miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion,
Trust all the thieves—er, we mean bards—to notice the gil.
“Believe me,” he said sharply, sourly, “no one’s getting the intimate details of this. I know outright combat isn’t my specialty, but honestly... And thank you for the offer, Arielle, but I’m fine.” Miles was rummaging through the inner pocket of his coat while he spoke, finally pulling out a miniature bottle of potion, the approximate size of hotel liquor.
He raised the tiny bottle as if for a toast, delivered a flippant “Cheers!”, then downed it. The potion mingled uncomfortably with the alcohol already floating around in his system, the medicine and liquor almost turning his stomach, but Miles suppressed the queasiness with the ease of long practice. He’d drunk no end of disgusting things in his life.
“All right, then?” he asked the remaining three people in the room, lingering slightly on the stricken Audrey (the marks were literally visible on her neck). But without waiting for an answer, Miles followed Hier’s lead and strode off.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he called back over his shoulder—sarcastic, as usual, but the ladies could tell there was no real ire in it. Their errant leader was already chastising herself, and the whole thing had worked out well enough, hadn’t it?