldn't be choosers and she was a beggar indeed, in desperate need of money.

"Fortunes! Get yer fortunes here from a real witch!" she cried out, watching eyes swivel her way. She hadn't brought anything with her, nothing that would allow her to look more like someone who could divine a person's future. No one could do anything like that for certain, of course, but if she got ahold of a palm, she could certainly tell plenty of things about them, albeit in the past and present mainly.

She spread her hands out on the table, turning them palm upwards as she waited to see who might approach. "Come get yer palms read, ye chen?" she called, turning her attention to the customer by the bar. Jenson had called him Moony, she thought.

"Ye there, Moony! Wanna see what I have for ye?" she asked, beckoning him over and trying to catch Jenson's eye, to give him a meaningful look. Hopefully, he'd help point the man her way.

[Jenson]

bear and boot | mid-afternoon

6 LOSHIS 2715

His hands gave a gesture to size, firstly to that of an adult cat then the perceived size of an Osta – they were certainly bigger, but he was not too sure how much. The Barkeep had seen their furs for sale, remembering the distinctly bold colouration they sported and how the upper class seemed to desire them. As such, the idea of a live one seemed somewhat bizarre – more so with the implication it was a pet. Jenson’s lips twisted, and he gave himself a few inches either side of the imagined Osta as a just in case. Everything now had descend down into pleasantries, primarily at his expense; the teasing tones were not lost on him. He merely gave a polite smile, a shrug of shoulders, ”Aye, Tsat. Might not know the wild, but I know the beating heart of the city. Still, wish you luck, mouse from the countryside.”

Cities were a different beast after all. All layers of some form or another, hidden agendas in a world to survive. The best way to survive he decided, was to simply keep out of the way and keep his head down. He exhaled as the kitten bawled at him, a high whining noise that was exceptionally loud given her tiny form. She was silenced when he produced a shallow bowl of water and presented it to her. Leaving her to slurp nosily, he watched the scene unfold.

Moony gave a confused look to the Witch. He swayed, blinking as he looked down to his tankard and then back to her. A slur escaped, the tiny eyes squinting from behind wrinkled skin, ”Ye what bonnie?” He hiccupped, shuffling slowly over. The contents of his tankard sloshed over the rim, a collection of droplets on the floor left in his wake; he did not notice. The eyes continued to blink, then moved into a squint, ”Was’at ye sister or ye sayin’ that?”
“There is only one, Moony,” Jenson called out from the bar.
A spray of spit came from his lips, tongue running along the cracks before he took a healthy swig. With a clunk, he placed down the tankard and slumped onto the bench opposite her. Dirty nails rubbed at his liver spots, Moony continued to slur, ”So there is boy.” He gave a grin, an almost lecherous look in his eyes, ”And here was me thinkin’ there be twins.” He turned his head away to belch loudly, ”So you do a wossit?”

Jenson rolled his eyes. Moony was the sort that from the moment the sun came up he would start drinking. He never specified why exactly; addiction, sorrow, hangover from the previous day of drinking, or even an issue of the mind. He never hurt anyone however, in fact it was more common for him to receive the beating. Not that he ever did receive it without reason – he had a tendency to make smartarse comments. The drunk rubbed at his crunched nose, the main cartilage of it having being knocked to one side in a scuffle years ago, before letting both his greasy palms rest on the table between them.

”Monty O’Nuny. Or Moony,” he squinted at her again, gently swaying in his seat, ”You must be some ‘Iren from the sea, hear to lure poor Moony away. With all the,” his eyes circled her, clearly struggling to focus on all that was going on, ”Stuff.” The rest of the bar sniggered at that point. For the last few minutes they had been watching the show, paused over their drinks and mumbling into their tankards. He pouted, ”Wossit it you lot laughin’ at? You laughin’ at the lady? Wouldn’t know it if you were hit by it.”
He continued to burble at the rest of the patrons until Jenson spoke up, ”Moony. Pay the nice lady. Let her do… this fortune stuff.”

The drunk grunted and then obliged. It was with some difficulty that he pulled out the contents of his pockets, which currently consisted of a couple of hats, a few forts and a button. He then proceeded to spend the next few minutes awkwardly sliding the coins back and forth, waiting for an approving nod to come from the witch.

"Alright, lets do this."

[Aziza]

Loshis 6, 2715

She could really pick them.

Aziza had a feeling that she'd chosen the drunkest and one of the most lecherous men in the bar right now. The way he was squinting at her, seemingly not able to see her right, but yet he still seemed to muster enough sight to view her lustily. Her stomach squirmed uncomfortably, but she smiled, not ready to chase off a potential customer simply because of how he looked at her. The witch wasn't oblivious to the fact that she had a certain type of figure that tended to make men gawk. She had curves and there was plenty of meat on her bones. She'd had plenty of men take liberties before, a wild spoke obviously as good as a tumble in their minds, as if a figure that screamed 'woman' made her more likely to be sexual. The girl hoped that he wasn't the sort to try to touch but given that he was drunk, anything was possible.

The witch kept a smile on her face, regarding him from beneath lowered lids in a manner that she hoped was mysterious and knowing, but quite possibly sexually alluring instead. If it was the latter, it would be a problem with this sort of character. However, she was sure that her expression was noticeably strained as the man stood before her, blathering on while she waited, slightly exasperated as everyone else in the bar looked on. The good-natured girl was actually almost willing to scream as he prattled on, berating the patrons for laughing at him, although he thought that they were laughing at her.

Honestly, if people were laughing at her right now, she wouldn't be surprised. They no doubt thought that she'd brought this on herself and that it was her own fault for being unable to handle him correctly. She wasn't good enough with people for this. She had some of the patter, some of the performance, but socially, she was largely inept. The girl could read people with some careful observation when they weren't really doing much, sure, but as soon as they became properly animated in speech, Aziza usually fell apart. The young woman was sure that a drunkard was worse; they were a special case that you had to know how to read.

When Jenson spoke up on her behalf, the witch smiled gratefully in his direction. Tsat or not, she'd needed the support of kin. She wasn't sure that he could speak Tek but he was still tekaa, still one of them in his heart, even if not quite in body.

"Cross me palm with a hat or two, g'wan," she murmured by way of encouragement, not even interested in trying to get what money she could out of him. Honestly, the girl just wanted to give her reading and get rid of him, her situation highly regrettable right now.

The girl requested his palms, looking from one to the other to gain a sense of what she was dealing with. Largely the same at first glance. He seemed to be left-handed though and he was a man so she took some old advice on the latter and settled for the left palm. There was a prickling feeling over her skin, sensing the eyes upon her because they were all very interested. If anything, they were more interested than the man she was meant to be reading. The hand that wasn't cradled in her own came out, clumsily tracing patterns over the smooth skin of her wrists, the young woman trembling but doing her best to resist the urge to flinch away.

Pretend.

Men had pinched her. Men had groped her. Men had forcibly kissed her. She could handle a drunk stroking her hands and her arms. She licked her lips, trying to concentrate as his hand crept further and further forward, potentially heading towards her chest. She leaned back, trying to be subtle about it.

"Your relationships... ye struggle. It ent that ye don't care, that ye don't try. Ne, I think you try and it's the trying that pushes people away," she commented, feeling that that was very accurate given her current predicament. "Nothing steady now, just 'tempts to have something. Lonely maybe. Did ye go for the booze to get rid of that or did ye lose things over the booze?" she asked, speaking more to herself than to him. The hand drew back, left her arm altogether and her body relaxed a little.

"Ye ent healthy. That line there, see how broken it is? That's sickness or hardship. Lots of it and-"

The woman broke off abruptly, a short, high-pitched squeak coming from her because his hand had found its way under the table, the squeak coming when his hand landed far, far too high up her thigh for comfort. "Ye get tha' hand away 'fore ye regret it, kov. You're warned, ye chen? Hear me?" she asked, voice at least an octave higher than normal.

Her hand went under the table, shaking as she went to dislodge his suddenly iron grasp, clumsily grabbing for her field and failing in her distress. Her dark gaze moved around her wildly, seeking aid somewhere, anywhere, eyes finding Jenson briefly before she let them dart back to Moony, trying to concentrate enough to cast a spell to dissuade him. Her short nails, so often bitten and picked at, scrabbled against the back of his weathered hands, desperate to leave a scratch, wanting to claw the skin open so he'd back off.

[Jenson]

bear and boot | mid-afternoon

6 LOSHIS 2715

Jenson’s eyes bore into the back of Moony’s head. The man had managed to pass a hat across her palm, stupidly grinning and touching in kind. The tankard squeaked as the Bar-Wick wiped the inside with a rag, his eyes only briefly shifting around the rest of the room. He was head counting, mind picking out and deciding what any of his next moves would be. For the moment the other patrons seemed amused; though it did not pass him that pair of sailors were in the corner quietly flexing their muscles. Their tankards were down on the table, a gentle pop and crack of knuckles as they in return assessed the situation. Hans and Peter were the more likeable patrons of the Bear and Boot, largely keeping quiet until either of them passed eyes to the Wick and a nod was made. Jenson watched Hans rub at his stubble chin, the other looking at him before nodding over to the drunk.

The Wick raised a single finger to his lip, before returning his attention back to the fortune telling.

He could not get as clear of a view as he would have liked, Moony’s back had a tendency to block most of the happenings at the table. The expression of Aziza however was one he was able to steal glances of; she seemed comfortable. Or at least, was still smiling. He squinted, lips pursing as he hummed deeply. Moony always had a strong grip, or at least when around a tankard. He also had a tendency to not properly clean them; the dirt that collected beneath his nails was something that caused the Wick to scrub at his own.

Coiled fists rested on the surface of the bar, ears twitching as they barely picked up on the words spoken around the pub.

”-When will he learn?-”
“-Dirty old coot-”
“-How long you on shore for?-”
“-Sickness or hardship-”
“-Captain keeping on for a week-“

Exhale. He could see the head of Moony tilt to the side, clearly trying to work out through what was being said. Or more accurately if he was being flirted with. He was never too sure what went through his mind; and he was fairly certain he did not want to know either.

It was the distressed squeak that made him focus more on her. He saw the panicked look, the way the jaw would tense, the lips parting almost in preparation to bare fangs – he had seen that look before, on whores who did not feel safe, who felt they were being harassed by clients. It was a controlled fear, that one where people struggled against it. Jenson’s eyes shifted to Hans and Peter, eyes meeting and a single, firm nod.

Chairs scraped, the sailors standing and moving slowly. The Wick moved around the bar, the curious eyes of Beatrice peering at him from the rim of the bowl. Jenson called out to Moony, his own hands having now found purchase on the Witch, ”Moony, you getting handsy again?”

He begrudged the use of again, but even he had seen first-hand. He made a mental note to correct himself – he had never seen Moony hurt anyone in his bar. The drunk turned his head to look, and flinched when he felt the hands of the sailors either side of him. He slurred still gripping onto her, ”She told me she wanted my palms-“
“Moony,” Jenson scowled, ”Let the lady go. You know where you can get company-“
“You suggesting me to pay your mother a visit, boy?”
Jenson swallowed. His palms itched, fingers scratching the inside of his hands, ”Watch yourself now Moony.”

Another nod towards Hans and Peter. The sailors pulled upon him then, grip jerking and pulling. A noisy protest, the table juddered as he began his struggling. The tankard was knocked over the edge, contents rolling out onto the floor. The grip grew tighter, dragging him from his seat and out onto the floor. Moony slurred, ”Or what? Everyone knows what your moth-“

There were only a few times Jenson could be brought quickly to seeing red. This was one of them. His hands had grasped Moony firmly by the collar, knuckles going white as he brought himself and the human nose to nose. Teeth bared, he growled, ”Don’t try me. Now, he inclined his head to the pub exit, ”Get out.”

[Aziza]

Loshis 6, 2715

The girl was panicking but also desperate not to make a scene. She didn't need to come across as an easy target, a helpless one but she was too scattered to cast to make him back off, the mona seeming slippery around her, elusive in her terror. Aziza didn't want prospective customers to see her as an easy mark. Still, she didn't want this to happen, desperately wanted to avoid it, and the pitch of her voice was probably enough to alert everyone in her vicinity. Truthfully, she was glad that it was clear because it enabled people to come to her rescue. Perhaps it would be embarrassing in hindsight but right now, she was relieved.

Jenson came to stand behind the man, his words a welcome intervention, as was the sight of the two men who came to flank Moony. The lecherous drunk didn't unhand her, wits too dull to fully grasp what was going on. He hung on, he'd actually managed to keep touching her even though she'd scratched at him. Thankfully, he'd stopped his groping although his touch lingered, something wet dribbling on it to slick her skin; the mingled stench of iron with dirt told her that it was blood.

When they started to pull him, his body struggling violently, the witch added her legs to the mix, lashing a foot out as she scooted back, desperate to untangle herself. The sailors had a good hold on the man, pulling him with mighty strength to dump him on the floor even as Moony continued insulting Jenson's mother. She had no idea of the man's history, his mother's history, but she considered it a low blow, even if she was a woman with loose morals. It was no wonder that it struck a nerve, making the bartender grab at him violently.

"Havakda! Do as you're told, kov," she snapped out, not keen to see violence done in front of her. She didn't have any particular desire to see Jenson's anger unleashed either; given his previously quiet demeanour and his new attitude, she imagined that he hid quite a temper.

The spoke took a moment to gather her calm, taking a deep breath as she gathered her field, a pleading tone to her Monite as she asked the mona to perform a push spell. it responded, more enthusiastic than she'd intended. Her timid attempt to push him towards the door was overturned by the sentient energy, a forceful shove sending him skidding backwards a number of feet before control of his body returned to him, the man turning partially and collapsing in the doorway, smacking his head violently against its surface while the witch cringed away, horrified. Her intent had been enhanced by her fear of him, her humiliation and now she'd made more blood come out of him, the crimson liquid oozing slowly down his temple.

Her hands flew up to her mouth, whimpering while her unintended victim groaned. She hadn't meant to hurt him and she wasn't sure how badly hurt he was. Could she fix him? What if she couldn't? All head wounds liked to bleed a great deal so she couldn't be sure until she got a good look at him. At least he was still conscious.

"Vrunta! Vrunta! Vrunta! I didn't- I wouldn't- Epaemo!" she wailed, looking to Jenson, looking to Moony, not entirely sure who she was apologising to more. It was the man's bar and she'd brought too much excitement to it but she'd also hurt the poor drunk. Even if he had been highly inappropriate with her, she hadn't wanted to hurt him like this.

"Get me something, strong drink'll do. Lemme clean him up, see if I can fix him," she told the other wick in a fluster, rushing over to Moony and kneeling before him, taking his head gently in her hands so he wouldn't hurt it more while he moved it back and forth, hitting it off the frame again and again.

"Got a back room or something? Somewhere out o' the way? Ah don't let me have cott him! Can't live with that. Have to cott myself if I-" she cut herself off, flapping a hand excitedly, not sure what to do with it. Hopefully the sailors could move him, hopefully there was somewhere to move him too and that Jenson was willing to accommodate her drama. The Mug looked up at him, her expression one of perfect misery and distress and she appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"Epaemo. Sorry. So sorry," she whined miserably.