Virtue Amidst Disaster.

[Dorian Mode]

The kettle is swung with the full force of her arm, and it cracks not only the insect's shell, but the table it had perched upon.

That's going to cost her a few shillings, no doubting it.


Business has taken off at the tavern lately, and in all the oddest possible ways. In the aftermath of Pritchard's death, Darkblayde and her cohorts have over-compensated just a little: not content with a single barkeep to fill the space left by that veteran, they'd hired a bevy of girls to sweep the counter, serve the drinks, and see to the upstairs rooms.

Really, you might almost almost think they'd anticipated what was to follow.

They'd sorted out the duties amongst themselves: there was Molly for the counter, with her pretty smile; there was Clara-or-Clover to fetch meals, or was that the other way around? Confusion reigns supreme, as ever. And then buxom Kiki for the upstairs rooms, which had left Dorian assigned to the upkeep of the commons. She must fetch wood for the hearths and drive spiders from the windows; she must mop the floors clean, despite their trick of aquiring ever-more-astonishing stains each night. Fresh torches for the walls! Fresh candles for the lanterns, and be sure to scrub the brass with sand, to rid it of excess wax! In short, her life was a busy one, her pursuits plentiful, and the work challenging of nothing but her limbs: it was satisfying.

Oh, how things had changed.

Even Kiki seems close to exhaustion sometimes, but that may be her imagination: they've all been busy with cutting bandages and boiling broth from cast-off mutton-bones, for the tavern plays host to more invalids than the Rememdum. Two women upstairs, and beatings suffered down in the commons --

*Thwack!*

Another of the vicious stingers puts an end to that train of thought, and in a moment's vexed vengeance, her kettle puts an end to its life. Which will cost her a few more shillings from her pay, come the end of this month. With the impatient sigh of the overworked, she returns to mopping spills from the barcounter. Molly hasn't shown herself in days, and at times like this, one must dearly hope that she hasn't joined the invalids upstairs.

[JadenSoulhunter]

"And mind you take good care of that horse, boy. I paid far too much for that steed, and I'll take the shillings out of your hide if you mistreat him. "

Long and lean, almost serpentine in his motion. As fluid as water drifting lazily down a summertime river. Eyes of jade looked back over his shoulder at the stable boy, a wide grin parting full, wet lips. The silver ring, set with a teardrop of amethyst, glinted softly at his brow. It offset the odd tattoo which seemed to creep up from the collar of his jacket, framing his face in tiny intricate black leaves which came to a decied point as it sketched around the widows peak of his hairline.

"I'll know if a single piece of silver is missing from his tack."

Offered to the boy in his almost lazy way of speaking. Highly polished boots moved with purpose over the beaten path between the stable and the inn, long strides carrying him quickly to his destination. A cold drink and a warm woman, in exactly that order.

Light leather covered his form,save for a crimson silk shirt, tailor made to fit his body. Barely a groan was heard from the fabric as he took the stairs up the porch. A gloved hand, sheathed in the same thin ebon leather as his legs, raised to press open the door to the common room.

A shake of his head as he noticed the lack of patrons, he had hoped to see some failiar face, despite the fact it had been years since last he had ventured here.

Smokey green eyes were leveled on what could only be a serving girl. -Clang- down went the kettle on what he could only assume was a bug. A shudder, as he settled at a table.

"You, serving girl. I require a cup of hot tea and a glass of red wine. Have you any fresh fruit? Bring me what is local and in season."

Despite the rather curt nature of his words, his voice was more than pleasant, it seemed to drip from his lips like honey. His smile was at once warm and imposing, even as his eyes travelled over the girl, as if eyeing a piece of meat.

"well...don't stand there, child. I don't pay for lazyness."

Carefully the gloves were removed, one finger at a time, folded and layed beside him on the table. Fingers, long, artistic, removed the black velvet ribbon wich held back his ebon hair. A soft shake and it tumbled down around his face, sheets of liquid obsidian. Hands clasped in his lap as he leaned back in his chair and waited.

[Dorian Mode]

Still, still... there is a certain pleasure to be found in this industrious morning: it is the cheer of endless tasks, of endless purpose, none of which challenge the heart nor the mind, nor the nugget of morality that is, she's convinced, centerd somewhere at the base of her skull. Where, you understand, it has a poor view of the world around it. One need simply soak the rag in fresh water, smooth the last of the dust from that polished counter -- how does it retain that sheen? Another of the 'Dagger's unanswered mysteries -- and bother the worst of the stains until the cloth's corner is brown with yesterday's stew.

Why, there's even time to fetch a honey-bun from the kitchen's stores, now that the 'counter's about done, and a mug of water with which to wash it down, between swatting at the occasional insects. She hadn't done too well with that, initially: there's an itchy patch at the back of one shoulder that she's certain is a sting.

All of which is to say that what this stranger encounters is no representation of the 'Dagger's finest service. Some of the blonde has come loose from her braids, thin tendrils dangling limp around a face that might be considered quite perfectly lovely -- were it not for the busied flush of her high-boned cheeks, the stickiness of honey at the corners of her mouth, the vapid blink with which the man is met.

"Um."

Blame the dark ink of that tattoo: an exotic sight, even here, where every patron has his own unique idiosyncrasies. Or the gloves, if you prefer, for Spring has arrived to smother Myrken Wood with its cheerful warmth, and the townsfolk have taken to rolling back their sleeves.

"Um!"

Or perhaps he'll just think her lacking a tongue.

But about on her heels she turned nonetheless, to return with steaming tea and a platter of small fruits, each featuring its own unique pattern of bruises. Quick, but then they've been brewing the tea in quantity lately, for sake of their makeshift upstairs hospital. The wine is more of a challenge -- after all, this is Molly's job, not hers! -- but he'll have something to nibble on as she examines shelf after shelf, a marvel of ochre skirts and bewilderment.

If meat she is, then it's of the cutlet variety: pleasing to the eye, but somehow ... unsatisfying.

[JadenSoulhunter]

The fruit was regarded with a wrinkled nose, gloved fingers pushing at it curiously. It was certainly not the sort of thing he was accustomed to. One piece was taken gingerly between leather covered fingers and brought to full lips to nibble. It would do.

He watched the girl for a few moments, a soft chuckle forming, flowing forth like silk from his velvet lips. She simply did not know what to make of him. Certainly he could not be so odd in this realm where he had seen all forms of beings.

The selection of wine seemed to be vexing her a great deal, so he would assist her in that.

"The bottom shelf, third from the left. It has a green ring at its neck. That bottle will do. Make sure the glass is clean"

That should make it easy enough for her. Her simple ways were amusing to him, perhaps a little game was in order. How completely had she looked him over as she stuttered and stared?

Fingers would be extracted from their leather covering, the gloves laid to rest beside the platter of fruit. Long fingers, each tipped with a highly polished nail resembling chips of glass, would deftly grasp the forelocks of his hair. In a single smooth motion he would draw those digits down the strands of hair. As the hair passed through the pads of delicate flesh, it would emerge from the other side a sleek shimmering silver. His dusky features now framed in glowing shade of moonbeam, though the rest of his hair remained raven black.

Instinct made him reach for the gloves once more, but instead, he rested back in his chair. Let her see his hands, thin, long, elegant, and his unusual nails. It would be...entertaining to see if she had a tongue afterall.

[Dorian Mode]

No-one is accustomed to the state of the 'Dagger's first-Spring fruit, including herself: for the best produce, a person must travel further into the fields to pick the fruits themselves. His directions, however, prove to be enlightening: oh, speak the words and watch her scurry, a hasty creature with skirts fluttering loose and long about her heels. She's quick in her counting -- not innumerate then, whatever else one might think of her wits -- and the bottle is seized, cork tugged free with a twist of the wrist that might hint at her strength.

The glass, however, is trickier. The tavern stocks more mugs than glasses, for the obvious reasons: pewter and tin might dent, but even a dented mug can still be drunk from. Not so, a shattered glass. Will he offer directions on this matter? Oh, if all the tavern's customers were so obliging!

There are reasons that she's not ordinarily allowed to serve at the bar, and this is one of them.

Flutter and scurry, shuffle and stretch: perhaps he'll be glad that she's at least quick on her feet, if not exactly purposeful. But it all conspires in his favour, for she hasn't risen with an appropriate glass until he's preparing his cunning surprise, and when she catches sight of it --

All that broken glass will take her hours to sweep away.

"Oh my. Oh my, fingers like butter it just slipped Clara-or-Clover will be dreadfully upset and usually I do not break any thing at all that is a marvellous trick." She gulps for breath, ducks back down to scour the shelves once more. There is the occasional *crunch* of trodden-upon glass, and when she emerges once more it's to pause, eyes level with the counter-top and fixed his hands, which are splayed there.

Had he expected alarm? What he receives is something akin to wonderment.

[JadenSoulhunter]

A man with less control would have begun laughing at the plight of the girl, as the glass fell to the floor and shattered. For Jaden, it rated a simple twitch at the corners of his full mouth, his hands moving to lace against his smooth stomach, as he reclined in his chair.

"A mug will be fine, child, lest you break every glass in the establishment."

A single slender brow would raise sharply as she finally moved to speak. The torrent of words which came out of her mouth was both rapid and erratic. the tiny twitch of his lip became a smile, which tumbled into a slow velvet laughter.

"A marvelous trick, is it? You must see many tricksters here, what makes this simple thing so marvelous?"

Every movement, every word, seemed to smoulder. Nothing was rushed with this one, there was all the time in the worlds. Leaning forward once more, hands lacing on the bartop, nails glittering softly under the light, malachite gaze now washing over the girl with more interest.

"Bring another mug. Perhaps you can help me learn more of this place."

If I panther could smile, it would be that smile Jaden wore. Curious, sly, hungry. He was a curious creature, and this one would be an interesting study. He had heard the whispers, maybe she had heard them too. Maybe she knew of the coin...and its meaning.

[Dorian Mode]

His shift of posture is met by something suspiciously similar to a pout: her forehead furrows with a thin frown, lips quirking with disappointment, for there are no more sparkling nails to examine and wonder over. But he counters her with fresh instructions, and with a resigned set of the shoulders she draws herself back upright to fetch the requested mug.

It's a simpler process, even if she does take some pains to give its rim a quick polishing with one of the counter rags -- and something else, a surreptitious embellishment which leaves the dull metal gleaming. She's learned to be careful with things like that. She's learned to be sneaky, and the mug is slid to him with a sunny smile, before she turns to fetch a broom.

"First I must sweep," she chastises gently. "That is what I do here. It is good, honest work, and I like it very much." This much is clear, in the vigor with which she attacks the broken glass: it's only a moment's work, to bully it into a heap which can be poured into the barrel they keep handy for such accidents.

"It is marvellous," she continues, on turning back about from the work, "because it harms none, and is really quite lovely. Is it magic which requires a wand, or words? Or is it a trick with the hands -- can you teach it?" Questions to rival his own, as she finds herself a perch on the stool behind the bar. Arms fold upon the countertop, and she rests her pointed chin upon them as she fixes her bright eyes back upon the strange trickster. But here's some satisfaction for him:

"I'll tell you everything that I know. Of this place."