Your (admittedly abysmal, yes) story has both its intended effect of earning you a drink, and an unintended bonus of getting her to laugh. The lines around your eyes deepen in turn, pleasure and firelight brightening your face. "Live t'serve," you rumble, sit-bowing awkwardly before graciously accepting your prize.
You take a polite pull from the bottle as he gives her name, relishing the burn of it on your throat, the way it loosens your nerves. "Born'n raised. Zeph." Instead of your hand you extend back the bottle, then lean onto your splayed palms once more. "'magine I'm properly in your debt now, Vai." There's a playful, melodic lilt to your accent. "How long y'been in Torchline?"
Zephyr
you can be the ripest, juciest peach in the world
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
