lille aleyne, piece on the side. (rending) wrote in emillion,
The Duckling was a common haunt for knights and bards alike—Lille had spent no small number of nights there, ordering pints for other squires, bemoaning this teacher or that Lord's training methods, and one memorable time, tripping into a waiter carrying two full trays laden with all manner of meats and sweets—which promptly coated a table of young berserkers just itching to fight. Fortunately for everyone, there were no berserkers tonight, and Lille hadn't had a server-on-patron collision in months. Or any collision! Really, the Countess had probably stopped holding her breath every time the young knight rose from her chair.
Which was, of course, why her biological clock of clumsiness decided it was about time to rectify that.
Her friends were at a table in the corner, and Lille, looking remarkably un-knightly in a tunic and trousers that seemed cut for a girl six inches shorter, had gone to the bar for four fresh pints of ale. And then, balancing them precariously in her hands and knowing better in the back of her head, she turned, and smashed directly into a man pushing through stools to place a drink order. He shouted and Lille squawked, and ale flew, and he fell, and suddenly half a dozen people around her were shouting and wiping ale from their dresses—and Lille could only apologize as fast as her tongue could move, which wasn't very fast, as she was trying to blot ale from her own face with a tunic that was clear soaked through. Someone nearby groaned—Lille the Faram-damned hapless again—and she wondered, could you will yourself dead? Just from embarrassment? Was that a thing?
Things were not made easier when she heard familiar laughter at a table nearby. Because of course someone she knew would see her covered in her own drink. Of course.