While she had permitted most of her crew to set out for the festival much earlier in the day, Bella hadn’t made her way to the celebration until it was almost dusk. Her late arrival wasn’t due to a lack of interest or excitement; Bella was quite fond of the city’s take on Bierfest—she was even wearing an authentic Kerwonian dress for the occasion (and so were dozens of other women, but that was neither here nor there).
She had spent her time in the company of other corsairs, downing ale as they bellowed their drinking songs. Unlike her companions, however, she was pacing herself—just two tankards of ale so far. It would take far more than that to get a corsair drunk. Bella eventually tired of her group (it was a little too early for that sort of rowdiness), and detached herself from the group in order to seek out some of her other friends. She kept an eye out for familiar faces in the bustling crowds. Perhaps she would run into Ari or Rictor.
It took more than a tankard or two of ale to throw off Arabella’s sense of balance, but one couldn’t help stumbling when a brick wall of a dragoon bumped into you. She blinked up at the man for a moment before regaining her composure, and her mouth curled into a polite smile. “Well, let’s see,” she began, pretending to examine her arms and torso for any damage, “I seem no worse for wear. So there’s no need to apologize, darling. Between the crowd and the alcohol, it’s practically impossible to avoid running into someone.”