Captain Greyfell Holt (troublethewater) wrote in watchersrpg, @ 2011-06-23 00:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | !valhalla, 4013-05-05, ciara, ciara and greyfell, greyfell |
As ye pass by
Who: Ciara & Greyfell
Where: Flynn's Inn
When: Early evening
Today had been much like the one before. The women were still in their lighter dresses, flushing modestly (or so they'd have the world think) at the attention their attire currently afforded them. The gents more than willing to pay it for them. More he thought about it, the less Greyfell really believed it to be different from any other day in any other place where there may be women fit for the staring. Matter of fact, that morning he'd woken half-convinced he was in Empyrean, stupidly fallen asleep in a tavern after too much ale, and was likely about to get his throat slit from ear to ear by a guard. He'd successfully gotten one leg into his pants when he remembered this was not the case. Was the accents from the townsfolk outside his window that gave it away. Valhalla, Empyrean. Same difference. One was more welcoming than the other. But in Valhalla he'd found himself a pet.
The lad had followed him for half the day – that alone was not something Greyfell was going to miss. He'd attempted to pick his pockets twice, to the pirate's amusement. Having gone unchecked he tried a third time and succeeded, though he found himself caught straight away. Holt considered himself too old to be outsmarted by a fingersmith, and especially one he'd allowed to follow him most of the day, trying to steal from him. He'd pealed the coinpurse from the lad's hand and placed it back into his own pocket, walking off with just one instruction: “Try again.” Which was exactly what happened. It was a game, more or less, and one that kept the captain amused. He liked pickpockets. Had a use for them. If the lad proved to actually have any skill and that one time hadn't just been luck, there was room for him on The Grail if he wished to go. Two, three, four more times he found himself relieved of his coin. “Right, lad, hand it over.” They'd reached Flynn's Inn and though the coinpurse had been returned to him, it felt a little... lighter. Boy was actually a decent liar, even by his standards, but it was hard to argue any case against stone cold fact. He would have had Greyfell believe he'd taken nothing when he could hear the money in his pocket when he walked. Still, he'd left the lad with enough to find somewhere decent to eat and bed down for the night, with instructions to meet him at the harbour in the morn. The Grail of the North would be sailing and he was welcome to join.
Now, though. Greyfell angled himself around the tavern door and strode right across, paying (almost) no mind to anyone who might have turned to eyeball him for a moment. Noticing those who truly didn't appreciate him was force of habit; a sixth sense and one of the reasons he was alive. A lot of people didn't like him. Thing was, he didn't care. What he did care about lay more or less in the hands of the woman who seemed to be wearing the pants around the place. “An ale, if you'd be so kind.” He flashed her a winning smile. And three gold teeth. “And if you've got anything to eat, love – Me innards are trying to digest themselves.” A slight exaggeration, but that was what it was starting to bloody well feel like.