Walter Thornley

Walter Thornley

'None Shall Overcome'
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"You don't command me! I'm your older brother!"
Richard was drunk. The beautiful engraved crystal wine goblet toppled by a precarious sway of his hand, rolled off the edge of the table, the frightened workgirl, one hand still clutching clothes to her chest, capturing it mid-fall and pulling away a few quick skittering steps.
Richard was half a head taller than him, but that advantage was scarcely of any use when he could barely make it out of the chaise lounge that he sprawled on, barely covered across the thighs by his own cloak that tangled the furniture in a mixed pattern of the rest of the clothing. Richard smelled like sweat, sex and waking up to morning drink.

Walter did not flinch. He wore the family colors, the scent of sage mingling with traded incense that freshly laundered clothes got stored beside. Sandalwood. He was clearly shaven. He was bloody furious.
But he did not flinch, only grew paler, nostrils flaring, black gloved right hand's fingers splaying straight until they could not bend anymore. The faint pain in the joints brought a degree of clarity he'd felt was about to slip.
When he spoke, he was no longer gently imploring for his brother to stop being a disgrace. Steel rang in the raised tone, cutting with every word.
"Richard. You have twenty heartbeats to make a decision once I am done talking. Your debts are paid, your drinking beneficiaries have scattered. You will cease being a disgrace, dress, and leave the capital in the carriage prepared for you - or I will have you dragged."

He loved his brother, once. Felt guilt for him being dismissed from heirdom, relegated to the life of... not even a spare. But Richard would have an easy life. He could learn a trade, or stay with the rest of the family, which no one would begrudge him. Richard was, in a way, free.

His brother paused, taken aback, then tried to test the reigns.
"What don't you understand? I'm not going. Final. Why don't you join me, Wally, you dour fart, we'll get you a boy," his bearded face turned to the girl who'd been serving him just earlier, "there are boys in here, too, right? My brother is weak for som..."
Walter did not flinch. He stood three steps away, rooted, straight-shouldered. And then, he moved so fast that nobody could quite react. An invisible resonance seemed to roll through the room, the lights and noises from outside dimmed. The gloved hand locked around a handful of Richard's hair, and yanked him, forcefully, to the floor.
"My brother is expected home," his tone cut clearly through the strange veil that was dissipating as quickly as it came. "Men, make sure he gets there, on your honor."
Three armed guards stepped in. The Thornley heir inhaled, eyes closing for a moment. Once they opened again, the were dark and velvet-soft, and turned to the girl in the room. He offered his hand to her, inviting.
"Come, love. You are done here." She would be paid somewhat more to keep her mouth shut. He knew she wouldn't, but it was a right thing to do.

Once delivered home, Richard would be deployed to the northern border. Whether that aided in him gaining some self-worth, remained unknown.
It remained unknown whether Richard would even return, given the recent reports.
Dolores would be distraught.

*

The weight finally caught up with him as he saw his men and carriage finally leave.
He looked up, thought that the lilac in the morning sky was beautiful. His eyes focused on a bronze weathervane glinting pale yellow from the sun.
The weathervane blurred. The world almost swam from under his feet. The pain spread from his right hand, to the forearm, to the whole arm and then shot across the spine like a Surge blast. His mouth tasted like blood. He had to sit down. Promptly, before he'd fade to the weakness.
Eyes trailed with mirth of irony to the doors of the 'lounge' he had just left. It offered drinks, food and baths, and every sort of entertainment, and an overnight stay for guests who would be willing to pay. They had a famous singstress perform every tenday, and a decent small band of musicians on retainer. Richard was using the place as any other brothel, though.

He'd just have to make those few steps back inside from this street, and...
...maybe get himself a gods damn drink. If only to dull the pain.
Was he slipping?
 
The heavy doors of the brothel burst open, and out staggered Disgrace itself. Anira leaned in the shadowed archway opposite, arms crossed, half-empty wineskin dangling from one wrist, watching with growing amusement the scene unfolding under the glow of lantern lights. Fresh scandal. Unclaimed.

First came the drunk. Shirt half-undone, cloak tangled like seaweed around his legs, bare thighs flashing pale as moonlight. He cursed and stumbled, dragged bodily across the mud-slick cobbles by two red-faced guards. Anira let out a long, dramatic sigh and shook her head.

“Sad, really,” the bard said, to no one and everyone. Some passersby slowed to gawk. “A man should leave a brothel with a smile, not his dignity bleeding behind him.”

She pushed off the wall, strolling lazily forward as the guards hauled their prize toward the waiting carriage. Her lute bouncing lightly against her back. The minstrel reached the rigid young man giving the orders, giving him a quick, appraising glance. Well-dressed. Clean. Brooding. Money. Trouble. Excellent. Just as the silence tightened, she slipped her arm through his with ease, like they’d known each other for years, and leaned in close enough for him to smell the jasmine in her honey-blond hair.

“Tell me, m'lord,” she drawled lazily to the cold one, the sober one.“...is this a family tradition?"
 
The comment reached alongside observing the eldest sibling - one that looked nothing like the either of them and everything like their late father - being loaded in. Walter had come with his own men. Nobody else could truly ensure that Richard would reach Bremen with no opportunity to flee. Huntsmen were loyal to the legacy and not the bloodline - not honor bound to heed any order from his elder.
Richard had ensured his last foray into loins for hire was memorable, and had no place to complain.

The one who made the remark approached - too much commotion to feel the footsteps, but the scent of her registered before she laid her hand on him. Head turned slightly. No confusion as to what she was doing. Brow furrowed, dark eyes appraising her in turn, but never quite dipping lower than the face.
That attention of hers had a sharpness, despite the tone. Well put together, no need to announce her likely trade either.
"It is not," he stated, his eyes peering into her face. A twitch passed through the shoulder that her arm wrapped around. No easing of the posture.
Gods, his entire right side was in a ghostly bone grinder, and he had to keep a face.

"Profitable locale?" Matter-of-fact, a slight nod to the doors behind them.
Weight shifted - a careful attempt to free himself from her, untempted. His breath cracked on an exhale, cold sweat laced skin under the collar.
Her sweet fragrance met an aura of sage mixed with oak wood and a hint of earthy southern incense.
"I've business inside," he stated, palor creeping along his skin. "You may join, if you like."
He'd definitely draw less attention with a drinking company.
 
The minstrel caught the scent before she caught his name. That curl of something subtler. Something familiar. She leaned in just slightly, under the pretense of casual conversation. “Well now,” she purred “You smell downright dangerous." Anira let out a low, musical hum, the sort that wandered between amusement and pity as she watched him try to shift free. She let him go, though not without dragging her fingertips, light as breath, down his sleeve as she withdrew.

“Oh, darling, whatever business you think you’ve got waiting in there… best leave it, my lord.” Her tone was almost affectionate. Anira stepped around him lightly, circling with a bard’s casual grace, before pausing near the step leading up to the deep violet doors of the brothel. Then, almost lazily, she shifted her weight and tapped the worn carving at the step with the tip of her boot. Tap-tap. Just enough to draw his eye to a small carving half-hidden by the shadow of the first step. The long curling shape of a squid wound itself into a spiral, its tentacles looping around it's mantle at the center.

“This brothel belongs to the Inkspider.” Being raised in criminal circles had its advantages. Her father had taught her early: “If you’re clever, girl, you’ll learn the names of those who rule cities. But if you’re wise… you’ll learn the marks of the ones who own them.” A pause. “Information broker. The best in this part of the world. You might want to reconsider stepping through that door, love.”

She brushed her light blue doublet, her golden hair catching the torchlight as she tilted her head and offered him a smile that was entirely too cheerful for the topic. Anira glanced pointedly back toward the carriage. A pause, then her tone softened, almost genuinely now. “I’m sorry about your brother,” she said gently. “Truly.”

“But let’s hope your House don’t have any enemies who’d like to buy whatever secrets he left behind.”
 
He seemed to chuckle under his breath when she called him dangerous - genuinely amused, perhaps a bit flattered. His lips curved, and though no sound escaped him, a sad mirth touched his eyes and languished for a beat in the crows feet at the corners. She was a curious stoat thinking it'd caught itself a sparrow, lustrous with those blonde curls, polished purrs like a languid, loved housecat.

He followed her pointer. Eyes did not linger, but comprehension struck, and then the expression shifted subtly. There was still weariness about him, reserve. But also, curiosity. Why the warning? Perhaps he was growing old, and mellow - a part of him wanted to hope it was good nature, while the pragmatic part advised that it was likely competition or a lure.
"Profitable, indeed," he mused, tone also dropping to a purr that didn't match the caution.
The world blurred again for a bit, started turning dark. The man blinked for a longer beat, his weight swayed slightly, just a touch before it shifted and he was grounded again. Yet, one scent he did not carry was any sort of booze.

Oh, his dear brother could not spill the secrets if he wanted to. Truly free from the burden that the twins carried, he would hardly know much even about the Hunt, much less things of importance.
"Go ahead, Richter!" he commanded with the remainder of an exhale, just as he caught one of the Huntsmen looking at him for directions. A stumble inside his chest. Tension, feverish cold. Half an inhale. "I will not be too long."

He turned the attention back to her, then, considering; a puff of another quiet laugh, nostrils flared, fire reflected dimly against the violet velvet of his irises as eyes narrowed. "I find myself in interesting company. Would you indulge me a little longer, given that we... promptly find a place to settle for a spell, somewhere, rather than a constitutional? My treat."

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Pulsed through his withered hand, ground his joints, Shroud resonance lingering like a beautiful, powerful halo that his body could not filter through nor carry. An inquiry weave touched his shell - but did not find a target, scattering into droplets of Shroud like fine mist and dispersing unseen into the world - perhaps a scry, perhaps an attempt to glean his thoughts or health, that could have been unleashed from any of so many points of view; to find Nothing, alas.
By now all sounds to him seemed to travel through the thick of water.
Oh gods, he had to sit down and rest. Panicking was out of question, either.
 
The minstrel caught that sly little glint, just the kind a man who liked being called dangerous would wear. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, her voice smooth as the sweetest note she knew. "I think we deserve a proper introduction, don’t you think?" To tame her sly grin, she let her lower lip catch between her teeth for just a moment. "I’m Anira Verseheart, minstrel and your soon-to-be favorite distraction." She reached back and lightly petted the lute strapped to her back, just in case he’d missed the obvious. "And you are?”

Anira’s smile flickered, not gone, but softened now, like the latern's last glow before dawn. Her features softened, the usual sparkle in her eyes dimming just a fraction as she noticed that he was struggling. She watched him sway, saw the crack behind the composed mask, and for on a heartbeat the bard’s bravado dropped. Not out of fear. Out of something simpler, concern.

“Oh. Gods.” Her voice now a hushed, honest thing. “You’re about to keel over, aren't you?” She stepped to his side, careful but without hesitation. Her hand hovered near his arm again, not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. The offer was clear: steady, if he needed it. And she wouldn’t say a word about it after.

She wasn’t blind. She saw the tension flickering through him, the pain he thought he concealed. She’d watched enough men to know a man losing his footing when she saw it. Then she clicked her tongue softly, decision made. “You’re not going to make it far, my lord.” Her gloved hand gestured casually toward the only nearby door: the purple door of the brothel. From behind the heavy wooden doors came a symphony of muted sounds. Low laughter, voices thick with unspoken promises, the clink of tankards mingling with murmured soft sawders. Beneath it all, punctuated by occasional creaking of a bed frame, rhythmic bangs against the walls, lust-filled moans, gasps and sighs.

“Well,” she said gently. “that brothel’s the closest thing you’ve got to safe ground tonight…” But it was not a place for someone who looks like he is one breath away from falling. Her fingers brushed lightly against his side. “Come now, no sense in you collapsing on the street.” she said with a soft chuckle, her voice smooth like warm honey. “I’ll see what I can do about snagging you a quiet little room."
 
"I think a proper introduction would be..." his lips felt numb, a little pale in hue perhaps. Eyelids shivered with the leaden weight; the man's long eyelashes fell for a moment, then rose again; his voice dropped to a murmur, "Keel over, perhaps not just yet." He offered his arm for her to take, not needing support so much as someone of her exquisitely attention-grabbing nature, to keep wandering eyes away from him and to the sway of her form and the dip of her décolleté.

He would very much liked not to be looked at, at all, in fact.
Side-glance to the purple door, a nod with just his eyelids. A piece had fallen into its expected place.
"Not a room. A place in the corner. Drinks. Harder to eavesdrop when there's noise."
She was not his to command, but he would hardly be blamed for not wanting to go upstairs again...

*

'Little man, what got into you?'
'I can't-' he could barely breathe.
'-get it up or something? We'll get you some prettier lad.'
'...no...'
'Did you get hurt or some?' Cattail rested a hand on the saber, frowning.
He'd have gone and taken some whore parts for the pup, too, but the teen was quick to shake his head, terrified.
'No!'
'What, then?'
David. The name wouldn't come, just a strangled sob and a vision brought about by a calling spell. Of what it felt like, to drown in the undercurrent between those majestic, tall white cliffs. Not far away enough.
'Just get out. Don't let the Captain know. Please. Please...'

*

He did not sway at the threshold, then, thought and will aligning with the steps and stuttering heartbeat, face like a mask even though it would probably hurt just a little bit less if he allowed himself a grimace, a groan, anything.
Absolutely not.

Sweat rolled down his back and soaked into the shirt under the doublet. His right hand refused to clasp, and though he could see the fingers move as he brought it to rest along the belt line when he walked, there seemed a disconnect in feeling it, too.
A tightness in the back of the head. No. The wisps of that tracing spell that did not find purchase were not enough to un-fray.
"What are we drinking?" the husk of a tone seemed to carry a hint of lingering amusement, now desiccated just as well.
 
“Not that I can imagine what we've got to say worth anyone eavesdropping on...” she muttered, soft enough it could’ve been her thoughts escaping by mistake. But she slipped her hand lightly beneath his offered arm all the same. “Fine. Corner table it is.” Laeding him toward the door, she pushed open the heavy door. Moans of agony and ecstasy twined, impossible to separate, met them in the hallway.

Inside, the air hit her like a slap: thick with sweat and perfume so sweet it made her teeth ache, mingled with the faint bite of cheap spirits and something darker. Something that settled in your lungs and didn’t want to leave. Lanterns hung from the low beams, casting jittery shadows that flickered over faces and shadows clinging like eager lovers to corners. Bodies pressed close in the corridor, prostitutes lounging against walls with skirts hiked and pants unbuttoned. Eyes sharp as broken glass. Hungry, bored, or just tired of the same act played out a thousand times. Anira knew some of them by name. The bard had sung her songs under these low beams more times than she cared to count. The walls still whispered of her verses...

The minstrel led the lordling to the shadowed corner she thought he might favor. A barmaid emerged from the darkness, her body a canvas of tattoos. Her breasts, bare and proudly displayed. Full and heavy, swaying with each step she took towards them. Her nipples, pierced with glinting metal rings. The waitress wore at least three skirts, all in different colors and tied up so she wouldn't trip over the hems. "Your pleasure?" she rasped.

"I'll have a Black Thorn. Errr... make it two." The bard glanced at the lordling. "But I suspect this one wants water..." she teased.
 
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He could not quite quip in the worsening condition. Only a vague twitch of the chin, to humor with agreement. And so, like a couple seeking to start off the evening in a way not so odd, they headed into the house of ill repute and cold-eyed whores. It was, perhaps, good that she thought him worse for wear - and wasn't wrong. Walter's eyes met a face familiar only once. It was the girl who was paid much nicer than she should have been, for his brother's antics. Her eyes, however, followed Anira, that same bitter-black coldness to them behind the lascivious curve of the lips and slight sway of a hip.

There was something... deeply unsettling about being touched by one of these women, for any reason. He did not prefer the ministrel's arm around his, either, not for any fault of hers - a touch from strangers always brought that about. A start somewhere deep inside without a single twitch of muscle out of place. A slight lump in the throat. A rarely uttered request, command, ruling to keep distance.

He let her pick the spot - nothing like a person as social as she acted out, to know where to find seclusion in the crowd. He was good at tracking on the many roads of the night, but not these.
Walter leaned back in the seat just as the server walked up to them. The grievous detractor of the sharpened senses was that they would not cease. He could smell the bitter and sour sweat under perfume, some certain sicknesses on some of the patrons, moreso on the workers, he could even catch a condition other than liquor's onslaught on someone's breath, if only he'd find himself close. In another lifetime, perhaps, he could have studied medicine.

"Make it two," Walter murmured, eyes sinking closed for a long moment.
Un...fray.
He watched the server leave through closed eyelashes, head lolled back. His hand, the left one, with calloused fingers and the signet ring of his house on the index, rose to the throat and adjusted a length of silver-grey silk around it. Fingers almost covered the veins that pulsed darker for a moment, all the way to behind his ears and up his jaw and temple and corners of the eyes.

And then, the man's face painted with relief. A disjointed part settling in place. A false-sounding string finally taut to a perfect pitch. His mouth opened, relief making insignificant even the bunch of local poisons in the air.
"Apologies for my poor manner, earlier. I needed to sit down," he uttered, and cleared his throat, straightening in the seat somewhat reluctantly. The voice was steadier, though face somewhat paled. "Walter Thornley. Pleasure to meet your acquaintaince, Anira." A slightly deeper line between the brows. "What is a Black Thorn, if I may?"
Nothing like pain to make his memory especially sharp.
 
Anira leaned back, ankles crossed beneath the table. The minstrel tilted her head just a little, one brow arched with teasing curiosity as her gaze slid over Walter. Pale, but now a touch more composed. His voice, steadied but lined with effort, coaxed the corner of her mouth into a slow smile. “Well, Lord Walter Thornley,” she said, “since you’re upright and proper again... let me extend the warmest welcome this unfair establishment."

She let her fingers tap once on the table, a rhythmic flirt of knuckles and beat. A playful glint lit her eye, and she leaned in slightly, not too close, mindful of that subtle tension in him. “Shall I tell you what I heard?” she leaned an elbow on the table. “Word is there’s a man here with two cocks. He goes by Nottle. Or Sitha's Blessing, if you ask nicely. I've been told he performs miracles...” She tilted her head toward Walter, coy and cruel all at once. “Want to go see him? Just to look? For educational purposes, obviously.” Her grin turned wicked. She giggled, truly giggled, bright, since some wine had already warmed her blood.

“The Black Thorn is a drink. And a devilishly good one, if I may say so."

“It’s got plum wine at its heart,” she went on, fingers drawing an invisible swirl in the air “but then there’s a shot of cherry brandy, a dash of pepper tincture... "

“Two Black Thorns,” the barwench said, voice rough as it could be after a good cry. She set the drinks down with surprising grace, thick glass thudding softly against wood. The liquid inside was a deep plum color, nearly black, and shimmered with a slick oil sheen when it caught the candlelight. Anira raised her glass with delight, and took a sip. She winced.

“Oh, gods. That’s... mm."
 
"I would have you know, Anira, that your welcome to this unfair establishment quite agrees with me for the moment. I don't partake, or know this particular locale. What's that they say, live and learn?"

He breathed, deeper. Unfraying. Lips going back to muted red from slightly pallid almost bloodlet hue. Wonderful. None's the wiser. The pain, he could deal with, it didn't show unless he showed it with his face. The dizziness was slowly abating. The taste of blood in his mouth... well, he'd have to live with it for a little while. The heart was still drumming like it was trying to break free. That, he'd have to sort out. That was unusual.

His head tilted. If she thought the jab would make him blush, she overestimated the proportion of red to violet currently inside. Mostly red, soon, hopefully, please.

A smirk, indicating perhaps a breathless chuckle. Just for a moment, his eyes narrowed, almost - almost stiffening the posture. Then, he relaxed, draped an arm over the seat, propped up his head at the temple.

"One of the Free Cities, they worship a god who is both a man and a woman, at the same time, with both sets of bits," he offered in response. "A bit far of a trip to take for educational purposes - but with enough motivation, I've heard..."
Sources of motivation may differ, depending.
Still, he hoped that he wasn't about to enter a proper battle of words with a bard - hands down, he'd lose.
And - he got defensive. That wasn't too elegant, was it. Hindsight like a hawk's.

Two Black Thorns. He glanced at the bar wench. Crying or swallowing, this was a kind of establishment that might have facilitated either. Watched her leave, again, and pulled his drink closer, eyeing it curiously. He waited for her to swig. Waited a beat more.

"Strong enough to feel it burning gullet to the gut?"
It would be a curious experiment, he figured. Help him figure out if his condition had something to do with his body, or just the Shroud agreeing with it too much at times. Sweat turned sticky along the silk scarf-covered neck.
"Excellent."

He thought of the knife flaying his skin, the hammer breaking the bones, and just before the ghost of his tormentor commanded him to look again, like a tenacious echo, he thought of the Captain helping him hold the crossbow. Shoot, pup.
His core chilling cold as ice, he swigged the drink like it would anchor him to sanity by his liver.
And sat, for another beat, with his eyes closed, and his skull silent.

"So," he only had a slight slur. It'd go soon enough. "you seem well acquainted with proclivities. And rumors. I cannot help but wonder if music is a beloved hobby rather than profession. Or, I might be way off my mark. Am I?"
 

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Anira gave him a look like he’d just insulted the very concept of velvet. She pressed a hand to her chest, like he had wounded her deeply and then, after a beat, extended two fingers in the air as if holding a quill. She gave the invisible quill a lick and opened up an equally invisible notebook with her other hand. Dramatically, she “wrote” unseen lines in the little book of nothing.

“Mysterious gentleman mistakes bardic profession for hobby. Also appears to be bleeding internally. Might also be possessed.. Investigation ongoing.” she dictated. She slammed the non-book shut. “Well. That’s going straight to the chapter titled Men Who Should Know Better But Don't.”

Then she leaned forward, voice all velvet, tapping a finger against the rim of her glass.

“Rumors, darling, are the bread and salted butter of the bardic profession. People like to think we’re all songs and sighs, but no, no. That is so catastrophically narrow. Saying a bard is just a musician is like saying a knight of Anathaeum just waves metal at problems until they stop moving. You’d be right... But you’d also be tragically under-informed and frankly no fun at parties.” Bards were archivists of scandal, cartographers of character flaws, and the last line of defense against boring nobles with delusions of privacy. What was a rumor, really? It’s a candle in the dark. A map to secrets no one wants found. And bards, good bards, don’t just chase those whispers. They light them and fan them. Turned them into storms.

“So, no, dearest heart, not a hobby. Not a pastime. It’s a calling... And maybe I am a connoisseur of proclivities. But that is called research.” Smirking she raised her glass toward him in mock toast. Anira took a slow sip of her drink. The minstrel set the cup down with a flourish, pinky still extended like she was at court, not in a den of moral ambiguity and sticky tables.

“So… does this mean you don’t want to go have a look at the two-cocked man?”

A pause.

“Because frankly, my lord, I’m beginning to think I’ve misjudged your sense of adventure.”
 
"Bleeding? I wonder, actually."
He wondered how much got ruined during the 'episodes'. It certainly hurt a lot. A few times he'd blacked out. A few times he'd found himself elsewhere as he stumbled in half-agonized stupor. He had to be careful about these things, but - how careful, exactly? Alcohol helped, numbed it out, scattered it more across the Shroud.
There weren't manuscripts on what he was, he'd have to write those himself.

"I will dare to be your enduring editor, sweet Anira," his eyes narrowed slightly, a glimpse of humour much milder than the debauched locale. "The bardic profession, as you've just noticed, includes rumour-mongering and music and research. You've an exciting grasp on rhethorics!" An index finger raised, to emphasize his exclamation. And a warmer, almost chuckling tone, as the hand lowered, "I haven't heard a song - however, you are very exquisitely nibbling away in search of the potential drama. I've no doubt that by the time we're done I will have paid for drinks and more of your research just as well."
He knew where he was. With whom.

Another draw of the drink, pondering. Would they return after him, if he took too long?
Perhaps there was a bit of sense in investing into a bodyguard. Hm...
Thoughts wandered.

"Hm. Now come to think of it, I also like swinging metal to solve problems," he chuckled. "Maybe I'll drink with the Knights, sometime? Unless you'd never see them until there are dragons, damsels or favors to be granted. Noble, pure, and long of sword." A twitch of an eyebrow. "Long may they swing." A sip, and his glass rested on the table once again. "Also, how apt! I am not fun at most parties. Much rather be in company of friends."

She was doing quite well, could spin any word of his into a nasty piece of gossip, he had no doubt. Would she, simply out of boredom? Surely, this little rescue wasn't for naught and not for the goodness of the heart. It never was.
"If a deformity is what passes for adventure, my dear bard, I admire your ability to enjoy the simpler things in life. No, I've no interest in that man's miracles. But, being an expert, surely you know much finer places in the city?"
 
She studied him over the rim of her cup, weighing his words like she weighed a half-decent rhyme, turn it this way, turn it that, and see if it could be improved or ruined. Enduring editor, is it? That was a new one. Most men usually called themselves patrons or connoisseurs when they were looking to meddle. But “editor” was bold.

Smirking tapped the rim of her cup with a fingertip, a soft click-click. “My Lord, if you want to edit me, you’d better start paying me. Otherwise, you’re just some man with opinions.” A bard's words cost silver, and but her silence costs more. “A song? Now?"

"A song, he says," she huffed again, fluttering a hand over her heart. "Love, I have sung two marriage proposals and one bar fight tonight. My poor voice is hanging on by a thread and a prayer." Anira took a very deliberate sip of her drink, purely medicinal, of course.

She set her cup down with a little clink with a soft, exaggerated gasp. “Only the simple things?” Her smile tilted sly. “I don’t need deformity to enjoy adventure, thank you very much... but I will raise my glass to any man bold enough to put two cocks in his trousers and still walk straight.” She clinked her glass gently on the rim of his. "Long may they swing."

Anira stretched like a cat who’d earned her nap, half-curled around her drink, strands of wild blonde hair and eyes sharper than they looked. "Well,” she sighed softly, “You've been watered, wined, and witted at, should I take it you’re feeling better now, my Lord?”
 
The affable cat wasn't going on a lark with him because she enjoyed the stench of sweat and booze, for certain. But he wasn't giving her what she might have been after, either. No flirt, no gossip, not even an adventurous trip to see the unfortunately endowed gentleman.
She must have been growing bored, he concluded. And bored meant she'd be moving along to find a different source of entertainment.

Still, he enjoyed watching her antics and dramatics, perhaps the same way an old tree enjoyed the colorful birds sing in the branches.
"A friendly editorial," he parried. "Momentary and guided entirely by the playful spirit of the conversation. But if you say so, we will seek to remedy your poor voice. Seems only fair, after your rescue earlier."
He was almost her opposite - where she'd put an elegant spin, a playful twist into her words just as deft as the gestures in accompaniment, Walter was in earnest even when the tone was all jest.

He drank to the mutual toast, rested the empty vessel on the table after.
"Yes, I am feeling confidently conscious once again. It was a fortunate moment, catching your company, especially so near a place like this. Perhaps you'd found the affair dreadful, but I am thankful all the same. What do you say to a proposal that we venture outward? To part ways or for a lark to better venues, I wouldn't begrudge you either way. A treat would be my pleasure."
 
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