Her heart felt a thrill, a pitter patter against the cage of her ribs as his eyes flicked to meet her own, and there she became drunk on him, on this moment between them.

To have his invitation, his clear instruction of what he wanted her to do, Caelia was impervious to his voice. Her eyes dropped only to watch the straw wet his hand before her finger lifted, and the liquid she had put together in hopes of creating the drink of his choice successfully now slowly spilling down his from above his knuckle.

A stool screeched nearby, several in fact.

"Right..." A Syr cleared their throat, vacating the bar where Matvi and Caelia were still occupying. "Some privacy for the two of you..."

She paid them no mind. In fact, a curve of a smile graced her lips. Caelia withdrew her hand, dropping the straw absentmindedly as she lifted her gaze to peer at him through her lashes as she fell back onto the flat of her boots. Her hand grasped the neck of a bottle labelled something she did not bother to look at. Slowly, she began to round the bar, pausing at the end. "How did I do, Syr Iramene? Perhaps you can make me something with this?" She shook the taken bottle.
 
Matvi raised a brow as the other knights left the Bar. A smirk there upon his lips, for the privacy they had been given. "What a considerate soul," the Medicant said as he let his hands down unto the bar. No shame in the curl of his lips as he tracked that Syr he knew as Syr Barthalo of Dawn.

His mismatched eyes came back to Caelia, who seemed all the prouder for the crowd's recognition. Caused the dark ridge above an eye to raise, just the more as she wrapped her hands about the neck of the off colored glass. Curiosity growing.

Amongst other parts of his interest, and the droplet of gimlet rolled down the slope of his knuckle, and down some length of sinew and bone. Toward the crook of his wrist.

"How did I do, Syr Iramene?"
​
"How did you do?" he drawled out with ruddy tease. Eyes a glimmer with mischief. His gaze darted down to the little bead of drink that gleamed so chatoyantly. Bent low, and made sure to keep his eyes on her as he smelled at it. "Smells," he let his judgement linger a moment, perhaps just a tad too long. "Bright with its sweetness," licked it up with just the tip of his tongue.

Little tuts of the tongue against the roof of his mouth as he pondered on it a moment. "But not lacking the subtle, bite of the gin," he snatched up a cloth towel there by, and wiped off his hand quick and sure. "I'd say you have me wanting for more of whatever you serve up," he wore his smile like the well-worn glove it was.


"Perhaps you can make me something with this?"
​
"Perhaps," he said without a doubt. Eased out of his seat, and prowled over to the woman. Got too close, where there was hardly any space between them. Wrapped his hand about the bottle, flesh of his palm just there, cupping her knuckles, digits coiled about each other like snakes in their den. "Or," he said as he gripped, and eased the drink from her hand, eyes read its label at a glance. "We just enjoy whatever there, straight from the glass," teeth shined, and the cork popped.
​
 
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Caelia's hand loosened on the bottle, for she felt the grip of his hand secure the weight of the bottle. His touch warmed her, so unused to touch after delighting on poisons that she became a toxicity to be near... but ever since that day in the Gardens, Caelia had been wondering what his touch felt like.

His nearness was worth the loss of breath as she exhaled in answer to his suggestion, and she looked him in the eyes and matched the smile he wore. "I could serve you a few different things, Syr Iramene..." Her whisper was soft, her smile now cow, but the poisoner's eyes glinted in a fashion only he would see.

Her hand, now free, dared to lift and sweep locks of his hair from his face. Fingertips lingered there at his jaw, a sweet savouring on her part.

"Pour me a drink, would you barkeep?" Something to ease her nerves, perhaps. Like a fine whisky, this moment was enjoyed slowly, and Matvi Iramene knew what she liked to drink. "Unless you wish to take this elsewhere? Some other shelter from the rain?"
 
Matvi felt the touch linger against the curve of his bone. Looked into those eyes that looked up at him, and felt something shift inside him. A change.

Maybe it was the look in her eye. And how open and full they were. Wanting. A sweet, absolute sincerity.

"But of course," he says. Eyes pulled away. He takes her hand from his cheek, and places a tender kiss upon the knuckles. Lets it slip easy, and finds what he needs.

Chilled coup, stowed away In a secret place he keeps hidden from the loons and madlings that think themselves capable of mixing anything worth putting to your nose, let alone upon your lips or down your throat.

Sets the coup easy. Then grabs the mixer. One part vodka. One part lemon juice. Freshly squeezed from a fat plump lemon that spritz its oil all about so that one can't help but catch a scent of it's divine aroma. And that makes him smile. Small. But bright enough about his eyes. Like the shine off that lemon. Blue pouring through the thick and precious glass so many drunken idiots have smashed on account of their careless carousing. He shakes his head. Takes the lemon half and really squeezes it. Juice runs out from it's thick fibrous pulp, and he relishes in the give there between his thumb and crooked forefinger. Sets it down, neverminding the bit of mess that stains his hand. Oils and juice. Takes a bottle of orange liqueur, proudly made with oranges from the Aurochs valley. Pours a measure there in.

Shakes. Rhythmic, sure about the count. The pace. Pours it out with a strain into the coup. A fine pale drink, made just the touch golden by the vibrant yellow twist of lemon rind cut to fine sliver and placed there upon the rim. He slides it across the bar by the base of the stem. Already has a rag in his hands as he's wiping it off. A bit of pride in the look of his. "A classic Lemon Drop," he says. "Sour, but sweet," folds up the towel and lays it neatly upon the bar. "I'll be turning in for the day," he says with the slightest bow. "Do clean up when your are done," He says with the slightest bow, and he leaves the Knoll.
 
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