...do I know this girl?
He kept one eye on her as he divvied up the hoard of gil into two piles, counting out coins and leaving just enough on the table for the wenches to collect, enough to cover his tribute to The Spinner. The crowd started breaking up; always a good sign, in his opinion. Nothing worse than a bar fight breaking out at times like these; commotions such as those made making off successfully with one's winnings very, very difficult.
Was it her very false - and yet impressively realistic - grimace? Was it the way her ears folded back over her head? Something about her was gnawing at him, like some elusive string dangling just beyond his reach that led... somewhere else. He felt like a kitten: every time he made a play for that tenuous connection, it slipped away, quick as a blue bird. He finally chose to ignore the string.
He went straight for the hand that held it, instead, claws extended, ready to draw blood.
There were three at the table when I sat down. Male highlander, dark hair with red highlights, dark skin, beard, likely military. Male Elezen, dour, long brown hair, probably pirate. Female-
"This y'first trip t'the city?"
He had to work very, very hard to keep the smile on his face from deteriorating into a lip-curling snarl.
Such a question was an affront on several levels. First, the implication that he was not native, made to ostracize him, to turn the other patrons against him. Second, the implication that, if he was in fact a native, he came off as a foreigner, with all that that implied: gods-awful at cards, with terrible manners and a complete lack of respect for the hardships of the gutter. Third-
Quit it. Focus. She's tryin' t'piss you off, so don't give'r the satisfaction. Don't give away the game.
Give away the...? Please. This skag is ten years too early t'put one over me. How old are ye, lass? Seventeen, eighteen at most...?Â
That was when she flashed him the most disturbingly mangled smile he'd ever seen. He nearly groaned.
She's drunk. Lovely.
FOCUS!
Alrigh', alrigh'. Highlander, former Flame, maybe Maelstrom. Elezen, pirate... captain? Pirate captain. Miqo'te, short, scrawny, with a-
He blinked.
Ah. Ahhhhh. This explains a lot.
It also explained why she hadn't recognized him. Of course she wouldn't have; she'd have been, what, fourteen when he had skipped town? And how likely was anyone, really, to recognize him now in his current get-up? He'd made the right choice, it seemed, in changing his clothes upon arriving at the docks the other day; he had broken into his duffle bag, right then and there, and had swapped out the red cotton shirt and black-trimmed leathers of his uniform for the usual dull brown attire of pirates and privateers everywhere. He'd even swapped out his mask-and-turban for a bandana; he'd figured it'd be less conspicuous.
No one had recognized him since his arrival, other than his folks and a few yellowjackets who had strict orders to not touch him. Coupled with his long absence, this disguise of his had been more than adequate to dispel any ideas. Osric Melkire was dead, in the eyes of Limsa Lominsa; he had been for five years.
He finished scooping the last of his gil into his coin-purse, secured that in a belt pouch, then sat down again, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, flashing her a rictus of his own.
"Mayhap 'tis... but y'know better, don'tcha, Kink?"
He kept one eye on her as he divvied up the hoard of gil into two piles, counting out coins and leaving just enough on the table for the wenches to collect, enough to cover his tribute to The Spinner. The crowd started breaking up; always a good sign, in his opinion. Nothing worse than a bar fight breaking out at times like these; commotions such as those made making off successfully with one's winnings very, very difficult.
Was it her very false - and yet impressively realistic - grimace? Was it the way her ears folded back over her head? Something about her was gnawing at him, like some elusive string dangling just beyond his reach that led... somewhere else. He felt like a kitten: every time he made a play for that tenuous connection, it slipped away, quick as a blue bird. He finally chose to ignore the string.
He went straight for the hand that held it, instead, claws extended, ready to draw blood.
There were three at the table when I sat down. Male highlander, dark hair with red highlights, dark skin, beard, likely military. Male Elezen, dour, long brown hair, probably pirate. Female-
"This y'first trip t'the city?"
He had to work very, very hard to keep the smile on his face from deteriorating into a lip-curling snarl.
Such a question was an affront on several levels. First, the implication that he was not native, made to ostracize him, to turn the other patrons against him. Second, the implication that, if he was in fact a native, he came off as a foreigner, with all that that implied: gods-awful at cards, with terrible manners and a complete lack of respect for the hardships of the gutter. Third-
Quit it. Focus. She's tryin' t'piss you off, so don't give'r the satisfaction. Don't give away the game.
Give away the...? Please. This skag is ten years too early t'put one over me. How old are ye, lass? Seventeen, eighteen at most...?Â
That was when she flashed him the most disturbingly mangled smile he'd ever seen. He nearly groaned.
She's drunk. Lovely.
FOCUS!
Alrigh', alrigh'. Highlander, former Flame, maybe Maelstrom. Elezen, pirate... captain? Pirate captain. Miqo'te, short, scrawny, with a-
He blinked.
Ah. Ahhhhh. This explains a lot.
It also explained why she hadn't recognized him. Of course she wouldn't have; she'd have been, what, fourteen when he had skipped town? And how likely was anyone, really, to recognize him now in his current get-up? He'd made the right choice, it seemed, in changing his clothes upon arriving at the docks the other day; he had broken into his duffle bag, right then and there, and had swapped out the red cotton shirt and black-trimmed leathers of his uniform for the usual dull brown attire of pirates and privateers everywhere. He'd even swapped out his mask-and-turban for a bandana; he'd figured it'd be less conspicuous.
No one had recognized him since his arrival, other than his folks and a few yellowjackets who had strict orders to not touch him. Coupled with his long absence, this disguise of his had been more than adequate to dispel any ideas. Osric Melkire was dead, in the eyes of Limsa Lominsa; he had been for five years.
He finished scooping the last of his gil into his coin-purse, secured that in a belt pouch, then sat down again, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, flashing her a rictus of his own.
"Mayhap 'tis... but y'know better, don'tcha, Kink?"
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
