Re: Pizza Parlor: Pippin and Kratos
Kratos looked down at her face, surveying the disgruntled look on her face dispassionately. Kratos' granite-like countenance rarely changed regardless of what he was thinking, even now, but his dark eyes heavily shadowed by his brows glanced up from her phone to her face and back before the device disappeared into her bag. Kratos had been in this world long enough to know all about phones, and own one, even experience the bad news it brought. He grunted his distaste at the thought.
Now he sat across from her. The plastic bench creaked. His knee hit the table. "The Cultoids," he repeated her words. "This is their name?" He squinted into her face, the small eyes even smaller in his concentration. At least she appeared to know what he wanted to know, making the trip worthwhile.
So would the pitcher of beer just now being set on the table. Kratos typically preferred watered wine, not beer, but beer was the most common drink here, as it had been in his last wife's country. They insisted on chilling everything. It singed the tongue. He frowned a little at the pitcher.