Josai

Josai

spear witch
Weaver
1750005464427.webp
On a different day, at a different time
(song: Srutabaruta by Naoshi Mizuta)​

People wouldn't think it, but the Knoll had its own brew. Honey mead, and some of the squires even helped in the process, gathering the honey from the apiaries they kept around the gardens. It had become a bit of a tradition amongst the healers, seeing who could get the strongest batch, or produced the most alluring flavor.

Made good practice for potion brewing too. Least, that's what they told Master Hilling when she had first asked. Wasn't long before she was bringing her own batch to their secret tastings. Naturally, they kept the best stuff for themselves. Hidden away in some hole in the burrow that only a few of them knew about. Least, that's what most of them thought, and Josai herself wasn't too sure if a squire or two had found the stash.

Least they weren't greedy about it if they had.

All this to say that barrels of the stuff, the stuff they liked but didn't mind sharing, well, they donated that to the Knoll every now and again, and those in the know, well, they knew when new barrels were ready to be tapped. Sworn mostly, and more than a few squires on the cusp of their trials. Always around autumn, when the winds began to change and the chill blew down from the mountain peaks.

Three barrels of the stuff. A darker brew called Granny's Apple, that tasted of cinnamon spiced apples, roasted in the oven, Josai's personal favorite of the bunch. A pale golden brew named She Loves You Not, that was crisp and clean, with a flowery bitterness to the finish. Then there was the Queen's Sting, a dangerously sweet, overly potent if you asked her, batch, that had but one real purpose.

She polished some mugs as she waited, buffing them till they were nice and only a little bit dull from age. The three oversized barrels were already tapped behind her, little signs marked off with chalk hung from the wooden spigots that patiently loomed over clever drainage. There was a bit of commotion at the bar table.

"Welcome," she said coolly, still busy cleaning the mug meticulously. "What do you fancy trying today?"
 
Astenvale hadn't made request of Rovias' services in months, but that didn't stop him from being drawn toward the Monastery for other reasons. There was much he admired of The Knights: Their dedication to their own beliefs, and the indomitable spirit they displayed each and every time they placed their own safety on the line in the name of their order. From Squire to Sworn, they were Saints to those of belief.

But even Saints have their poisons of choice.

That was what carried the violet-robed man to the Knoll on this eve, with air crisp and cool. The mild chill made one's belly simply beg for a bit of comfort and warmth, and what better place to hide from the cruel and cold world around you than in the bottom of an old wooden barrel? In some respects, that's that the Knoll felt like: A wooden cask built into the earth herself, warm and safe.

Rovias didn't have much need to hide- Life had been kind enough to him for the last decade- But that didn't stop him from taking in the scent of running taps and full mugs. Like a cat, he leaned lazily against the bar, his chin resting dreamily on a hand decorated with enough gold to buy a dozen rounds for the house. With the mood he was in today, he just might.

"Which do you like best, Miss?" Came a purr from pursed lips, playful amber eyes dancing from behind curtains of dark hair, his whimsy flittering from barrel to barrel. He was a wayward rose, pondering over which direction he'd allow the wind to blow him on this night. "I want to do and say things that I will regret tonight, but I also wish to remember them."

@Josai
 
A quirk of brow, and a curl of lips saw eyes as bright as starlight, and dark as that same night, catch the wayward rose.

A lilt of the head, and a moment to ponder. Her pouty lips twist with the weight of a thought. "Hmm," she made her thinking audible, black curls spilling over her brow. "Well," she straightened up and combed back the rogue tresses. "For your stated purpose , Mister, might I offer, the Queens sting," a fingers grabbed up a short horn cup, turned to face the kegs, found the wooden spigot's key, pinched and twist. The wood squeaked with the littlest groan of release. Out glugged the sweet syrupy drink, all blackberries and chocolate as it's scent wafted about. A rogue glug splashed some of the dark stickiness onto Josai band, but she didn't mind the mess. A quick twist of the key, and the spigot whimpered shut.

The perfect measure for a tasting sample. Generous, but not enough to sate any real thirst.

She turned about and laid it onto the counter top. "Give it a try," she said with a wink. Already wiping her hands with a cloth that seemed to have materialized from nowhere.
 
He wore a smile as proud as his silvers and golds as the woman regarded him, quickly allowing his lips to move before his mind could direct them. "Rovias, please. If you're going to leave me with my head in the clouds and waking up where I shouldn't be, you shan't be calling me Mister." The good men and women of the Monastery could be a bit uptight at times, but they were men and women all the same, and they knew how to have fun. Doubtful the Knoll would be here if they didn't.

Rovias followed her with his eyes as she turned to pour his drink for all of a second, soft fingertips drawing idle shapes in the rugged wood of the bar counter, small taps against the surface to a tune that only played in his head. The audible whine of the liquor as she freed it from its confines sent a spark of anticipation dancing across his vertebrae, his eyes closing and his lungs filling with air as he took in the scent that wafted into the air.

"The scent is certainly more pleasant than the scorn of a Monarch..." The drifting rose spoke in a dreamlike mumble, "Just like any real woman of power, I imagine the punch comes when it touches my lips." The murmur turned to a laugh as he slowly raised his lids to reach out to accept the horn, wrapping fingers clad in glimmering silver around the thin base and raising the drink high.

"To regrets, and the hopes that I find them."

Rovias brought the rim of the horn to his lips, tilting his head back as he allowed the nectarlike poison to tumble over his tongue and fill his cheeks with a sweet heat that was enough to make a lesser man blush. He settled instead for a small, shivering groan as he swallowed down the Queen's Sting, a grin on his lips as the heat settled into his belly, carnal satisfaction achievable in only so many ways washing over him.

"As I thought, you don't disappoint."

@Josai
 
The tavern was warm in the way she liked, not just from the hearth, but in the sound of voices, laughter, chairs scraping, and tankards clinking. Astenvale wasn’t home, not really. But this place? With it dark wood, stone floors rubbed smooth by years of boots, the low hum of a fiddle somewhere in the corner. It smelled like home, or close enough. Mead. Real mead. This was familiar.

Venla stepped in and breathed deeply. Hops and smoke, and something sweeter underneath, the drift of honey and spice. The scent made her shoulders drop a little, unspooling some of the tension that had built up in her spine. She could still feel it there, in the base of her skull. But it was quieter here. Less sharp. Her hair, a coppery red, hung in fine, soft waves just past her shoulders, a bit tousled from the wind outside. She wore it loose. Her skirts whispered softly at her feet as she moved, thick wool in deep, earthy greens and browns, gathered and pinned at the waist, to avoid stepping on the hem. Her chemise might once have been crisp white, but years of use had made the linen cream colored. Its sleeves loose and rolled up just above her elbows, and over it she wore a black bustier, laced snug down the front.

She barely noticed the man at first, just the shape of him at the bar. But when she slid closer, aiming for the nearest empty stool, she noticed his coat gleaming like dusk in candlelight. Venla nodded toward the man next to her. “Evenin'. I’ll have what he’s having,” she smiled to the woman behind the bar, her gaze flicking sideways toward the man’s drink before daring to glance up ... and stop!

Oh.

He was striking, in a way that made the word "striking" feel too small. That was not the usual ruddy-cheeked tavern patron. She quickly turned back to the woman behind the counter, not wanting to stare any longer at the man. Instead, she fished out some coins from a leather pouch and laid them on the counter.
 
Josai could not help but laugh, a cool and breezy thing, come the man's poetics. He certainly had a flair for the dramatic, didn't he? Fun to be had in that.

"Flatterer," she said, voice all unbothered mist. A finger tap tapped at the counter top. "Sweet and honeyed as your words are, you pay up first, before you get a full Sting," she winked. "And it's Josai, by the by,"

A shift in the crowd, and the flow of copper tresses drew her eyes up. Looked like those regrets just found them.

She really was a vision, wasn't she? All longing and life behind those emerald pools. Some haunting there, clung about her. Took the breath away, easy as a witch took a soul. Curious.

Josai put on her practiced smile. Nod as the woman took her seet. "Evenin, Miss," The clatter of coin, quick, the bartender smooth to turn about and fetch up a fresh horn.

Twist of key, pour of drink, and the horn filled up fast with dark glugs of sweet sticky poison. The smell of it went straight to the head. Made Josai's nose wiggle and scrunch. Key squeaked shut.

Blue robes billowed as she turned about. Laid horn down, and scooped coin up. Her sparkling eyes of moonless night shift back to find Rovias. Checked the counter top with brows raised expectant and a fiendish little smirk there on her lips.

Well?
 
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Josai. He tested the name silently on freshly wet lips, shaping out each letter like a scholar reading some ancient text he'd sought for decades. A lovely name, for what he'd argue was a lovely woman. It was a given, though, that anyone of any gender could gain his favor fairly quickly through a wink and a drink.

There were those who accused him of being easily swayed, but in a world so full of misery and loathing, Rovias simply cherished the dwindling commodity of kindness and companionship.

"If complimenting you on your bar service is a flattery..." The man hummed lowly with eyes of glowing amber, chin resting on the glimmering bands that dangled from his wrist. "...Then I'd best watch my tongue. I'm capable of weaving a silk much sweeter."

Rovias was no spider in the parlor, though. He'd not entered these doors seeking a catch, and even had the ever present chill of his flesh sought the warmth of another to keep him sane and intact for another night onward, this Sting that still sent trembles through his body as the last vestiges seeped into his tongue, the oaken scent of the Knoll, the warmth of the soil that surrounded them, it all brought such a simplicity that surpassed any pleasure of the flesh.

This was easy, this was comfortable. To drink himself into slumber and awaken right where he sat, with only vague memory of words best left unspoken and secrets spoiled would be a verifiable improvement over any eve in the months prior. Certainly, it was worth the price she now waited for, and without a care he reached for the satchel on his belt to retrieve his coins.

Tossing the lot of them onto the surface of the bar, the hazy bliss on his smiling lips was broken for but a moment by the presence of another's payment landing beside his own.

Yet another improvement to the evening.

In this place of the powerful, pious, and palatine, she was captivating in that she was none. There was no extravagant outfit, no mark of status embroidered upon her ordinary attire. All that she bore were the markings of her past upon her soft, fair-skinned face. A scarlet dose of reality in the fantastical place that was The Knoll, that was Astenvale.

Her eyes did not linger, and nor did his own. His gaze returned to Josai, nodding toward the sack of coin between them with a quirked brow and an impish smirk. "Should cover me for the night, no? I don't plan on going home tonight. Not to my own, anyways..."

Letting that coy remark hang in the warm and flavorful air of the tavern for a moment, Rovias jerked his head toward the lovely stranger beside him.

"Allow me to cover my barmate as well." He purred, turning his head to rest in his hand as he so lazily smiled over to her. "I worry I may not burn through all this coin on my own, and that would be a shame."
 
She could smell the bread rising in the back, soft yeast and hearthstone and it tugged at something in her, memories rising like dough left in the sun. A hundred early mornings with her mother, flour on her skirts, laughter in the rafters. Venla rested her arms lightly on the bar, her fingers curled around the smooth old wood as the Sting was poured. The scent reached her before the mug did. Sweet and dark and just a little dangerous, like blackberries stolen off the vine at the tail-end of summer. "That smells wonderful, by the way." said the brewer's daughter. The best drinks smelled like a summer that wants to stay.

Venla tilted her head while watching the bar-witch. She did not seem the sort to let a man sweet-talk his way past the till. Green eyes followed the scatter of coins across the bartop like watching chestnuts spill from a harvest basket. There were more than needed, more than twice what was needed. “Oh,” she said, soft and sunlit. “That’s kind of you.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you’ve got a tower full of books and velvet chairs and a personal baker?” she asked, voice as soft and warm as a buttered biscuit. She tilted her head and gave him a look. Not scolding, not sharp, but amused, fond even.

Shifting forward on her stool, Venla said to the barwitch. “Seems a shame if you don’t get a drop for yourself.” With that, she leaned halfway over the bartop, skirts swishing, belt creaking softly and peered beneath it, looking for something small and empty. A cup, a thimble, a proper shot glass if the place was civilized enough to own one.

“Let’s see… There we are.”

She plucked a tiny pewter cup and set it on the bar between them with a triumphant little clink. Then she tipped her horn and poured a neat splash of the Queen’s Sting into the cup. “Here.” she said, sliding it toward Josai with a smile that dimpled slightly at the corner. “You don’t have to drink it now, but you do have to drink it.”

She lifted her horn a little higher and said in a sing-song tone:
"To warm little taverns and nights without a king,
Here’s mud in your eye from the Queen’s own Sting!”

She took a proper sip, tried not to wince... tried. The drink hit her like a kiss and a slap all at once: sweet up front, but bold in its bite. “Stars above!” she rasped.
 
Josai looked down at the purse, scooped it up. Opened its saggy mouth with a quick tug of strings, and a dip and spread of fingers, just wide enough. A measured nod. Strung it tight, and stashed it in the folds of her robe.

"Should about do it," she said with a grab of his emptied horn, turned about and set the thing to catch a pour after a turn of key. Near black drink poured out quick.

That smells wonderful, by the way,

Josai craned her head toward the voice, and dipped a little bow toward the woman. "I'll let Syr Mortimer know of your praises, Miss?" she asked. Hands already squeezed about the spigot, twist it shut. Choked out the last bits of frothy sin, wicked it off with a nearby bar comb. Turned and set it down toward Rovias as the two spoke, saw the other pour over the counter top. Skirts and all.

"Huh," she sounded with a curl of lip when she came up with prize in hand. Warm breath there when the pewter cup clinked down onto the counter. "A fine choice," she said, and snatched it up from the end of its slide. Looked down into it with a little swish. "Be bad luck if I didn't," she muttered into her cup.

Eye caught by the raise of the cup, and a little laugh fell come the toast. She raised her own cup up, even looked to Rovias and tilt the brim of pewter toward him.

Bottoms up.

Drank up a measure. Easy with smile curling behind the mug as she watched the brave one rasp. Nod to herself once more before she drained the cup. Put it to the side. "You run your own place?" she asked, with the slightest bit of heat blooming down where the Queen did Sting.

Looked over to Rovias to see how he was holding up.
 
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Perhaps it was the way she’d called him out—so directly, so boldly—or maybe it was just the lingering haze of the Queen’s Sting clouding his judgment, but the redheaded stranger's remark pulled a rich, unrestrained laugh from Rovias’ chest. He leaned forward against the bar, golden bangles clinking softly as his forearms came to rest on the wood, his head shaking in mirth, dark curls spilling like ink across one shoulder.

"Just the one velvet chair," he chuckled, voice warm and wicked, "and I’d need another shelf to stack my books to tower height. All I’m really missing are the bakers." The smirk that lingered on his lips was equal parts tease and dare, eyes gleaming like garnets in low light as he regarded her. Not so ordinary after all, this one.

With a languid grace, he let his head fall into his hands, chin resting lightly on his palms as his eyes followed the newcomer’s movements, sharp, deliberate, unbothered by consequence. His amusement slipped into something softer, keener, as she leaned over the bar with a feline sort of pride, tipping a measure of the sting into Josai’s cup as though she’d always belonged there.

"Truly," he murmured, watching the exchange with a purr curling behind his words, "our gracious hostess deserves a taste of her own alchemy on-tap. How cruel, to deny her the sting she serves" Still, he wasn’t entirely certain Josai would accept it. These monastery types tended to wrap themselves in all manner of codes and creeds-- A primary reason he'd never sworn himself.

It was a pleasant surprise when Josai let the elixir pass her lips. Rovias watched intently, a flicker of admiration in his eye as that familiar warmth softened her features, eyes alighting with golden bliss, the same sun-drenched hue the Queen’s Sting had painted across them all. Rovias let out a pleased hum in response.

It was divine. The honeyed sin of it glided down his own throat, thick and warm, and he let his head fall back in decadent surrender, his shoulders rolled beneath his gilded robes as if the pleasure threaded straight through his spine. He wore his indulgence like a second skin.

“If she doesn't,” he drawled, eyes flicking between Josai and the stranger, “you should hire her. You two make one hell of a pair.” His smirk curved wider, less playful now, more pointed. A gift to the eyes and the lips, yes, but he was watching more than just curves and colors. The sting had peeled back a layer, and now he wanted to see more.

“Do indulge us with your name, my friend,” Rovias said, leaning in just enough for the jewelry on his wrist to chime softly, catching the lamplight. “I’m all for leaving things to the imagination… but if I have another sip of that nectar, I may need to start taking notes to remember.”

@Josai @Venla Thiel
 
Venla watched the man over the rim of her mug, her green eyes sparkling like moss after rain. “Only one?” she echoed, tone teasing and soft. "And here I thought I was speakin’ with royalty.” The redhead smirked in good-humored confidence. She set her horn down gently, steady despite the Sting fuzzing the edge of her thoughts.

"I'll let Syr Mortimer know of your praises, Miss?"
"Venla Thiel. But please, just Venla. May I ask what your names are?"

Then Josai’s cup was empty, her question lingering, and Rovias’ words wrapped round her like silk. Like a cat inching closer to the cream. She knew the tone well enough, caught the shift in his voice as easily as she'd catch a sour note in a batch of cider. She’d grown up stirring wort and serving smiles. That smirk of his...

Venla arched one brow at Rovias, horn paused just shy of her lips. “Do we now?” she asked, soft as a breeze through barley. She glanced at Josai, than back to the man. She straightened slightly. “Not anymore,” she said, brushing a stray wisp of copper hair behind her ear. “Used to, though. My aunt owns the tavern, back home. I've poured more pints than I care to count.” She gave a small, dry laugh. Venla rested her elbow on the bar. She'd been working the taverns since her hands got big enough not to drop the tankards.

“I’ve been to Astenvale before. Long time ago.” Her voice shifted, something gentler at the edges. Her eyes glimmered at the memory, a little faraway. “Broofest. Once.” She'd been just a little girl then, no more than 6 or 7 years old. She remembered the endless tables, the smell of bread and roasting meats, the way songs curled up into the rafters like smoke. "I remember it as a whirlwind of barrels.. and that smell of sweet cider filling the air.” She remembered feeling small, in the best way. But she’d been left behind soon enough. Someone had to mind the tavern. Someone responsible. Or maybe her da just wanted her well clear of knights once she had grown tall enough to catch their eye? Easier to leave her pouring ales than catching trouble.

“Anyroad,” she said gently, glancing between Rovias and Josai both, her tone warm but casual, “either of you ever been to Broofest? Think they’ll be holding it again this year?"
 
Venla Thiel. But please, just Venla...

An easy nod. "Josai of Ihreco," she gave. Hand already scooping up the horned mug Venla had so drained, scoured it with ash and sand, and gave it a rinse. Set it down a moment.

You should hire her. You two make one hell of a pair.

"You think so?" Josai replied with lilt of laughter on her tongue. Not that she disagreed with the man. Though it was in the how and why of things that gave her pause.

Not anymore...

Josai grabbed up a few small cups as she listened on to her story, three earthware shots knuckled between each hand. Gave a nod as she listened to Venla. Poured measures there into the cups of each of the two brews that remained.

But if I have another sip of that nectar...

"You'll be fine, tiger," Josai said with a little wiggle of her nose. "You are under my tending, after all," her head nod towards Venla. "Less this one keeps up the trouble, and then I can make no promises,"

The barwitch set the She Loves You Not first to each patron's right, and the Granny's Apple next over after that.

"More than welcome to pick up a shift here, if you are staying for a stretch," Josai said easy. A smile for Venla. Come the telling of Broofest, and Josai seemed to perk up some. A little laugh fell out from her lips. "Aye, plenty of that and more," she set her own two cups before her. "Mastered the ceremonies, just last fall," she said with a twirl of wrist and the show of a bow. Couldn't help but smile wider for the memory. "Right mess that was, you should have seen the poison we had the contestants drinking," shook her head with a bounce of shoulders. "Brews from all across the Vayd," a pleased show of teeth, "Pretty sure I recall a Thiel keg or two," a wink and a smile. "And aye, reckon they'll put it on, come the autumn season,"she jammed a finger up to a shelf, lined with ornate steins, all manner of wyld creatures pranced, flew, and raced across the relief carvings. "I hear this year's theme is quite serpentine,"

Her hand went to the first of the cups, closest to her, looked to the sweet talker. "Have you been, Rovias?" took up the cup, and offered them both a clink before she knocked it back. Crisp, clean, with a hint of bitter flower at the finish. Plucked the Sting right out of you.
 
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"I am called Rovias." Though Josai had spoken his name in passing, Rovias knew it wasn’t truly shared until it left his own lips, offered like an invitation across the curve of his smile. Venla, for all her cleverness and quick remarks, had yet to be properly introduced ,and that simply would not do. Not if the cups were to tilt and the drinks to pour. They were companions on this little voyage now, weren’t they?

"A pleasure to meet you, Venla."

His voice curled low, and the simper that danced across his lips felt far more sincere than before. There was a different gleam in his eye now, one not so much teasing as intrigued. Venla hadn’t buckled under his playful barbs, she met them, matched them even, with a wit of her own.

He liked that. Quite a bit.

As Josai poured their next round with smaller portions now, less menacing than the Queen’s Sting that still hummed softly in the bloodstream, Rovias leaned back into his seat with a languid grace. The warm, orange glow of the Knoll reflected off of the silvers that rested in the valley of his chest, and his robes hung loosely off his sides, draping over the edges of his seat.

"What tending it is." The words slipped from Rovias with a grin, delivered like a secret folded into a sigh, soft and smoky, almost a whisper against the rim of his horn. "Though it’s far easier to make trouble with company than alone," he added, eyes glinting with lazy amusement as they flicked between the two women. "If she stirs the pot, don’t count on me to calm the boil." The smirk that followed was half-apology, half-dare.

Venla spoke of home, of Astenvale and the Broofest, and Rovias listened with half-lidded eyes and the faintest of smiles. Not dismissive, never that-- but comfortable. At ease. This place, these two, it was easy. Not too much, but not boring either. Just enough heat to stay warm, just enough laughter to keep the shadows away.

Words flowed as freely as the drink behind Josai’s bar, and Rovias, ever the connoisseur of rare pleasures, drank deeply of both.

"I always seem to miss it, I’m afraid..." Rovias gave a small shrug, as he tilted his head in a gesture of regret. "I'm only ever up this way when the Knights have some task or another for me, and that’s rare." In truth, he hadn't been summoned this time. But a month of dull silks and slower nights had left him restless, pacing in search of something, anything, to stir the blood.

He drummed a thoughtful rhythm on the curve of his horn with ring-clad fingers, letting the sound hum beneath their conversation. His drink caught the light as he lifted it, swirling it once before leaning in to meet Josai’s toast with a faint clink.
"I was thinking of sailing home come autumn. It’s been years since I’ve seen Suldaza… Still have family there."

The pause that followed tasted of seawater and salt-bitten memory. No one close. Cousins, mostly. And a brother he’d rather meet at the bottom of the Boiling Sea than across a dinner table.

"But I admit, I’m hoping something keeps me here instead." His voice lifted with a smile again, one brow arching lazily. "The Broofest sounds like good fun. And I’ve been meaning to get my hands on the Monastery’s books." He sipped, then gave a sly glance to Josai over the rim of the horn. "Think they’d let me borrow a few if I asked nicely? I'm told I have very convincing doe-eyes."

@Venla Thiel @Josai
 
Venla nudged her empty horn gently toward Josai with the back of her knuckles and while watching the barwitch clean it: "Josai of Ihreco and Rovias, what an honor to meet such company."

Blinking once in that startled, almost affronted way girls did when caught picking berries where they shouldn’t. “Me? Trouble?” A slight tilt of her head, red hair shifting along her shoulders. Then she pressed her hand to the front of her bodice, all mock-innocence and wounded pride. “Don’t know what you’re both on about. I’m nothin’ but helpful.” She huffed a laugh under her breath.

“I’d wager you two cause more headaches than I ever could.”

She glanced down at the two shots Josai set down. “Pick up a shift, hm?” she echoed, thoughtful. She glanced around the tavern once, imagining herself behind the counter, wiping mugs, pouring horn after horn for strangers who might slowly become regulars. “I’ll think about it.” She looked down at She Loves You Not, thumb brushing the rim. She lifted her own cup, meeting the clink with a soft ting, then took the first long sip. The drink slid down her throat, sharp and lively, with that subtle bitterness. Like a secret she wasn’t quite ready to share.

When Josai spoke of Broofest, Venla’s laugh came easy, warm. "My brothers always send barrels down for Broofest. They wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She leaned in slightly, cup balanced loosely between thumb and fingers. “Serpentine, is it? Because folk’ll be flat on their backs by noon?”

Venla’s eyes flicked to the man's fingers drumming on the horn, catching the quiet rhythm beneath their talk. When he mentioned sailing home in autumn, she caught the hesitation in his voice. “I haven’t seen the library yet. Been in Astenvale for days now, and not even a peek. Seems a shame, don’t it?” She said it simply, almost wistfully, a gentle nudge toward lighter thoughts beyond family’s heaviness.

“Doe eyes?” she echoed, incredulous. “Oh, now I have to see that.” Venla turned fully this time. She shifted on the barstool, skirts rustling around her legs as she angled herself toward Rovias, one elbow leaning easily on the counter. The drinks blooming warmly in her cheeks, locked straight onto him. She leaned a little, squinting at him like she would examine a suspect loaf of bread. “Go on, then. Let’s have ‘em.”

She waited, dead serious, expecting an actual demonstration.
 
A warm quiet from the barwitch, past the drink, as all the words poured over. Was the sort of thing that made the work worth it. Pour a bit of poison. Have a bit of fun. Hear stories come free from everyone.

The little guards, and looks. Smiles, half shields as they were open arms.

"On their backs, and slithering, to be sure," she laughed. "Not that the theme changes that much," Caught Rovias' words. Took a listen as she twiddled with her empty cup.

The Broofest sounds like good fun. And I've been meaning to get my hands on the Monastery's books...

I haven't seen the library yet...

A flip of the shot glass, all spin about her fingers, caught and clacked down and done onto the counter top. "It's quite the collection, I can assure you," she says to the both of them. Smile worn well, a curl that was but the tip of things.

...Go on, then. Let's have 'em.

"Aye, have to show us the goods, and might be, you earn yourself a recommendation," all good tease in her voice, as she picked up the last of shots. Let it linger about her nose a moment. The smell of it all long summer nights bled into the turning leaves of fall. A Sculptor's Summer. Apples heavy and tart off the branch, turned sweet with fire, bright with cinnamon.

Witch that she was, The Granny's Apple was her favorite. And the curl about her mouth told of a secret too good to keep.
 
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