sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, |
Rictor's hand gripped hers with a reasonable amount of pressure; the kind of handshake that hurt, she supposed. Some businessmen she'd known favoured the sort of vigorous handshake that could elicit discomfort or pain; Mag wondered if Rictor shared their preference, but let it slide. "Two love songs, then," she amended with a chuckle. "Pretty sure he's somewhere in the back right now, tuning a lute." She took another look around the bar, checking for familiar faces. "I'm pretty sure you can take credit for inviting those gentlemen over there. Is there some sort of magick stopping them from standing more than a foot apart from each other?" Rather than as individuals, they moved as a pack. Fighters, judging from the way they carried themselves, and accompanied by a priest she'd seen at the Cathedral before -- Father Luscini, if her memory served. "I imagine the ladies talking to them are Arabella's guests." Mag tried to locate Aspel, but the bar was too full to see every patron from where Mag and Rictor sat. As she surveyed the room, she spotted several familiar faces, among them one she hadn't expected to see. "I thought Kiernan wasn't allowed into Puzzles any more. Did you guys smuggle him in?" Before Rictor could reply, Mag caught the eye of the bartender pouring shots of liquor for two men at a neighboring table. "Can we get two shots of that over here?" The bartender complied. Mag took one of the shot glasses and placed the other in front of Rictor. "No idea what this is," she laughed, peering at the liquor inside the glass. "But it's not a real birthday celebration unless you get properly sloshed. So cheers!" * “We’re Silver Blades,” he admitted with a laugh of his own. “Trained to move and behave as a unit. Old habits run deep. But at least I’ve managed to snip the apron strings, hey? I’m here, after all.” Rictor spread his hands, encompassing their little table at the side of the pub. When the hands went down, the shot glasses went up. A moment later, both their empty glasses slammed back down on the table, and Rictor had to speak around the fresh acidic burn at the back of his throat. “Faram. I don’t know what the hell that was, but it was vile, but it gets the job done.” He wiped off his mouth, and waved the bartender for another round, his treat this time. If he was going to get some information out of Magnolia Paget, some conversational lubricant would be needed. (Unbeknownst to them, they were each approaching the problem from opposite ends and meeting in the middle.) “We bribed the bouncers and Zacheus – my friend, the ranger over there,” another gesture, pointing the tall and sombre man out of the crowd, “sweettalked one of ‘em. You know Kiernan?” |