Tidings of the Dolls

The TarRaCe, afternoon

The afternoon lull is settling in. Or it would be - the snow outside is making TarRaCe a particularly hot spot these cold days, taunting the passersby with promises of hot food, a hot fireplace and hot baths. The staff was kept busy serving the customers, taking orders and running food - but one of the staff members was seated alone in the corner table.

"Tch." Aelwyn muttered, with his hands on his hips as he stared down at his trusted glaive. His white waiter's shirt was taken off - for apparent no good reason - and he was looking at the blade with a stern expression. Probably. Hard to tell with Makari. His fingers then run over the edge carefully for the nth time, feeling its sharpness.

The door opens, held in place by a firm grip to make sure it doesn't bang open and let in any more chilly wind than necessary. The slender robed form quickly moves inside, before putting a shoulder to the door to shut it again. Once it's done, the robed fellow pulls back the fur-lined hood to reveal platinum hued hair and a winning smile. Telamon grins at one of the servants. "It's enough to make anyone stay inside!" he quips, as he peels off the heavy outer robe. Beneath, he's wearing a woolen tunic and trousers, and his boots, with of course his haversack.

A glance across the bar, and Tel hrms. "I see Irshya's not in..." Then his gaze lands on Aelwyn, and he shrugs before walking over toward the makari warrior. "Peace upon your nest, Sir Aelwyn. May I join you?"

The whole TarRaCe briefly stops as Telamon enters. No, rather, when he flicks back that platinum hued hair. Then a few moments later, the discussions slowly begin a new.

The ruddy sith-makar also raises his head at the sudden change in atmosphere, but when the other man starts to approach him he bows his head. "Ravenkeeper," He greets, and then gestures with his hand towards the chairs. The word 'Sir' still tickled him. Meanwhile, the glaive is pulled away from the table and leant against the nearby wall; before Aelwyn turns back towards Telamon. He was _still_ wearing his black waiter's apron/loincloth. "Looking to order? This one can recite the menu."

The perils of being a well-known hero. Telamon's already heard the talk about cutesy stuffed dolls with his visage. Ah well, such is life.

"In a moment. Have you seen Irshya? I wanted to check in on her." Telamon makes a wry face. "She was down by the docks the other day and... well, I was glad I had come by with a friend. She didn't take it well that a fishing trawler had bagged a sea serpent." The half-sil seats himself, resting his hands in front of him. "I suppose it's part and parcel of being a priestess of Dana."

Aelwyn's little plushy was resting above the fireplace, its glaive happily smoking. The mere ruddy sith-makar though, shakes his head. "This one has not, though it is perhaps not so strange; this one has kept odd hours." He spreads his hands, then pauses to consider. "... this one's horns for quite a few days..." He mutters by himself in draconic, rubbing at them for a moment.

The focus returns to Telamon soon though. "This one would nto be surprised if she were to linger in the baths with this weather with bad news." He crosses his arms across his chest. "Any news of Canvas? This one has not had the chance to visit them in a while."

"Simony has been closeted for several days over some theological discussion. Evidently it's a frequent pastime among Navosians, especially when the weather turns cold and snowy." Telamon shrugs lightly. "There are worse hobbies. She is fine, though. I suspect she'll be very tired of staying indoors once the convocation wraps up -- or at least, pleased to not have to sit through such discussions."

Tel tilts his head, watching Aelwyn rubbing his horns, before continuing, "I deeply desire a season of rest, for all of us. We have had far too many fires to put out. More than a few are feeling the strain."

Aelwyn tilts his head, then rumbles. "No wonder she desires to hit things with a hammer." He tells Telamon, shaking his head. The few ribbons wrapped around his horns swing back and forth. Far less than there had been.

"Ah, but this one enjoys the fire," The Dragoon clicks his teeth, gesturing towards the fireplace. "It is the stillness of this white that offends this one." He takes in a deep breath. "At the very least, this one is glad the harvest was before the end of this all." Another motion at the sky.

Finally, his gaze looks towards Telamon. "... yet, this one supposes quite many of one's friends do not share the sentiment." Or his.

Telamon snorts. "I know. I got roped into sitting in as an observer on the city council once, as a favor for Count Stiger." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "One fellow talked about the price of badger pelts for three hours. I was ready to kill him and I believe at least half of the council and witnesses would have never testified against me, if I did."

He exhales. "So yes, I do sympathize with Simony. And yet... not all are made of the sterner stuff you and I possess, Sir Aelwyn. They -must- rest, or the demands of the world will grind them to powder." He pauses. "I wonder if there's a possible venture there. An inexpensive retreat for adventurers who need time to recuperate. Hmmm." His eyes sparkle cheerfully.

"That being said, it does have its perks. I was able to secure some of that trawler's catch, including some of the serpent meat. It makes a fine stew and keeps well in the cold."

Aelwyn tilts his head with an uncertain look on his face, clicking his tongue. "Now now, one comes to her establishment and so brazenly speaks of setting competition? Now how would that make Sharkie feel? Or indeed, one's ankles?" The Dragoon asks, before shaking his head with a low rumble.

The Dragoon slides his hand down onto his hip though, leveling a more serious look towards Telamon. "This one supposes, that it is obligatory to mention that there were... a strange sighting near the doll maker's caravan." He briefly glances around the tavern. "Particularly evil eyes, and a fool who'd claim fiend."

The sith-makar then pauses and observes the other man.

Telamon chuckles. "Less restaurant, and more... healing retreat, Aelwyn. But I'm not sure where I'd even start building such a thing, let alone who to handle its affairs." He grins back. "Merely stargazing, you might say."

He tilts his head at Aelwyn's next words, his cheery expression fading back into a more businesslike mien. "Hm. Well, you'd better bring a drink then, because this sounds ominous." He slides a silver coin toward Aelwyn. "Cider, please."

Aelwyn snaps the coin off, gives it a look, and then flashes a grin at Telamon. "Either one wishes the good stock, or one wishes to give a good tip." He flickers his tongue in amusement, yet he then shakes his head. "This one wishes not to discuss details in public -" He makes a gesture, and then a pointed look is thrown. "... given the history, but Thunder, Huntress and that particularly menacing golem do know the details."

The Dragoon then leans over and whips the white shirt over his shoulder, before bowing his head. "A cider, then." The ruddy sith-makar then walks away with his lazy rolling gait, engaging in brief discussion with the barkeep.

GAME: Telamon rolls sense motive: (20)+29: 49

"How about both?" Telamon responds with a faint smile. But he nods. "Some things should not be discussed in public. I can supply a secure location, but it might be best if we did this with everyone present." The names don't -quite- ring a bell, but knowing Aelwyn's predilections in naming, and at least one of them is known to Tel... "I see."

"Well then, perhaps I will have something to do these winter months. I'd hate to be -bored- over Yule, even with feast-making and gift-giving." Telamon leans back in his chair a bit. "We'll hold this discussion for a better time."

Aelwyn soon returns with the drink - and his shirt is at least _on_ him, even if not fully buttoned up. It is a sure sign that Irshya was not around, or he'd be covered in bite marks. "The cider," He offers, and then flashes his teeth. "Ah, this one suspects it may be nothing but a foolish dreams of conquest, spurred by fantasies of Crimson Pen."

The Dragoon gestures then. "/That/ is where the fiend is from." There was an amused look on the makari's face. "But if any news shall travel, this one is certain Ravenkeeper will hear." The draconian then also takes his seat. "More importantly, what did Ravenkeeper think of the Dance?"

A particularly macabe, maybe even a little threatening, grin.