The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
She is here, in the back, and so the fire is not roaring. She does not need it, honestly, and even though her brother thinks her wasteful, she is conservative on certain occasions. Sometimes she suspects he just doesn’t always look, that he simply sees the parts of her that he wants to see. Lately, that seems to be the bad parts of her, and she finds herself growing a little tired of it.
There’s the sound of a door, followed by her name. She recognizes the voice by now, and she puts down the glasses she was washing (she’d had some specially made by a local glassblower, and they were stunning) and makes her way to the front. Her sleeves are rolled up and she wears only a white blouse and pants, unbothered by the chill in the place.
Still, at the sight of Sunjata, she throws some magic to the hearth (which always had wood in it, even if not a fire itself), and the wood catches easily. It would take some time to warm the place, but he doesn’t seem to care. Weaver nods to the new sleeve of tattoo along his one arm. ”That’s new. Did you like the artist?” she asks, recalling how he’d asked for the artist who did her tattoos. He was the best.
Making her way behind the bar, Weaver grabs two glasses and begins to pour. The book of recipes Maea had given her rests on the bottom shelf with the booze, displayed, because it feels right somehow. She’d been working with some of the cider recipes already, and though there are still crates to unpack, she’s got enough setup to make a decent drink now. She begins to pour; cider she’s been trying to get right (it’s close, not perfect, but good enough to drink) mulled with spices, mixed with some whiskey. It is the sort of drink that warms you through.
Weaver takes both glasses and comes back around the bar, handing one to Sunjata. ”I heard about Maea. Gods, I’m so sorry. But I found something I think she wanted you to have,” she says. Fishing in her pocket, Weaver pulls out the letter with his name on it and the feather she’d found. The letter is a bit crumpled because she’d been keeping it with her, waiting till she saw him again. She hands both over. ”I’m less sure about the feather, but the letter is clearly for you.”
There’s the sound of a door, followed by her name. She recognizes the voice by now, and she puts down the glasses she was washing (she’d had some specially made by a local glassblower, and they were stunning) and makes her way to the front. Her sleeves are rolled up and she wears only a white blouse and pants, unbothered by the chill in the place.
Still, at the sight of Sunjata, she throws some magic to the hearth (which always had wood in it, even if not a fire itself), and the wood catches easily. It would take some time to warm the place, but he doesn’t seem to care. Weaver nods to the new sleeve of tattoo along his one arm. ”That’s new. Did you like the artist?” she asks, recalling how he’d asked for the artist who did her tattoos. He was the best.
Making her way behind the bar, Weaver grabs two glasses and begins to pour. The book of recipes Maea had given her rests on the bottom shelf with the booze, displayed, because it feels right somehow. She’d been working with some of the cider recipes already, and though there are still crates to unpack, she’s got enough setup to make a decent drink now. She begins to pour; cider she’s been trying to get right (it’s close, not perfect, but good enough to drink) mulled with spices, mixed with some whiskey. It is the sort of drink that warms you through.
Weaver takes both glasses and comes back around the bar, handing one to Sunjata. ”I heard about Maea. Gods, I’m so sorry. But I found something I think she wanted you to have,” she says. Fishing in her pocket, Weaver pulls out the letter with his name on it and the feather she’d found. The letter is a bit crumpled because she’d been keeping it with her, waiting till she saw him again. She hands both over. ”I’m less sure about the feather, but the letter is clearly for you.”
Weaver
