[Open] Rain Check

[Tallis Cade]

The Trod • The Dives

Mid-afternoon • Loshis 2, 2720

Rain pelted mercilessly at the steel-slat shingles of The Trod. It might have been almost pleasant, standing behind the oaken bar, warm and dry while the rest of the world was washed in gray, but rain made for empty tables and empty tables made for a lean haul at the end of the month. Hard to appreciate anything when it meant counting shills.

“Vrunta, ye spitch! Watchit!”

Tallis raised a bored look from where she stood picking at a dish rag on the bar to the cursing kov behind her. The man was already spitting-mad and squirming by the time she spotted him, pinched between the kitchen doorframe and a dripping icebox. Sam Beatty’s wide eyes appeared over the top of the leaking chest just long enough to realize his mistake before the lad disappeared again, hastily dragging the appliance backward, away from the frame—and his red-faced foreman. It’d’ve been easier to fix the thing in the kitchen, but then Tallis never would’ve heard the end of the cook’s grumbling. Better to have it hauled out for repair. Well, she thought, watching the ordeal unfold behind the bar, better for her at least.

Hock Ryker let loose a string of cusses foul enough to knock the freckles off a golly when he finally shoved himself free. If it’d been anyone else, Tallis might’ve intervened. But she knew Hock well enough to know the man’d have the Beatty boy’s head if she made a fuss. Besides, he was a friend of her da’s and she wasn’t paying him half as much as the job was worth. So instead, she watched, wincing—for Hock’s sake as much as the lad.

There wasn’t much more to do but watch, anyhow. She’d already cleaned the bar twice since morning, the linens upstairs were changed, and she’d finally managed to chase the cook from the kitchens, vowing to make do with whatever stew the woman made the day before if anyone came looking for a hot meal. Coincidentally, that was precisely what she did when two kovs came round an hour later. They trudged across the little dining room, wet and sopping, dripping rain across the fresh-cleaned floor to take up residence at a little table by the fire. Tallis poured their drinks and brought out their bowls, steaming and savory with the cook’s day-old stew, the sort that hit all the right spots on a dreary, rainy day. They were still there, over an hour later, none the wiser with their heads bent over their table in a conversation lost to the crackling in the hearth. Tallis could hardly blame them for lingering, not when the rest of the city was still spitting water outside.

“Sack it to Alioe,” Hock growled at the Beatty boy behind her. “Leave th’damn thing there fer a piss. I need a drink.” The foreman rolled his neck with a crack, while Sam’s wide eyes appeared again on the other side of the icebox. Tallis spared an empty smirk at the boy, waving him around with a shake of her head. There wasn’t a job in all of Vita Hock Ryker did without getting halfway to sloshed first.

Outside, the sign over the door creaked in the wind. ‘The Trodding Fork Inn,’ it read. Not that anyone ever called the place that. It was The Trod to most. Every so often, someone’d try out ‘The Fork’ instead, but it never stuck. The road out front split, winding north into The Dives proper, and arcing south toward Uptown. It made for a prime location for an inn as well as a pub, and those who came knocking with fake names and memorized orders could hardly ask for a better layover.

’Course, none of that dried the rain. Tallis reached for a bottle under the slab of the bar and passed it to Hock as he passed. “That’s comin’ out of your pay, you know,” she warned. The foreman batted a hand; they both knew his price for the day was already settled.

[Yazad]

The Trod, The Dives

2nd of Loshis, 2720; Mid-afternoon

I t was not raining quite as awfully when Yazad had left the hotel he and his master occupied, but now it was.

The man has learned to never underestimate Loshis. A refreshing early morning drizzle could so easily become curtains of ruthless raindrops before one managed to utter the full name of a Bastian galdor. Yazad knew all of that, but he still went out early in the morning, umbrella in hand and the slip of paper that guarantees his partial freedom to walk out in pocket along with a tally-full pocketbook, because a few more minutes spent idly in a hotel room would have driven him insane. Why Sophronios chose this bleak season to go vacationing in Vienda was beyond him. The man mentioned something about scheduling, something about a science society, and something about...orchids and vanilla. It all might as well have been Monite to the raven-haired passive who simply nodded patiently and continued to pack their belongings.

"Goodness gracious..." Yazad muttered softly, his fine brows furrowing as a particularly strong gust of wind caused him to almost stumble, and the tears of heaven began to beat down even harder against the topside of his black umbrella.

Things had been rather mild when he started his day, intending to take the chance to walk around the area where their hotel sat. He did not intend to go far, not really. He merely wanted to see what Vienda’s shops have to offer and to try taking the tram out of curiosity. The one-tally experience was well worth the price, in Yazad’s opinion. He found himself enjoying it more than he initially anticipated. The vehicle -heavy as it appeared to be- moved faster than the carriage that had taken them from Brunnhold to Vienda, and he simply liked it whenever navigation and directions were made to be a professional’s business, not his.

Oblivious as he was about the city’s layout and inner workings, there was no set destination in Yazad’s mind to go to. He had simply memorized the name of the hotel and resigned to the fact that he would have to ask his way back to it, then inquired from a passerby about the nearest point of interest a first-time visitor of Vienda could reach. It was then that he was pointed towards the tram, and told to seek out a place by the name of the Painted Ladies.

He had been walking for quite some time after disembarking from the tram, but still failed to find any paintings of ladies or even an establishment by that name.

The heels of Yazad’s boots clicked with tiny little splashes against the wet street, pale green eyes giving his surroundings a final look of inspection--not a single painted lady to be found in sight. It was, admittedly, far easier to be dogged about his search if it were not for the rain and the chill that came with it. And so, with dryness and possibly something warm to drink now shuffling up to the top of his priority list, Yazad’s shivering form began to move towards the closest place of potential shelter that he could see. ‘The Trodding Fork Inn’, a swaying sign declared. A rather imaginative name, Yazad mused with blinking eyes. As good a place as any, in such circumstances. Or at least, so he assumed. Truthfully, he had never been to an inn before.

Standing in front of the inn’s soaked door, Yazad paused and took a moment to brush his hair with his fingers and pat any stray raindrops off of his coat. Only after he made certain -as much as one possibly can without a mirror- that he is looking acceptably presentable did the man push the door open to step in.

"Greetings." The passive announced his arrival with a gentle utterance lacking in awkwardness or hesitation. The polite smile drawn on his mouth felt a tad more difficult to maintain when his lips were on the verge of quivering. Ah, but what exactly did people do when in an inn? Do they simply walk in and occupy any empty table they wish to sit at? Do they wait to be sorted by the one who manages the establishment? Do they even accept people who are after warmth and a hot drink or must he also pay for lodging to be allowed the service? Questions flooded the passive’s head and he did not realize that he was standing there in deep thought, looking very unsure of what to do.

"Oh, tea and crumpets." The sight of other people inside pulled Yazad out of his thoughts and reminded him to fold his umbrella, which he did with neat little motions before turning smilingly to a woman whom he could see standing behind the counter. The black-crowned head dipped in a small and short bow. "A good day to you, madam. Might I ask what manner of table arrangements must one abide by in this fine establishment?".

Rain Check

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The South Dives, later, The Trod
The 2nd of Loshis, Afternoon

Bailey Sneed

A

fternoon and the rain pissing down. It rattles on roofs and gurgles in gutters, drains struggle to carry it all away. The River is full up of water, it objects to any more. And so rivers run in the streets and lakes form where the paving stones have been worn away. Puddle isn’t a grand enough term for those expanses of chill, dark water. Soot-stained and unclean, some awash with the thin rainbow film of axel grease, and all ready to devour the flimsy-shoed feet of most who are abroad. Boots are what the day calls for. Boots to stand up against the weather. His own are made for such things. Three weeks wages, well, wages and perquisites, spent on these things. It’s amazing how much a pair of indifferent plate candlesticks can go for, if you know the right buyer. They’ve paid for themselves in comfort, in dry toes, and the enviable terror they strike in any damned pigeon too stupid to get out of his way. Pigeons are bastards. Unlucky, ill favored, and readier to hand than rats. Rats at least have some dignity. Very sociable is your average rat. Decent to their neighbors, a terror to their enemies, and above all, rats are chancers.

Pigeons just coo and cover everything in shit. No panache. No style.

Not much style to the boots either. Heavy workmen’s boots, the kind the fishmongers and stevedores favor. ‘Always buy good boots’. Grandda’s advice and worth following.

He is wet, even for all his precautions. Wet as a drowned rat. Apt enough. His coat, an ancient thing on its third generation, is holding its own against the deluge. Still, it can only go so far to keep him dry. At the seams and where the coat must be open to allow him inside, water has seeped in. An hour ago his hat had been carrying on with spring in its broad brim and even managed to keep a jaunty angle. No more. The hat is sodden. Heavy wool sticks to him, rain cascades on his shoulders.

“Hang this for a lark.” He is talking to no one. Who can hear him in all muffling of coats and the drawing of the rain. No point in heading on much further. Across Blackthorn Bridge, down through the valley between the Clockhouse and Smike’s End, then on and up, to be wet as a frog’s breakfast by the time he gets to home. Home. Home’s an alcove in a vestibule. He cannot get into Mr Shrike’s. Mr Shrike is out, at work. Always at work. No sense in trying to force the lock. Damned thing belongs on a bank vault, not some kov’s front door.

Shelter then, someplace dry and warm. Someplace for a pint perhaps, and a rack to dry his hat and coat. On then, just a little further. He knows a place.

Past the junction where Pardigle Street slopes down from Saddlery Hill there is a maze of streets. He takes the left hand turn past the bone shop, past the Street of the Cutlers, and joins on to larger streets. South and south still, but not near as far as the bridges. Close enough though, that when the rain lets up, if ever it dies, he can dash off to Smike’s End and make his report.

Little enough in any event. More background on this Thomas Cooke character, a few notes on smuggling rings, generally considered, and some very preliminary intelligence on what can only be described as a census of opium dens. Opium ain’t Mr Shrike’s drug of choice. Too relaxing, too somnolent. As far as he’s ever managed to grasp it, Mr Shrike does not sleep. Well, not often.

The report will wait. Nothing time sensitive. Gossip from Old Pol, from Ma, the watermen, and a shady apothecary don’t amount to much.

It is still raining. Raining harder. Hells and death, can it get wetter? Might as well swim as walk. Either way he has to press against the current. Traffic and people in the street, miserable pedestrians, bedraggled moas, sodden horses. Shouts and shivering all around. A pickpocket’s paradise. No time for that. No desire.

Half through the crowd and half more. At last, he arrives as the door of the inn he rarely frequents. It’s not quite his style. Too large, too sociable. Still, it is warm. It is dry. It is here. You can’t say fairer than that.

The bell rings at his entry, and the fug of damp patrons, muggy air, sodden wool, and too much beer wraps around him. A less than full company. Still, there are enough people about for the place to host the inevitable wag who grins at every rain-soaked guest and laughs out. “Wet enough for you?”

“No,” he says, a small ocean forming around his feet. “All too dry for me, kov. I’m a fish you see, just today’s my day off.” He glares as the man, willing him to shut up and leave him in peace. Perhaps it works, nothing else is said.

Doffing coat and doffing hat, all still dripping, he finds places on a rack for them. A place for them to steam softly. Any chance of a place by a fire? Something dry and warm? No idea. Best to ask. Up to the bar then, a vast great oaken thing, an altar of the convivial. A few others at the bar, the publican herself (or whoever she was) looking abstracted. “Afternoon. A pint of your best bitter ale. Something floral and bracing. Oh and,” he was going to ask about the possibility of drying his clothes by a fire, perhaps even ask after a leek and mushroom pie, no luck. He was cut off by the politest voice he has ever heard. It was like something out of a stage play. An elegant, but equally damp, personage with dark hair and a voice as prim as doily enquired about lodgings. Laundry would be a better service.

Then again, a room might come with a fireplace. Perhaps Doily here was on to something.

[Su'yina Liae]

🙐The Trod / The Dives

on the 2nd of loshi, 2720, during mid-afternoon.

W
hat had once started as a day with a sliver of sunshine peeking through the dark-grey skies amongst the early clouds in the morning; like a sliver of hope, had long since disappeared by the time Su’yina had reached the capital of Vienda. For the express and rather personal delivery of a rather hefty parcel. In the back of her mind, the wick knew she should have expected this. With the earth smelling so fragrant she should have expected today’s downpour. Yet without fail, the ratty little thing she had once called her umbrella stood far away from her, on the caravan she had hopped boarded to get this far. It was not the most personal way of transportation from city to city, but it was the more affordable one. With her home as it is and with what little she had, Su’yina was not inclined to complain. She quite adored the change of pace.

The ride to Vienda had been enjoyable. The warm voices of the traveling party had wrapped itself around her made her feel warm. The jokes had echoed loudly alongside the tales regaled, and children giggled from their parents’ lap. It had been tight in all the right ways; Lively and welcoming. The faint scent of weathered leather, the small dabbing of perfume worn by another traveler, down to the half-spilled tincture of alcohol that had been knocked over halfway through their trip, soaking the nearby hay had only added to that cacophony of warmth. It was a secret she would never tell her father, but this blissful chaos was one, she welcomed over the sedentary life behind the counter of a spice shop. No amount of affection and appreciation she had for her father, would tie her down to such a still life.

A howl of the wind smacked Su’yina out of her musing and with a face full of cold rain. Regret for her mistake came late as always but despite that, the brown-haired girl had a smile across her face even as she wiped away the hair that plastered itself across her face. Beneath the overhang of a nearby shop, Su’yina sucked in a breath. Her fingers that were rough with the years she spent helping her father man their spice shop and grinding orders, ran across the bumps of her bag. The wax-covered canvas bag was nothing extravagant, but it did its job properly, keeping packages from becoming soak by the weather and dirt from marring the contents within. It was on days like these that made her appreciate the amount she had to shill out just for it.

Mentally she patted her past self on the back. It was quite a worthy investment. One that saved her hides quite a few times.

With one last check of her goods, the wick took another look around. The broad street was devoid of most life, leaving the raindrops to splatter against the ground in an uneven beat. The increasing downpour was only serving to deter even more people from leaving their abodes. The hand she held out beneath the awning quickly became filled with water. “Dangit.” The rain looked about ready to give up as likely a weed was to stop growing; that is, it was dang persistent.

The heel of her boot sent water splattering as she clicked it against the ground. This would not do. She had a job to finish and while there was no tight deadline, a task done meant another one to be had. Hazel-colored eyes narrowed in thought as Su’yina cast her gaze upon the few awnings that scattered the city road. A few signs barely visible in the blowing wind only served the make the pinch between her brow deepen. With a decisive nod of her head, the young wick hitched up the shawl about her neck up to her head. The front of the makeshift hood was re-clasped with her worn-out brooch and with her shoulders squared, a hand near her pouch, the wick steeled herself for the biting chill of rain and wind.

And she was off through the street, with a pep in her step, as she darted beneath the overhangs that let the water drip off it like waterfalls.

By the time Su’yina made it to the crossroad that marked the area between The Dives and Uptown, she was drenched. Perhaps that had not been her brightest idea but at the very least she had enjoyed her futile fight against nature. A loud creak after a particularly harsh brush of wind had her turning. Like a waving hand, a nearby sign swung. With her hands cupped over her eye as if it would her vision, the wick’s lips pursed. “The…tr…tra…t-trod, trodding…” slowly the words were sounded out, although none of them wholly registered until she reached the last word. “Inn!” A haven, a fire, and someplace most likely dry. “YES!” Eagerly, the brunette made her way to the door standing at the front and wringing out as much water as she could. The rain-washed wood eventually opened with a decent whump in her enthusiasm. Even if she could not afford a room perhaps, she can haggle off the forgotten umbrella of a guest.

“Excuse me!” Tanned fingers pressed against lips as a sheepish looked across her face and a puddle on the floor. “Oops…” It looked like there were a few guests ahead of her. The husky drawl of her voice dropped slightly. She may be a hassle as her father liked to repeatedly remind her, but she was not completely rude. “Sorry."

[Tallis Cade]

The Trod • The Dives

Mid-afternoon • Loshis 2, 2720

Hock plucked the proffered bottle from Tallis’s hand as he passed, swaggering himself round the bar to plop down with a weighty huff at the far end. The Beatty boy a lingered a few paces behind, unsure whether he was expected to join in the drinking or stand watch over the abandoned icebox. Hock had already yanked the stopper from the bottle—compliments of his eight good teeth—and spit it into a grease-stained hand before he realized the lad was still loitering halfway across the bar.

“What’re ye waitin’ for?” he barked. “Come sit yer ass down.” Sam Beatty jumped like a kernel of corn in a skillet, eyebrows disappearing into his hair as he tripped over himself—and more than one barstool—in his scramble for crotchety foreman.

Behind the bar, Tallis wiped down a pair of mugs, grin just barely tucked away behind the pointed look she narrowed on Hock. “What?” the foreman grunted. “Asked him t’ join me, didn’t I?”

There wasn’t a kov in the room who hadn’t, at least once in his life, been on the receiving end of the sort of arched brow and knowing look Tallis levelled on Hock just before she slid the fresh-cleaned mugs across the bar. Chip-speak at its finest. If Hock grumbled anything in return it was lost to the clatter of the bell over the door and the howl of wind and rain that followed.

Tallis turned, leaving the repairmen to their bonding, while the sodding wet kov at the door made his way across the room. “Might be our first fish,” she told him wryly, tucking the dishrag into a pocket on her apron. He was in luck. The barrel she tapped that morning was plenty bitter. More than enough to chase away the chill of a rainy door. ‘Floral,’ though, was another matter.

The bell over the door chimed again, replacing whatever it was the kov at the bar intended to say with the politest mash of words Tallis had ever heard. She stopped mid-reach for a mug pegged on the back wall to find the lilting voice at the door. “There’s no abidin’ to it,” she assured the dripping-wet passive. “Sit wherever you like.” Mismatched tables filled the room, some with chairs enough for two, most equipped for up to four, and one round behemoth in the back broad enough to seat six—eight if you didn’t mind your space. Tallis's gaze might’ve lingered more curiously on the dark-haired kov had it not been for the fact her hand was still half-way to a tankard on the back wall. Instead, she spared one last, quick look at the passive before retrieving a mug and running it under the barrel she tapped that morning.

“That’s as bitter as it is bracin’,” she told the kov at the bar, sliding the filled tankard across to him. “An’ I could put a flower in it if you like.” It was the sort of thing she might’ve said with a coy smile and a wry glint in her eye a couple years back. These days, though, Tallis was as dry as the pub floor before that bell started ringing. Still, she managed a ghost of smirk before the clanging over the door started up again.

Tallis wasn’t sure whether to thank Ophur or the rain or both, but she was glad for the sudden rush of business. Even Hock raised an intrigued look at the door, the third time the bell rang. Must’ve been pissing cats outside by his estimation. “You here for a room or drink?” Tallis called, still lingering behind the bar in case the mannerly passive chose to seat himself along the counter.

[Yazad]

The Trod, The Dives

2nd of Loshis, 2720; Mid-afternoon

T here were several people already inside, Yazad had noted. Seated together, talking rowdily among themselves, and calling out a low-hanging fruit of a jest at someone that appears to be near him.

Yazad half-turned, curious, to where a man at the center of a widening puddle. The rain had not been kind to anyone, but the fellow before him was not miserable enough about his state of wetness to make his own jest. A derisive remark; witty enough to silence the man named Kov. An odd name, that. The passive had the impression that these people knew one another if they were comfortable enough to exchange such banter so casually. It was the innkeeper’s -he assumed she is that- retort that brought forth an airly giggle from his mouth, which quickly tapered off into a soft clearing of his throat into his fist, although the amused smile remained dancing on his lips.

"Pardon." Yazad muttered to no one in particular, feeling slightly sheepish about his own amusement. A hand went up to brush damp bags aside, allowing himself a better vision than one with a clump of wet hair obscuring it. There was nothing to be done about the rich green that soaked more water than it dripped, or the uniform that had clung to his shuddering figure beneath it. The rainwater that had seeped into his hair was a far worse woe.

Another chime of the bell attached to the inn’s entrance, another soaking arrival. A young woman with enough energy to spare, which was impressive to see considering current circumstances. "Good day, sir, madam." The greeting was uttered with inherent civility and a smile as cordial as it was difficult to keep steady. Hurte above. The chill had developed into shivers that he barely managed to suppress. A warm drink, a fire--either one or, that would be quite great. Preferably both.

Sit wherever the woman behind the counter had said. Pale green eyes wandered the room, taking in all the available tables. Whoever had made the place’s interior, they were clearly unbothered with the inconsistency of table sizes. There was not much to be seen in the way of decor, either. It, strangely enough, still felt rather cozy inside. Better than the outside by a mile, Yazad reminded himself. Another sniffle was about to escape him, but the passive successfully kept that at bay. Endure, endure. It will get better soon. There was a fire, there was warmth. Now, if only he also had a change of clothes available at hand. There was a comment regarding putting a flower in something, but the thoughtful passive missed most of it.

It was not hard for Yazad to choose where to sit, now that he was told that no seating restrictions applied. A chair was picked up with some difficulty, followed by the passive making his way towards the fireplace. The closer he got to the inviting warmth and the dancing tongues of flames, the more he remembered what it is like to not feel miserably drenched. The chair was placed down at an angle that allowed him to see most of the room while seated, as near the fire as it was possible without effectively roasting himself. There was a sigh of relief, and eyes with raindrop-laden long lashes fluttering shut. For the following moment, Yazad wanted to do nothing but let the heat wash over his straight-backed form.

"Ah, well..." When the woman’s voice reached his ears again, Yazad opened his eyes and turned his head towards her. A room or a drink. Frankly, he was tempted to just ask for both. He has enough to afford it, probably. Maybe. Knowledge of the average inn fare was not something that he possessed. In weather as unwelcoming as this, it was better to remain where he is until he is very certain that he will not be walking out into a repeat of his current situation. Yes, he could get himself a room and peel these clothes off of him, and leave them to dry while he bathes. But for now, he was not willing -or able- to move anywhere just yet.

"Perhaps a drink firstly, if I may. Might I ask for hot cocoa, please?" A still-dripping head inclined slightly in the innkeeper’s direction as Yazad made his gently spoken request, hands folded neatly on his lap.

Rain Check

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Trod
The 2nd of Loshis, Afternoon

Bailey Sneed

I

t might have been easier to ask for a sailors’ pale ale. That at least has a half-decent chance of being the right sort. The other half is something that tastes like boiled bread, inferior mud, and damp cannabis. Not the sprightly bracing pint he desires. Ales are damn tricky things.

The tricky thing arrives fast and drops before him. A fine color and a smell something like bitter orange and pine trees. Well, points to the Trod then. And points to the bartender all the more. She at least has real and proper taste. A real sense of what the customer needs. “Cheers,” he raises the pint in a sodden hand, “this will serve well without the bouquet. Though, if you want to drop a proper posey in the glass, I’ll not say no.” It would be a novel development, something to mark the place as distinct. Who knows, it might even improve things. Certainly it would spur conversation. Does he want that?

No chance of avoiding it. Not in a place like this. Folk keep popping in from the rain outside. Damned polite folk too. Some nattle swanning in an apologizing right and left. She don’t look like no posh piece, not like the dripping gent next to him with the cultivated voice. still , politeness knows no bounds. Conversation’s an inevitability in a place like this. No sense in trying to make it otherwise.

So, in the custom of such places, he gives the apologizing entrant a meaningless pleasant smile. At least whatever ear-bending and bone-box rattling that goes on in a place like this is like to be light. Complains about the weather, plenty of those, comments on the company. Nothing heavy or taxing. He’s had enough of that today. He’ll have more later.

Fantastic.

Old Pol had talked his ear off earlier. It’s probably shriveled up by now, avoiding sound like a man with a splitting headache. Tales of opium addicts, addresses to at least half-a-dozen dens, local rumors of who is too fond of the stuff. That may or may not be worth checking up on. Mr Shrike’s been all too close with what he wants to know. How in a thousand hells can he gather the right information if he does not know what he is looking for? No luck, less chance.

The apothecary just off Bletchley keeps claiming some golly lady gets her stuff from him. Laudanum, nothing stronger. He can scarcely credit it. Gollies in the Ladies? Rumors flit about, of course. He’s heard enough of them. The Ladies is as stories as any part of Vienda you could care to name. It is still a long way to fall for the lordley set. Even the likes of Mr Shrike, with city blood a thousand generations old running in his veins, would be out of place in the Ladies. Might be worth looking into. Not today. It is too damn wet today.

Wet. There is no denying it. Less use in doing so. The fire at least might serve to dry him out a little. Or at least make him steam like a Clocks Eve pudding. Doily, it seems, has the same idea. Doily. Strange kov, and all out of place. A voice so posh it could sit on the Council on its own. No, not quite. The accent’s foreign. The vowels are too clear, the cadence too musical. Bastian? They’ve got that musical swing to them. He’d dealt with them before, though no one so fancy and fine as Doily here. What on Vita is such a man doing here? The Trod ain’t no place for gollies like that.

He slides his own meager field along what should have been the edges of Doily’s own. Something there alright, but nothing like a proper field. Faint. All too faint. And wrong. You all right Doily? A fair question. Is this what gollies feel like when they’re sick? The man, if he can be called so, cannot be more than a handful of years older than himself, looks hale enough. Hale in a delicate doll-like way. Wet and uncomfortable to be sure, but that’s the common condition. A golly who ain’t a golly? Parse perhaps? Or passive?

No, that makes no sense. Passives are mostly up at Brunnhold. They wear the blue. Then again, this kov ain’t Anaxi, he’ll lay half a hundred concords on that. Perhaps they do things different in Bastia. Perhaps they teach them to be so polite it hurts and to order hot cocoa in a place better suited to ale, to spirits, and at pinch to a flip. A proper hot flip by the fire would not go amiss.

And so he turns again to the bartender, to the publican, glass raised. “Spot on with the ale, by the by. Very nice. But it’s a damned wet day. I don’t suppose a sherry flip might be in the offing? Hot and hot?” He plunks down a few coins, more than what is needed for a flip. “And I’ll cover this kov’s cocoa,” he turns to Doily, “if that stands well enough with you. It were a good idea and I credit a man with good ideas.”

The fire is a fine idea as well. Well enough to sit in such a place and dry out. The politest man in the world cannot possibly object.

[Su'yina Liae]

🙐 The Trod / The Dives

ON THE 2ND OF LOSHI, 2720, DURING MID-AFTERNOON.

I dling by the door, a mess of wet rags and limbs, Su’yina huffed as she peeled off her makeshift head covering. The fabric was used to futilely wipe her face before it was wrapped up and held close. The simple action only served to smear the mess that was already there. The sodden strands of brown hair clung to Su’yina’s wind smacked cheeks as she tilted it to the side, unsure if the woman behind the bar had been talking to her or not. The other might have had not but then it was equally possible that she had. The wick bit the tip of her tongue in thought. A glazed look flitted across her face before it she nodded her head, be it if she had been addressed or not, the tsat did need her assistance. Trotting back out into the rain was not a notion she was willing to entertain now that she was feeling remotely cozy. There was a warmth of fire calling her, the gently lulling din of inn-goers, and the inviting scent of burning wood. It was a heady combination and quite the tantalizing combination. She was in many ways an impulsive fool -that she would admit -but not foolish enough to risk her health to spare a few coins.

Although, as she patted the pocket that lined her skirt, less than filled with coins as she liked, she would not deny that she was tempted to risk it all to finish the job. She wet her cold lips and mulled over that thought for a second more before sliding over towards the bar. Logic in the end won over silly pride. Even if she were to finish her duties, the rain would bog her chances of finding a ride home. Neither horse nor caravan would like to be out in a hellish torrent; none of the sane variety anyways. Resigned to her fortunately unfortunate fate, there was not much Su’yina could do but stay for the night. By the morning, she hoped the sun would at least deign to grace them with a sliver of sunshine. An hour or two would be best. But this was Loshis and even the most optimistic soul would find it hard to wish for.

The wick’s quick footsteps squelched against the floor and the wrinkle of her nose showed just how much she disliked the sound that emanated from her every move. The distance between the door and the bar was swallowed by each raucous step. Su’yina hovered, a half-step away from the counter, unsurety causing her to pause as she eyed the stools, the company nearby, and the state of her clothes. As if summoned by her thoughts, a bead of water wicked itself from the end of her skirt, rolled a trail down her leg, and plunked to the floor. The brown-haired witch kept herself in check lest she drips her mess onto a nearby stool and causes an even bigger mess. The brunette offered the woman behind the bar a smaller subdued smile. “A room and a drink please…” the words were a husky whisper, nuanced by not a single ounce of shame for the words that were to follow. She was poor and she was aware of that fact. There was no indignity in trying to live smartly. Shame for her circumstances had been starved out of her years ago and having any semblance of a roof upon her head was better than none. “Your cheapest one of both; tea is preferable?” If it had been any other another day, the tsat would have asked for sugar with her drink, but not today when her coins were running low and the weather was keeping her from refilling the humble stash, she kept close. Perhaps on the next delivery, she would be able to treat herself to the delectable sweetness that was sugar.

“Ah, and if you happen to have an ownerless umbrella lying around, I can offer a few coins for it?” she murmured. Be it for later today, or the rest of the season, she did need to replace the umbrella she had misplaced. She loathed thinking of how much lighter her pockets would be within the next few minutes.

Her eyes drifted as she waited, to the crackling fire which beckoned towards her with its tendril of seeping warmth. The rug splayed to the right of it looked just plush enough to sit on. That looked like the perfect spot.