"Well I'll be fucked," Isander said, flicking another pair of coins over the woman's way. "Can't say luck's treating me kindly tonight."

He took her advice, tipping back the mug and emptying its contents in a long, overwrought fashion. Topped it with a sigh, thumbed dribbles from the corners of his mouth. This time his eyes hardly stung, nary a tear in sight to embellish his pride. That alone was worth its weight in smiles, and these he shared unabashedly.

But his nose crinkled, soured at the mouthed bogland offered to him. Another sigh, established with more gusto. More heartfelt longing for a bath, perhaps.

"Must it be a bog? Never a winsome plain, an enchanted woods. Oh well."
 
"Only get stubborn when I've been bled like a stuck pig." Which was happening a little too often for his liking. He immediately regret his jest upon hearing her concern to Isander's words . "You're right of course. We don't mean anything by it most times. Can call it a knight's armor, has a way of softening the blow as it were." Luck can only last so long when you challenge evils both mundane and ancient on a regular basis.

Castor couldn't help but agree with his fellow knight as he reached for his newly filled cup. Would be nice if they didn't have to trek through some godsforsaken land. He followed the other sworn's suit and down his cup, surprised at the flavor that met him.

"Not my toss either." He surrendered both coin and stubbornness. "Seems I've played my last roll...for this night at least," he added with a tired smirk.

The knight got to his feet shakily, leaning on the table for support. "Don't suppose any of those fine rooms for rent are on this floor?"
 
"High or low, luck was never on your side tonight,” she said, smirking at the two knights while picking up her winnings. Her voice gentle, teasing rather than sharp.

As Castor pushed himself up, she rose with him, one hand hovering just behind his elbow, careful not to touch unless he needed it. Her fingers twitched in readiness, as if expecting a tumble from the knight. “Rooms upstairs, aye..." Her green eyes flitted anxiously to the stairs. But stairs aren’t kind to fresh stitches. Her eyes flicked to the bar. “There’s the staff quarters back there, just past the stables.”

“It's quiet enough tonight, no one’ll bother you. You can rest there if you like, Syr. Won’t even charge you coin for it, Syr Knight, if you promise not to tear those stichtes... Or I suppose we," She gestured at Isander with one hand, "could give you a hand upstairs."

She gave a brief glance to Isander, complaining about it never being some golden meadow with singing birds and sweet-smelling grass. A soft giggle escaped her. “I thought you enjoyed a bit of mud on your boots. Oh well..."
 
Isander's scarlet twinged-cheeks plumped up to meet that infectious giggle. It was hard to ignore, all the more difficult after the drinks he'd lost count of—and the pittance of coins loosened from his purse. But the evening wound ever closer to its close. Regrettable, if inevitable. The dance of low candlelight stung at eyes laden with want of sleep. His voice was hoarse, already fain to forget the wetting of the eve's drink.

Nothing for it, then. He pinched hard at the bridge of his nose, alighting sensation back to his flailing sensibilities, and shook his head as he mustered a reply.

"A bit of mud? Surely not on feet so dainty as mine," he said, a touch wistfully.

Rearranging the straps of his bags, he shuffled the contents into place and slung it over his shoulders. It made for a cumbersome endeavor, leaving too many straps and buckles loose to dangle against his shirt. They rattled as he rose from the seat to offer his fellow knight a hand.

"Come, Cas, I'll see you to your room. Lass, ready one for me near his. I'll cover the coin of both."
 
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