"So that would be....five crates of firewhiskey... twenty kegs of beer...and...hmm let's see... fifteen boxes of Blue Wine. Four gold pieces and sixty silvers?"

The squat good man called Merkan Corm gave a gruff nod as he leant on his cart, fanning himself with his hat. It was early, but here he was, already burning off from the still light heat the three suns were raining down the world, and if we might say so, the suns were something Merkan could care less and he still heartily wished that the other two suns would go away, no matter how blasphemous that was.

Penril counted his money carefully before handing it over. It'd been five years since he and Merkan started their partnership of course, but you never know. Money was a precious thing, and Penril knew it's value so kept a tight hold on it.

"Still exact, no?" He smiled at the fat old man before him, who looked so much like a deflating balloon under the morning suns.

"I wish the day was over, Pen." Merkan grunted as he heaved himself back onto the driver's seat. "You have no idea how hard it was to get those Blue Wine of yours. I had to pay an arm and a leg and it's just right you lose some of your fortune over them too."

Pen let out a laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. "Well, you lazy bastard, you never change. Go, don't let me keep you. I've already paid so don't hope that I'll be adding more."

Merkan "tch-ed" and soon he was off, his two horses pulling along his cranky cart altogether. Penril watched him until he vanished into the next street. Shrugging, the owner of the Prancing Pony cracked his knuckles ready and looked at the delivery for that morning. It would be so easy to use magic to lift them all inside, but that was way beside the point.

"Aight, let's do this."

He bent low and picked up the first crate of firewhiskey. A morning breeze blew. Penril paused for a moment and lifted his eyes to the three suns.

Something IS going to happen today...

The King’s condition as of today hadn’t worsened, but then it hadn’t gotten better either. After a somewhat hasty conference with the King with his morning report, Hadrian wanted to go back to his home, get a nice breakfast and go back to sleep. But he couldn’t because he was High Commander and he was, as always, expected to be around all the time. Sometimes it got into his nerves, other times he didn’t bother.

As he made his way through Olencia, numerous peoples, those who had gotten up early, bowed a little. Hadrian swept a hand through his messy hair. Now where to…? He could go back to the King’s Guard, although that wouldn’t be necessary, since he had a captain working there… he could go back home too, but he was feeling restless today.

He looked up. Three suns. Three. He didn’t want to be criticized as a heretic, but sometimes the three suns just… weren’t good for the world. Three. As if the heat wasn’t enough…. Hadrian scoffed at the thought.

His walk took him down a lane, where a man with a creaky cart and a pair of horses were just leaving. Hadrian moved to the side as the cart, with its creaking wheels, passed by. The man atop tipped his hat to him. Hadrian gave a nod.

“Say…” Hadrian spoke. The man on the cart pulled on the reins and stopped the horses. At an instant, Hadrian could tell this one was someone who was just as wary in his company as one would be amongst thieves.

“I mean you no harm.” Hadrian spoke politely. The man didn’t relax.

Hadrian bit his lip. He would lecture his troops on respect, by the gods. He didn’t want the populace to turn upon them. “I just would like to know what quality establishment would be ideal this time of day.”

“There’s the Pony, sir.” The man spoke, still wary of him and the armor he bore. He seemed to think for a moment. “The Pony’s a good choice, aye. I should know, sir. I cater to it.”

“The Pony?” Hadrian blinked. He had heard of it. The Prancing Pony. It was a well known inn amongst the youngsters, even more so with the female new recruits. “Tell me, where I might find this… Prancing Pony?”

The man jerked his head towards the end of the lane. “You’ll find it down the road.” He said. “Can’t miss it, sir. There’s a sign and all.” The man put his hat on. “Anything else, sir?”

Hadrian waved a hand. “No. Thank you for your time. Be on your way.” He watched as the man spurred his team into action. The cart disappeared as it turned around the corner.

Hadrian went on his way, at last coming to the end of the road. There was another man there, with various boxes strewn around him. He looked up. Usually, inns would have a sort of sign of sorts on an iron stand mounted upon the wall of their establishment. He spotted it easily. A white horse in a field of onyx.

He looked at the other man again. “Excuse me. This is the Prancing Pony, right?”

It was a rough road, just as always, when traveling to Olencia with Elwin’s faithful horse, Chassy. Riding in the sun baked road seemed endless, though he was quite used to it. Tipping is hood out of habit; he led his horse across a hill and up to the peak. There, the border gates of Olencia were clearly seen.

“Ahh, finally we made it.” He told his decrepit horse with a light pat.

And so he continued his last leg of his journey to the white city of Olencia. There, he was supposed to join a congregation of other medical doctors to gain another view on the king’s illness and a possible cure for it. For years now, they had come up with experiments and other such bizarre medical treatments, one far more farfetched than the last one.

Looking around the pristine nonchalance of the daily activities of the town’s folk, he started to amuse himself with his thoughts on how ignorant and apathetic these people are towards their crumbling government and the rising turmoil and violence that’s spurring in Ghayth.

Shaking the thought aside, his duty calls as a doctor; but first, he must find a place to stay – an inn. He chuckled as a new trail of thought came up to him. Their current Ablest, Penril, started an inn in Olencia not too long ago. It was quite convenient that a fellow slayer would set up a business such as this.

Tipping his hood once more, he neared the loud and busy Prancing Pony. He led his horse to the nearby hostler and paid the rent for keeping a horse.

“Child, just tie him up good and don’t bother it. Just give it a couple of pounds of hay and a bucket of water for the night. Do I make myself clear?” He asked the young hostler with a stern voice, as any dignified man would.

“Y-yes sir.” The boy replied, and went on his way to the stables.

He neared the entrance as saw loads of cargo, bet it’s ale and rum again, he thought. Seeing the well defined swirls of his Ablest’s hair and decided to sneak inside without him noticing, while he’s busy talking with a soldier. In the bar, he decided to find a secluded seat, near a window and waited for his “master” to enter.

Another day of work. It was one of those End Days, meaning Penril would very likely have a full pub even before lunchtime hit the clock. Though that was all good for business and money, it meant that his Slayer duties would be put off for a much later time. Sleepless night, here we go again.

The cellar was located below the whole pub and inn. The Prancing Pony was quite a big structure; the first floor was the main pub where all the brawl things happened. It was where the men frequent with their women and the occasional errand boy. The second floor was dedicated wholly to private parlors when the rich came by and wanted a place to themselves. The third floor contained some ten rooms Penril rented out for a decent fee of course. Currently, all ten rooms were vacant. The fourth floor was all to himself.

A wide, circular wooden trapdoor concealed the stone steps cut into the ground that led into the cellar. Penril climbed down the steps easily and deposited the box of firewhiskey in its assigned shelf before dashing back up to get the remaining ones. The Blue Wine had to be stored in constant, cool temperature or the taste would go away. He couldn't have that.

As Penril went out and bent over a second box, a voice sounded.

“Excuse me. This is the Prancing Pony, right?”

He straightened up, box in hand. A soldier. High ranking, by the festoons of merits and whatnot on his armor. Penril gave him a cheery smile. "No better place in Olencia, sir, please come in. Markoj will be happy to tend to you while I...." He jerked his head. "MARKOJ! GET YER LAZY ASS OUT HERE!"

There was a crash from the kitchen. He turned to the soldier. "Well get in, get in, and make yourself at home."

Penril didn't miss the blur that entered the Pony. Another slayer. He frowned lightly as he went back inside, aiming for the cellar. He quickly spotted the newcomer. Elwin.

Hmm. Maybe those doctor jobs of his again...

The man gave him a cheery smile as he straightened up, box in hand. Interesting, really. Not many people smiled at the King’s Guard anymore. They seemed to think it was an omen of bad luck. Now, Hadrian had right mind to go back to the fortress and lecture them on respect, but first things first, food.

"No better place in Olencia, sir, please come in.” The man spoke. Hadrian stared at the tattoo on the side of his face. Oddly familiar, that… he knew he had seen it somewhere. “Markoj will be happy to tend to you while I...." The man jerked his head. Apparently, this Markoj was an employee of this man. "MARKOJ! GET YER LAZY ASS OUT HERE!"

Hadrian raised an eyebrow as a crash sounded in the establishment. Hadrian had the right of course, to start inspecting this establishment in the name of the Crown, but then again, he could give this place a chance, right? He’d have mutiny on his hands if he even tried. The troops were getting restless. It was so hard to keep them organized anymore…. Maybe he could have them do community service.

The man’s voice shook him out of his reverie. An invitation to go inside. Hadrian nodded mutely. “My thanks.” He said. He watched the man’s retreating back as he headed into what seemed to be the cellar. He pitied that Markoj. Hadrian didn’t miss the blur either, but he couldn’t recognize it. Whatever it was… he put one gauntleted hand on the hilt of the sword buckled to his waist as he entered.

The place was comfortingly cool. At least he didn’t have to roast in his armor as the morning progressed. He looked around. An inn of this popularity must be huge. He wagered it had three floors at least, counting the cellar. He took a seat at the bar, some few seats away from another man with thinning white hair. It was, in a way, a reminder for Hadrian that he was, give or take, only a few years younger than that man. He didn’t like to be old, see. It was, in the military world, considered as complete and utter excommunication from further military affairs. Bleh.

Granted, he tried to make himself comfortable. Silence, he could deal with. He settled on waiting for that… Markoj. If the Pony served well, he could probably be a patron soon enough.

The old slayer found it comfortable in the the bar. It always had this homely ambiance to it. He looked around to see anything new and saw that the place has become a popular tavern for travelers and the noble alike.

"MARKOJ! GET YER LAZY ASS OUT HERE!"

Elwin could swear on Zruti's grave why on earth he'd ever appoint a loud and boisterous slayer for the next Ablest. Next thing that came was the sound of crashin and a tad fellow, Markoj as he would presume, attended to the soldier he saw outside of Penril's establishment.

This is certainly unexpected. A soldier of high rank, an inspection maybe? But Penril's not THAT loose in order to catch the militaries attention. He finally concluded that it might just be one of those high ranking officals practicing their authority and charm against the women at the pub. Women were starting to glance at the soldier and exchanged winks and smiles towards him. Ok, defenitely a good swoon on the ladies.

Seeing Penril come in through the door, he stood up and proceeded to meet him as he looked serious and sharp like an eagle towards his prey. Elwin grabbed hold of something inside his robes and tipped his hood much lower now, so low one would mistake him as a shadowy spectre.

Reaching up towards Penril, he cut him off with a hand to his shoulder. He tightened his grip at the object in his robes and looked up at penril straight to the eye.

"Penril, I have something for you." He told him coldly like his breath was made of ice as he draw his hand from his robes.

Markoj was a young one, only about nineteen winters. He was tall, thin and gangly, with a mop of ebony black hair that you couldn't tame even with axle grease. He always had this felt hat he proudly told anyone who'd listen that came from his 'Pa, and it was in fact the only thing that kept his unsightly hair in place. He wore a shirt that was too lose for him, and pants that were two sizes bigger, kept in place by a belt that he claimed was dragon skin. Of course it was just crocodile hide, but if you were stupid enough, you'd fall for the trick too. Markoj had been orphaned early and spent his time as an errand boy before the Pony opened and Sir Pen took him in. All in all Sir Pen was a good guy, yes, but Markoj could swear that his boss could make things float. Not that he'd ever tell that to anyone. They'd all clamor for his head if he did. Now 'Pa wouldn't be proud of that, now would he?

"Aye sir, what can Markoj do for you?" the gangly teen immediately asked the obviously important military man. "You might want to try some of Sir Pen's blue wine, they're the talk of the town, right, can't find anything else better than Pen's blue wine here in the Pony. That'd be some fifty silvers for a goblet..."



...While Markoj was busy upstairs, Penril was taking his time stacking the crates and boxes, using a tiny trickle of his own energy to move the air and align the crates about. Controlling such a fine flow of energy required pinpoint precision and unfallible concentration. Penril was good at that. It took him some seconds to align the boxes before he ambled back up to the trapdoor, only to find Elwin bearing down upon him.

The old man always had his temper. But Penril respected him because he was one of Zruti's students too, way before the former Ablest had him in the Keep. Though they didn't like each other that much, the respect was there.

"Penril, I have something for you."

The Ablest took note of the icy tone. But icy tones and cold glares could not shake Penril's eternal good mood. "I would prefer it if you did not rush." He gave the tiniest nod toward the guard. "That man...is rumored to hate our kind to the utmost. You must be really growing old to be this reckless."

He brushed past the older slayer easily, brushing his hands on his apron. He lifted a box of blue wine and the last crate of firewhiskey easily.

"Having a good time, I hope." He beamed at the Lord High Commander as he passed by.

The boy finally came. He was gangly, perhaps one of the errand boys around Olencia. Hadrian had momentarily served as errand boy in his career, but that was when he was a new recruit. He knew the hardships in that job, and was glad it didn’t last long. He was clad in a loose shirt, and pants that were way too big for him. Hadrian made a mental note to check the list of charity. He could help, maybe. It was his job after all to manage the City in the King’s absence.

"You might want to try some of Sir Pen's blue wine, they're the talk of the town, right, can't find anything else better than Pen's blue wine here in the Pony. That'd be some fifty silvers for a goblet..." The boy was saying. Blue wine? Intriguing, really. While he WAS the son of a Marquess, he hadn’t known anything about ‘blue wine’. It was always red, after all, or white. That at least, was something he could imagine, but blue? Not really.

"Having a good time, I hope." A voice. Hadrian lifted his eyes. Ah, the man he saw outside. Must be that… Sir Pen Markoj was saying. He still had a nagging feeling with that tattoo. He was sure he had seen it. Maybe when he was young? Surely. He glanced at the door. Other people were filing in now. Hadrian noted some of the women casting an eye on him. He did not respond. He was not one to womanize. Hadrian looked back to the boy. Well, he could try this once maybe. And then maybe he could go back to the Fortress and see to that list.

“I’ll try the Blue Wine, please…” He replied, just as polite. You had to be, if you wanted anyone to even approach you in this armor. The markings on his pauldrons were enough to tell any man in Olencia he was the High Commander. A fleur-de-lis emblazoned on both pauldrons signified his rank, and a scepter on his right indicated he was High Commander. “… and if Markoj would bring it quickly, I might give him five silver.” He gave a friendly grin.

After being brushed off, Elwin felt rather fuming with the young Ablest's arrogance. He took the sealed envelope from his cloak anyway and approached the slayer.

"This is urgent! One of master Iffalna's oh so mishchievous apprentice snuck inside th archives and fiddled one of master Zruti's items." He clenched the envelope tight infront of Penril so hard it could crumble in any second. "Ow, and let me remind you, guess what they just happen to triggered off - that blowstream pendant. Now almost the entire keep's continuously flooded." He hissed, making sure none of the people around them heard their conversation.

Tipping his hood once more he left the envelope at the counter and left towards the reception counter to avail for a room.

"I hope YOU take you responsibilities more seriously every now and then." He spat out and fuming as he went back to his table to get his luggage.

Tipping his hood once more, he walked across the loud and noisy drinkers and party-goers while swearing under his tone and up towards the stairs.

Arriving at room 3-A, he unlocked the door with the key and proceeded to make himself comfortable. The room was just homely unlike the loud and dank pub down below. Despite being angry he is still amazed at the yong Ablest at being good in contructing an establishment having sound proof floors as not to disturb its tenants up above.

He opened his bag and took out a smaller luggage, his medical bag containing some of his basic medical apparatus for diagnosis and treatment of simple cases. Taking out from his second bag was his clothing. Whipping out a whole set of garbs and robes, he hanged them at the nearby closet which had a full body mirror.

He removed his traveling cloak and robes and took out an ordinary walking garb. It took him around thrity minutes in hexagesimal period to finish fixing his belongings, before setting out for additional supplies.

"This is urgent! One of master Iffalna's oh so mishchievous apprentice snuck inside th archives and fiddled one of master Zruti's items." The envelope would have turned to dust if Elwin was using magic. "Ow, and let me remind you, guess what they just happen to triggered off - that blowstream pendant. Now almost the entire keep's continuously flooded."

Penril frowned as he stopped on his tracks.

"I hope YOU take you responsibilities more seriously every now and then."

And then the man stormed off. The Ablest only shook his head. The Slayers are all trained to be responsible. That disaster is master Iffalna's responsibility, not mine. Which was why he didn't like making magical items. They put you in tight spots. Now when he returned to the Keep, that apprentice was going to learn the rough side of Penril's temper. He would also love to give Elwin a talking to, but he let it pass. He merely shook his head, making locks of his hair dance.

"Dumdidoo..."

There. No more crates outside. He stepped out from the cellar and sat down on his customary chair, looking at the customers, smiling and nodding at them every now and then. The soldier who came in earlier was drinking some of the blue wine, with Markoj very likely blabbering about his dreams and ambitions, of his plans about joining the military one day and perhaps be just like the man he was serving. Markoj got too talkative when you let him, so Penril, hoping to stall the mess, rose and walked over.

"Markoj, I believe Madam Carmeli requires your assistance in the kitchen." He said pleasantly to the boy, who pouted but ran off anyway toward the source of the delicious smells of food now pervading in the pub. He turned to the soldier. "Everything up to your standards, I hope?"

One of his pretty barmaids, Katalliana, passed by bearing a tray. Penril didn't miss a chance to grab her by the waist. The buxom redhead gave a laugh before slapping her employer so hard that Penril had had to blink several times to clear the stars from his eyes. He smiled at the soldier.

"Well, that happens a lot." He snickered as he clutched his cheek.

After donning his doctor's robe and his walking coat. He proceeded with his errands.

"Now if I'm not mistaken Doctor Rainuss required a tissue sample for testing out his new medicine for the king." He murmured to himself while keeping an eye at his some short thirty pages of items that need to be procured before the third cycle of the three moons from now.

Managing his rather working bag, he went on down stairs, passing some of the other tenants and maids. Some of the regular housekeepers greeted the old doctor while passing by the corridors.

It's amusing how the Ablest was able to recruit one of the most charming and friendly employees to this establishment. He thought while greeting another housekeepers, who was just about to enter a room to clean up.

But no matter how cheerful and refreshing the place is, Elwin can't shrug off some of the activities these tenants here go on. Like one time, when he was here a few months ago, some of the drunk people would sometime shack up with some girls in the middle of the night and make a whole new racket around the premises; no matter how good the sound proofing is.

Shaking the thought aside, he went down the stairs and into the loud crowd once again.

"I'll never get used to this - " Elwin couldn't even believe his eyes before even finishing his coment at the site before him. Penril grabbed one of the prettiest barmaids out of the blue and then recieved a good smack on the face.

"Master Zoltan was right, I'll never get used to being around around with him." He sighed once then proceeded towards the door, he caught one more glimpse of Penril, before tipping his felt hat and giving him a you-deserved-that-hit-on-your-face look before leaving the Pony behind.

Well this blue wine was rather…. Bubbly. But it was good. Hadrian paused in him drink as he watched Markoj stare at him. What was it about him that made people STARE at him? He knew the reason why women stared at him, primarily because he was apparently High Commander, rich, AND old. Easy peasy. He could die, and then the women would get the inheritance. Tch.

Hadrian lowered the glass and raised an eyebrow. Markoj gave a grin. Hadrian blinked. He briefly entertained the thought of Markoj being gay, but then that was improper. Hadrian coughed as he placed two hands on the glass. “So.”

Markoj kept his grin. Hadrian felt his temper flare. Markoj kept it up. Seriously, hadn’t he HEARD of him? Stop beating around the bush, damn it!

….

Oh what the hell, that was it. “Why are you staring at me like that?” He spoke, leering at the boy. Take that you little midget!

“You’re the High Commander, aren’t you?” Markoj spoke, albeit quickly. Hadrian could only give a nod. Markoj immediately launched into a series of sentences Hadrian recognized as one of those ‘I-want-to-be-just-like-you’ speeches. For the love of the gods…

It must’ve lasted VERY long, for in that space of time, Hadrian had finished his glass of Blue Wine and at that point, the innkeeper, Sir Pen, came around. OH THANK YOU!

As Pen sent the boy away, Hadrian pushed his glass away from his person and put both elbows on the countertop. Ah, the blissful silence. He raised an eyebrow at Pen’s question. Of course he was having a great time. Great as in ‘ironic’ great. Try putting a loner next to a chatterbox. And poof, you have, for the love of the gods, a very great day. So great his mental voice was squeaky. Tch.

He watched as Pen roughly grabbed a barmaid around the waist and got slapped in turn. Ha, you deserved it, boychick! He gave a small grin, hidden with a rather lame attempt, as all soldiers try to do it, to avoid laughing. Ah, youth. And then he stopped. Oh gods, he was TURNING OLD! A DISASTER! HE OUGHT TO TURN IN HIS RANK ENSIGNIAS RIGHT NOW!

But he won’t because he WASN’T GETTING OLD, and he WASN’T 40. Yes, that could work.

…

Yes, he knew he was pathetic, thank-you-very-much.

Drumming his fingers on the counter, Penril rose for a moment to serve Madam Carmeli's excellent chicken aspharagus to some ladies-in-waiting from the palace. The two ladies were quite pretty with their corsets and well-done hair, their busts made prominent by their tight clothing. They very wisely retreated to one of the Pony's private parlors in the second floor. When Pen arrived with their food, they were chattering with each other. The talk paused abruptly when he entered and regarded them with a smile. He bowed and retreated after serving the food - of course he knew which kind of ladies he could flirt casually with. One of the ladies gave him a wink.

Smiling oddly, he descended the steps and back to the noisier first floor. The soldier was still there, apparently liking the Blue Wine. Penril approached him, leaning on both of his arms on the wooden countertop as he watched the soldier finish his drink.

"I hope the state of things aren't bearing down too hard on you and your men, sir." He said mildly. "Times certainly are becoming hard. I had to kick out a lord and a so-called spy the other day before they literally slit each other's throat in my inn." He shook his head. That had been a big scandal, that. He thought he would have to use magic just to pry the two men apart...

Well it seemed that this good man could do with some things off his mind. Penril straightened up and looked at the bottle of blue wine the man emptied. Approximately five goblets. So that'd be... two gold pieces and fifty silvers. He wrote the amount on a slip of paper and pushed it toward the soldier.

"If sir is not wanting to partake of anything else, of course." He said with a smile.

Hadrian was unaware of the time, or how many goblets of the wine he consumed. While he had a slightly higher tolerance to alcohol than say…. A twelve year old child, Hadrian would turn roaring drunk if he consumed anything strong. While the Blue Wine certainly wasn’t strong, it was, however, bubbly. He tried everything to avoid giggling like a little girl when the bubbles unfortunately, went up his nose. Ick.

Sound. Pen was here again. Hadrian blinked at him. Was it just him, or was Pen turning into twins? Hee, hee. It was, after all, just the Blue Wine in his system. He could go back home on his…. Lonesome. Hadrian blinked furiously. Wait, okay, he was one guy again.

"I hope the state of things aren't bearing down too hard on you and your men, sir.” Pen said. Hadrian hid his mouth with one hand. Hard? It was worse than hard… it was… did he just feel a mental hiccup? It was… troublesome. "Times certainly are becoming hard. I had to kick out a lord and a so-called spy the other day before they literally slit each other's throat in my inn."

Oh damn. That settled it then. Community service! He hid his grin with a hand. Pen might think he was drunk. He was NOT! He was… tipsy. Apt… w-wuh…word. Yes. Word. Not wurd. Get that straight.

“It’s been rough.” He said. “But we’re holding, if only barely. Everything’s getting out of control lately.” He frowned. He observed Pen with hooded eyes. What was he saying? Wait… read the lips… he was never really a good lip reader, but it at least looked like a good show he was listening when he was NOT. He glanced at the paper. Letsee…

Two gold pieces and fifty silver? He. Was. Not. Drunk. Enough. To. See. That. Obscene. Number. In any case, the Blue Wine DID deserve it… he glanced at his goblet. Oh look, it was empty. Hee.

Hadrian rummaged in his money bag and plopped down the exact amount. He counted. Thrice. First time, he ended up with five gold pieces, since well…. The gold MULTIPLIED. Second time, the silvers got looooooove…

Well, he COULD be drunk, but then he could give that the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you for the wine.” He said with a little tipsy grin of his own. Ahhhh, wine. “It was first-class. I’ll make sure to return.” He moved off the stool and left the establishment. Was it just him, or were the streets moving? In any case, he traversed the most likely pattern that would, hopefully, lead him back to the Fort. Now to see to that list.

They did it. They had finally arrived in Olencia. Truth be told, it had been a very long, very bumpy journey, and Amaranta had never ended her incessant complained. Really, after four years, Seyira supposed she should be used to it by now, but sometimes, she couldn't believe how she had put up with it for so long. Amaranta wasn't a bad mistress. Despite her naivete, she really was a charming girl, though prone to bouts of flight and fancy. Though Seyira really had no right to be judging the girl, considering how she was all of one year older, and was probably prone to the same things Amaranta was.

The carriage jounced, and sent Seyira flying upwards, which broke her reverie. In the seat next to her, Amaranta continued muttering under her breath. Seyira watched her a minute, and then shook her head. She probably shouldn't have come with the family to visit the relatives, but Amaranta had formed some sort of weird attachement to Seyira and refused to go anywhere without her. Which proved to be a problem on occasion, when Seyira had to leave and report her superiors. So she had been taken along, with a few of the family's other servants, and taken to Olencia.

After a few more minutes of bouncing, during which Amaranta's mutters grew louder and louder, the carriage finally came to a halt. Peeking through the window, Seyira saw an inn in front, the Prancing Pony. Why are we stopping here? If the family lived in Olencia, wouldn't it be simpler for them to continue on until they reached their destination? What did an inn have that they wouldn't? True, it was a nice inn, clean and moderately elegant, not some shabby old thing.

She exited the carriage, followed closely by the still muttering Amaranta, and when to where Jaylyn and Emil, Amaranta's parents, standing. "We need a break," said Jaylyn. "The girl's must be getting tired of sitting in a carriage all day, and it's nearly time for lunch. We'll take a short break here, and then be on our way." Emil's reply was a noncommital grunt. Spotting the two, Jaylyn ushered them into the inn. "Come on, girls!"

Inside, the place was crowded full with people of all sorts; merchants, sailors, soldiers... It seemed everyone in the city had decided to visit this particular place on this particular day. Jaylyn marched up to the front to ask for a table (if there was one), Emil following dutifully behind. One side of Seyira's mouth quirked up as she watched the odd pair make their way through the crowd. Looking around, she saw Amaranta flirting with a handsome serving boy. This is my chance. Making sure Amaranta would be all right, she wormed her way through the crowd, and set off for the kitchens.

The man was drunk; there wasn't anything you could do about it. Blue wine simply had that effect. While it provided one with a sharp, cooling sensation as it went down your throat, it backfired once the hangover hit. First time drinkers were very likely to experience a very bad headache the morning after, coupled with a few lovely sessions with a bucket. Penril remembered his own first goblet. He couldn't stand up straight for two days max; it took Slayer Iffalna's knowledge of herbs to restore his sense of balance and direction. Well. Now Penril could finish three bottles of the wine without problems, but only when absolutely necessary.

“It’s been rough.” The soldier said. “But we’re holding, if only barely. Everything’s getting out of control lately.”

Penril only nodded as he watched the man struggle with his coins. Yep, he was drunk. Penril was of course ready to return exact change - he liked his money but he didn't take more than what was needed after all. The discipline and rigors of a Slayer's life made you that kind of person.

Finally the payment was settled. The soldier was dangerously wobbly that Penril had half a mind to send someone to accompany the customer back to the Fort, but thought the better of it. People were rushing into the Pony now because it was lunch time.

“Thank you for the wine.” The soldier said with a tipsy grin. “It was first-class. I’ll make sure to return.”

Penril bowed. "You are of course always welcome, and we serve only the best in the Pony."

He looked around at the pub. So many people now. Straightening up, he went out through the main entrance to see to a couple of things in the stables, when a carriage came to a halt before the inn. Penril only shrugged and made his way to the stables. The pageboys all hailed him and looked up from their own meals as he came by.

"Looking good, boys." Penril beamed at them while he gave some a pat on the head or a friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

After making sure that the animals were well cared for, he entered the kitchen through the back door just as a foreign face barged in. Madam Carmeli was too busy yelling at some new girls to notice her, but Penril didn't miss the stranger. In a swish of movement that would have confused even a veteran thief, he had the girl's right wrist.

"And who might you be, wandering into my kitchen like you're being chased by a group of soldiers?" he asked calmly, though the grip on the girl's wrist was quite tight.

(OOC: Sorry this took so long. >.<)

Finding the kitchen was the easy part. All Seyira had to do was follow the people carrying trays of empty dishes to the place of their emergence. It was the following of the those aforementioned people that posed a problem. She wasn't tall enough to see over the heads of the people around her, and she wasn't wide enough to make a way through the crowd. In fact, she was rather thin, which ended up with her getting squished in between larger people for most of the time. It took a lot longer than expected for her to reach the kitchen, and she cursed the overcrowded place - not to mention the hulking men that always seemed to be in her way.

Seyira was in the kitchen for all of two seconds before someone grabbed her in a grip of iron. Inwardly, she sighed. All that hard work and she wouldn't even be able to profit from it. Now that was just depressing. She couldn't tear herself away from whoever had her pinned, since she didn't want to seem out of place, but obvious, the man who had her knew she wasn't supposed to be there. The man who grabbed her looked a good ten years older than her, and very handsome too. If she herself wasn't so averse to flirting, she might have let her maid self flirt with him. Though judging from the looks of things, he might not appreciate it if she tried.

"And who might you be, wandering into my kitchen like you're being chased by a group of soldiers?" His kitchen? If this was his kitchen, that meant he was the owner of this place, which also meant that he would know every single person he employed. Any hopes she had of just mingling with the staff were swept away. At least he didn't look too unhappy about the whole thing. Of course, the people who acted calm while angry tended to be the most dangerous of all.

So she gave a bright smile and began apologizing for her presence. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry sir! Am I not supposed to be here? It's just that I didn't feel very comfortable out there with all those people and I thought I'd find somewhere a little less crowded, but I guess the kitchen wasn't such a good choice. I'm not very bright. My mistress tells me that all the time!" She giggled at her foolishness.

Penril's eyebrows raised at the young woman's reaction. She smiled and started apologizing most profusely.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry sir! Am I not supposed to be here? It's just that I didn't feel very comfortable out there with all those people and I thought I'd find somewhere a little less crowded, but I guess the kitchen wasn't such a good choice. I'm not very bright. My mistress tells me that all the time!"

Then she giggled at her own foolishness.

The Ablest relinquished his grip, though he still was frowning at her in a thoughtful manner. Madam Carmeli seemed to notice something was wrong so waddled over, starchy skirts, ladle and all, over. She planted her wrists onto her hips as she looked the stranger over, from head to foot. If there was anyone in the Pony who didn't like trespassers in her territory, it was Madam Carmeli. Even Penril sometimes tasted the wrath of her almightly ladle.

"I don't remember hiring a new one, no I don't. Who's she?" Madam Carmeli piped up in her shrill voice, every syllable stressed. She looked at Penril, then judging by his frown, decided that he wasn't flirting with this girlie either. "Well, I don't care, just send her out or I will do it meself." Then she waddled back to her simmering pots of soup, shouting at one pageboy who spilled a good amount of milk on the countertop. It was followed by a whack as Madam Carmeli hit the boy with her ladle.

Penril watched his cook go with slight amusement. Then he turned back to the lady. "Waiting girl for a lady, I presume?" He said calmly. He held her lightly just above her right elbow now and led her out of the kitchen. "You don't want to be lost in Madam Carmeli's kitchen, trust me. She could have poured a vat of boiling soup over your head just for trying."

Soon they were back at the bar itself. There were a lot more people. He let go of her.

"Now go back to your mistress." He said before turning on his heels and heading back to the kitchen.

The market place was a perfect place for thieves. Blending in the crowd was easy since everyone was so busy, as well dissapearing from the sight of chasing guards in the crowded streets. There was, of course the matter of knowing where to run and hide. One should know every street and alleyway, every shop and crate. Ruuval was a veteran at thievery for two reasons: he was old to be a thief (but not too old, he would say) and he knew Olencia like the back of his hand. He'd always boast that he could walk around the city blindfolded and not get lost--which was true.

The old thief whistled as he sauntered along the shops and pubs, his hands in his pockets but ready to be slipped into someone else's. He had had a good day--there were more rich, careless people that day and there was not a guard in sight. Beautiful. Time for a little drink, I think. He swivelled towards a wall and leaned on it, then took out the money from his many pockets (handful by handful) to count. By his reckoning, he should have twenty-five gold marks, ten silves, and fifteen coppers--he had a knack for estimating just by listening to the coins jingle. When he was done, however, he found he was short by five silvers and coppers. Frowning, he dug through his pockets, but the missing coins were nowhere to be found. That can't be right... He stopped when his fingers felt only open air when he slipped them into his inner coat pocket. Arching an eyebrow, he looked under his coat. His fingers wre sticking out of a hole in his pocket. Bugger. And I thought I couild have a couple have a couple of bottles of rum today. With the money he had, all he could get would be a pint, if he wanted to save some for the kiddies at home. A shame the rum he stole the other week was all gone. Bloody teenagers shouldn't even be drinking his precious rum. Maybe next time he should hide it somewhere...Sighing, he stopped into the nearest inn, one with something like a horse on the sign...He didn't really bother to look.

Ruuval made his way to the bar, unmindful of the odd glances he was getting. A man came out of the kitchen with a young woman, and he quickly assumed it was either the bartender or the innkeeper."Oy," he called, waving his hand dramtically as if he had alrady drunk too much, before the man could return to the kitchen, "I'd like a pint of rum, if you please."

Olencia was indeed a fascinating city, she thought, as her carriage wound its way around the branching streets. Her attendants, three girls of different age, chatted in low voices, as they sat across her. A book pertaining to medicine lay opened and unfinished on her lap, held in place by her right hand. Her left cupped her chin, as she looked idly at the clouds, shielding them from the glare of all three suns at once.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face, and made her frown. It was midday, but she didn’t expect it to be this hot here in Olencia. Ivria was situated further north, and had a cooler climate. Her right hand twitched, and one of her attendants, a young girl with dirty blonde locks and turquoise eyes, pulled out a fan and proceeded to wave it up and down. But the servant girl – a new one, she deduced – fanned her mistress so weakly that Altariel raised an eyebrow and glared at the girl.

“You can do better than that, girl,” she muttered, waving her right hand impatiently. “Fan harder.”

“Y-yes, My L-lady,” stammered the girl, nodding furiously. The girl did fan harder, but still wasn’t enough. A casual flick of her right wrist, and the girl was immediately replaced by another servant, this time a short, brown-haired young woman, one of those who had served her for quite some time already. Altariel rarely addressed her servants by name, however, and resumed her gazing at the sky.

She wouldn’t have gone here anyway, but the elders had insisted that she must personally see the High King’s… condition. But they had spies to do that, and the rest of Olencia would think that she came there to poison the High King, and get the throne. It went in the way of her studying, and her studying clashed with her duties as High Seat. It was times like these that made her regret her choice sometimes. But it couldn’t be helped, anyway.

“Anna Rhea,” she said, still gazing outside the window. “When are we getting there? Ask them.” But it seemed that Anna Rhea, the maid who was fanning her, didn’t need to ask the coachman – she promptly straightened up and cleared her throat.

“In a few minutes, My Lady,” the young maid replied. “I believe that it’s just right around the corner…”

And indeed, it was. The Prancing Pony, as indicated by the sign. They could take a rest there before continuing to the castle. The trip had exhausted her thoroughly, and a good meal and a nap wouldn’t be bad. Her servants could do some rest as well. Crisante, another brown-haired but much older servant, handed over instructions to the coachmen as they unloaded some of Lady Altariel’s personal belongings.

“Careful, Beren,” she said sternly, crossing her arms over her red dress. “The Mistress’ possessions are quite fragile…” The coachman gave a nod as he took the luggage with extra care. No one would want to incite rage with the Mistress, wouldn’t they? Altariel, however, had come inside the crowded pub with Anna Rhea. The latter approached one of the barmaids, who had just emerged from a room off the main pub, clutching a platter of roasted chicken, and asked if there was a room available for them.

Thankfully, the man who had hold of her loosened his grip, and allowed the blood to continue it's way towards her hand. It had been going numb while he had it, and it would take a few minutes for everything to get back to normal. He didn't seem to have a problem with her anymore, though the frown remained on her face. Seyira had no problem with the frown. A frown was better than an iron grip. A frown meant the man was probably uncertain about whether she was harmless or dangerous.

Right when she was about to open her mouth and give him some more proof that she was nothing but a flightly lady's maid, a very large woman came waddling over, wooden ladle grasped in her fist. Seyira eyed the woman with some apprehension, trying to decide if she should be frightened by the woman's thunderous look, or laughing hysterically. She settled for a slightly fearful look on her face, and inched towards the owner as if looking for protection.

"I don't remember hiring a new one, no I don't. Who's she?" Seyira tried not to wince at the shrill words. She was surprised that none of the glasses in the kitchen had shattered, the woman's voice was so high. It was completely at odds with her large frame. "Well, I don't care, just send her out or I will do it meself." With those words, the woman waddled back from where she came. Seyira watched her waddle with some interested, and then flinched when the cook smacked a poor boy with her ladle. It sounded like it hurt. A lot.

"Waiting girl for a lady, I presume?" Seyira nodded silently. "You don't want to be lost in Madam Carmeli's kitchen, trust me. She could have poured a vat of boiling soup over your head just for trying." She nodded frantically at that. Seyira had seen what the woman was capable of, and she was glad she hadn't gotten on the cook's bad side. Taking hold of her arm again, only lightly this time, he walked her out of the kitchen and back into the main rooms. It was amazing how much easier it was to get out than it had been getting in. "Now go back to your mistress."

A nearby man was waving frantically at them. "Oy! I'd like a pint of rum, if you please." Seyira eyed the man for a moment, and then left the owner to deal with him. She hadn't been gone too long, so hopefully Amaranta wouldn't be wailing her head off. Ever so slowly, she picked her way through the crowd, and headed for her table.

He watched the young woman go. He would be keeping an eye on her, that one. He had a feeling that she was not what she seemed to be, and his instincts were seldom wrong. He just about lifted his feeth to take another step into the kitchen when a voice sounded.

"Oy! I'd like a pint of rum, if you please."

So Penril turned on his heel yet again, put down his foot, and his handsome face broke into an automatic smile. His eyes studied the customer carefully. Thief, by the looks of him. I hope he can pay for his drink, or there'll be Valleran's wrath to pay. While Penril admitted any kind of customer into the Pony, he was of course careful and strict when it came to implementing his rules. He respected his customers, and by time, they knew to respect him. Life had always been a give and take relationship, as what Master Zruti always used to say, and as what he himself had experienced firsthand.

"Give me a moment!" Penril beamed as he dashed down to the cellar and came back just as quickly with an exact pint of rum. He set it down on the counter before the customer. "Enjoy!"

Now. Nothing will hamper his little snack in the kitchen...

"Sir Pen, sir, a foreign lady's asking for a room, right, says it has to be the Pony's best."

Penril rolled his eyes at Markoj's voice. He turned to the gangly boy. "Oh? Foreign eh?"

The boy nodded excitedly. "Aye, sir. Purple hair! She's pretty" - the boy elbowed him at this point - "But I knows sir Pen likes them young AND pretty. Right, she looks kinda older than my mom, so."

The innkeeper eyed the boy incredulously. "Get back to your job." He gave the boy a push and went to see a stately coachman. "Yes, sir?"

Her wary eyes kept a close, piercing look at the other coachman, Vierne, as he settled down their luggage. Every now and then, she would glance around, keeping a track of the people who passed by them. Who knows? The eyes of a thief could’ve spotted her jewelry, her clothing, her luggage. Or worse, an assassin could’ve followed them all the way from Ivria, until they reached the capital. Olencia wasn’t the Ghayth’s territory, and if she were to raise a complaint here, it wouldn’t go as smoothly as she would have loved in Ivria.

A familiar young woman bobbed in an out of view, from the thick of the crowd. That woman… where could have she possibly seen her? The thought disturbed her awhile, as she glared at a man who threw looks at her belongings. The man shuffled away quickly, but she still watched him out the corner of one eye.

The noise, oh the noise, it was getting more and more unbearable by the moment. For a while, Altariel wished that she was back home, reading, or doing the gods know what in an atmosphere of extreme silence and solitude.

Her silence was broken when Anna Rhea returned and said that the pub keeper would be with them shortly.

“He better be,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. A dark-haired, fair-skinned man approached them after a few moments.

"Yes, sir?" He said, referring to Vierne. She held up a hand, signaling that she would handle the conversation. That same hand reached up to her face and pushed away a few strands of stray, purple hair from her eyes.

“I trust that you are the owner of this” – she turned her head around – “pub? The best room available, and the most spacious. I daresay that your rooms are extremely soundproof?” She flinched as a loud, raucous laughter sounded from behind them. “We would stay for three hours at most. I’d like to have a meal prepared for…” Pause. How many were they, again? “A meal for six people and a bottle or two of your finest wine. Need I repeat?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at the man. Surely this man was more than a decade older than her real age, she thought, looking at him from head to toe.

As she made her way through the crowd, Seyira glimpsed a purple head amongst the normal browns, blacks and blondes, which was enough to stop her in her tracks, and get her wedged in between two bulky sailors. Squeezing her way through, she popped out from between them, and then turned back for the purple she'd seen. It wasn't all that rare, but it was still uncommon enough for someone with purple hair to stick out in a crowd. And that particular shade of purple looked oh so familiar... But it couldn't be...

You never know.

Seyira stood, uncertain about what she should do next. Amaranta, as well as Jaylyn and Emil, would be wondering where she had run off to, and Jaylyn, while a nice enough mistress, could be extremely strict on attendence. If Seyira wasn't back at the table soon, she could get in big trouble. However, if that purple-haired person was really who Seyira thought it was, she'd be in even bigger trouble for not stopping by.

She might work for Jaylyn, but she lived for Altariel Katrei. Her, Traherne Karo, and lastly, Abner Fiorello. The last two would have her hide if she didn't visit the first.

Just one peek.... If the person wasn't Altariel, then she would just go back to Jaylyn and apologize for wandering off. It wouldn't be a complete lie, seeing as how it was impossible to navigate in this horrendous place. After all, she'd only seen the High Seat of House Ghayth twice in her life, both in the presence of her father. She might have talked to the woman once or twice, but honestly, she couldn't remember.

Worming her way in and out (a very difficult task, indeed), she squeezed herself back through the same bulky sailors, hopped over a drunken body on the ground, swerved past a serving maid with a tray overloaded with drinks, and finally came to a stop about 10 feet away from where the purple-haired person sat. She - from what Seyira could see from her vantage point - was surrounded by many people, one of which happened to be....the owner of the Prancing Pony.

Damn.

And from this close up, she could see that the purple haired woman was definitely Altariel. How was she supposed to approach the woman now? If the dratted owner hadn't been there, she could have approached the table and hoped that Altariel recognized her. In fact, if the dratted owner hadn't been in the kitchen, she could have wheedled some useful information out of the serving maids. Never mind the fat cook, no matter what the man said. Seyira could have taken care of the woman.

So she lurked in the background, hidden behind a group of roaring drunk men, and waited for her opening.

Ruuval leaned forward towards the bar and rested an arm on it as he enjoyed his rum. Not too shabby at all, he thought, commenting on the drink's quality and the inn's appearance. From the looks of it, though, he'd have quite a hard time sneaking away from this inn, with the now growing crowd near the door. The thief considered a way of escape, but thought twice about it. Too much risk. No, he had to pay for his drink today. He'd have to go to the port later to make up for it, though, so he might carry off a crate of rum. Tav could help him with that. The boy did have too many muscles on him.

"...a foreign lady's asking for a room, right, says it has to be the Pony's best," a lad mentioned just within the thief's hearing. If Ruuval was a dog, he would have straightened, his ears pricked to listen. 'Lady' meant a noble, and that meant a fat purse.The thief glanced behind him casually, then returned to his drink. There were a lot of people, but he was sure he saw purple hair--purple?--and a flambuoyant gown. A fat purse, indeed. He bet even that lady's retainers had purses. With that crowd there, he could slip past without her feeling a thing. Ruuval finished his drink in one draught and set the mug on the bar. Now where was the innkeeper? He turned to the door and found the man talking to the lady. Great. The innkeeper was sure to notice him and would call him back, especialy since he hadn't paid yet. Ruuval would know--he'd been chased by raging pub owners too many times. The bloody penny pinchers had fantastic memories. Unfortunate.

He couldn't pay the man now, and if he paid later the lady could be gone, and that would be another chance wasted. he hated letting a good opportunity like that go to waste. Sighing, he put his mug to his lips, and then realized he had already emptied it. He sighed again. Now he would have to wait with nothing to drink. A barmaid was staring suspiciously at him, but he didn't mind her. He swung his legs back and forth, like a child while sitting on a high chair, and eyed the bottles of spirits behind the bar. Meanwhile, his ears were with the noblewoman's conversation. He could only hear muffled voices, but that was enough to tell him when to move.

The coachman took his sweet time looking over Penril, and the Ablest held his ground, looking politely puzzled at the sudden scrutiny. He took a good look at the man's livery, and deduced that the coats of arms stitched on the man's shoulders were not any of Olencia's noble houses that were currently vying for the throne that was fast slipping the High King's fingers. Penril took his turn looking around at the man's companions and his probable employer, a woman with fine lines around the eyes and exquisite purple hair held in a weird hairstyle. The woman held up a fine hand. She WAS indeed quite pretty, but not bordering around Penril's tastes. Too bad.

“I trust that you are the owner of this” – she turned her head around – “pub? The best room available, and the most spacious. I daresay that your rooms are extremely soundproof?” Some drunken men laughed, and the lady flinched as if Penril threatened her with a whip. “We would stay for three hours at most. I’d like to have a meal prepared for…” She paused as she made mental calculations. “A meal for six people and a bottle or two of your finest wine. Need I repeat?”

Typical nobility. Snob, impolite and very picky. Well, they can shove their money down their throats for all Penril cared, but this time was not the place to show his Slayer contempt to the nobility who stared down their noses at the common people and strutted around as if they knew everything. He was not one to speak, himself. From what he could remember, he'd been a noble too. He was suddenly glad he didn't grow to inherit their pride and contempt. Back to business. That meant two bottles of Blue Wine, Madam Carmeli's finest course, and the room...was the room vacant? Penril tilted his head sideways. Yes, it was still free.

"And a private parlor to go with that, hmm?" he said, turning around as he gestured for the Lady's men to follow him. "That would be five gold pieces and twenty silvers, meal and Blue Wine included." He said.

The owner of the pub tilted his head sideways, probably in thought. Altariel tapped her heeled shoes with a hint of irritation on the floor, the sound barely audible over the raucous voices of the other customers in the pub. It was hot, and too crowded for comfort. Beads of sweat trickled down her face, and she wiped it off with a handkerchief. Bursting into a fit wouldn’t alleviate the situation. Patience is a virtue, Altariel, she told herself, as she felt Anna Rhea and the other servants shift uneasily behind her – she could tell, by the way their dresses swished – and heard excited and hushed giggles. Scrutinizing eyes looked at the owner again. He seemed pretty much ordinary, save for that tattoo on the side of his face. Such facial markings were out of custom in olden Ivria, and the Ghayths have kept closely to that tradition. But she wasn’t one to dictate what commoners wanted – since she wasn’t in Ghayth Lands.

"And a private parlor to go with that, hmm?" he said, turning around as he gestured for Beren and Vierne to follow him. She nodded, not taking her eyes off him. At last. Sweet privacy. "That would be five gold pieces and twenty silvers, meal and Blue Wine included." He said.

Did he just say Blue Wine? THE Blue Wine? Her face contorted to an involuntary and childish smile. Yes, Altariel Katrei is an alcoholic. Blue Wine was extremely hard to come by, even for a noble like herself. And the House elders would have none of her drinking sprees when they were present. A hand fumbled slightly absent-mindedly for her purse within the folds of her silken dress, her mind slightly distracted with the excited thought of drinking the rare wine.

“How much for an added bottle of Blue Wine?” She asked, slightly curious as she counted the money she had with her. “I daresay your wine is not fake, or an imitation?” She added, remembering that she had only tasted the said drink some four or five times. “Blue Wine, is, indeed, very hard to find these days.”

“How much for an added bottle of Blue Wine?”

Penril paused on his steps and gave the Lady a respectful sideward glance. Oho. Ohohohohoho. HOHOHOHO. Well, he certainly was not such an evil businessman, but Blue Wine was becoming such a luxury these days that he had to charge extra for every additional bottle his customers asked for. Take it or leave it. Well, he had to earn money back! Not for himself, more like, for his employees...

“I daresay your wine is not fake, or an imitation? Blue Wine, is, indeed, very hard to find these days.”

The innkeeper very nearly stumbled and would've fallen flat on his face. He gave a strained laugh. "Of course not, my Lady. I daresay that the Pony is the best Olencia has to offer, and as such, we offer you only the best from the Pony. You can have my head for that if I'd fail you." Well, he'd never lost a betting like that before.

They came upon one of the private parlors in the second floor. Penril reached into one of his apron pockets and pulled out a fat ring of keys, inserted it into the lock holding the sliding doors together. He opened the room and stepped back, allowing the party to fill in.

"An extra bottle of Blue Wine will cost you an additional gold coin, my lady." Expensive, and she can rant all she wanted but Penril wasn't going to give it any price lower. Even if that meant haggling with her. Now, if she were only prettier... maybe they could take the negotiations to another level. Heeh.

"I'll have your food brought up in a moment, if you've nothing more to ask?"

What’s the use of counting your money, Altariel? She mentally reprimanded herself, as she finished counting her money. A contemptuous smirk settled on her lips. More than enough to last her a few weeks, if she was going to stay in a pub like this. But no, she was going to spend the days in an old Ghayth mansion somewhere by the borders of Olencia. The owner paused in his tracks and gave her a glance. Did he doubt her ability to pay, or was it out of plain curiosity? Then he stumbled. Not exactly stumbled, but almost. He gave a rather forced laugh.

"Of course not, my Lady,” he replied. “I daresay that the Pony is the best Olencia has to offer, and as such, we offer you only the best from the Pony. You can have my head for that if I'd fail you."

“Oh?” she whispered, her smirk widening. “Let’s see, then.”

They reached one of the private rooms on the second floor of the pub. The owner produced a ring of keys from one of his pockets, and opened the door. He stepped aside, letting Beren and Vierne enter, along with Anna Rhea and the two other maids. They gave the innkeeper a sort of ‘admiring’ glances, and then giggled to themselves. Altariel wrinkled her nose in disgust. They were going to have a serious talk after the innkeeper had gone. And by serious talk, she meant that kind of talk that a preacher would say to people on the street. Lecture? Sermon? Whatever. They were here in Olencia for formal business, not to chase around handsome innkeepers with strange tattoos on their faces. She stayed outside, as her servants deposited their things inside the room.

"An extra bottle of Blue Wine will cost you an additional gold coin, my lady." She wasn’t even the least surprised. So? It was just a gold coin. She had lots to spare back in Ghayth. And of course, anything for Blue Wine. "I'll have your food brought up in a moment, if you've nothing more to ask?"

“Hmm, I guess nothing more,” she replied, as she handed over eight gold pieces, just in case she accidentally ‘forgets’ about it. Ah, Blue Wine, what would I do without you? She gave a small involuntary giggle, and then shook her head to herself, still smiling. “Don’t forget the Blue Wine, sir. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

With that, she swept inside the room.