For Glory and Gold. [Redward & ChibaShigehito]
Smoke drifted in slow, lazy, mingling clouds above. Lapping against low wooden beams and loosely slanted boards, filling not only the air around Oara's head but the entire lower layer of the Weeping Dragon Tavern; wreathing the patrons in a thin layer of shifting haze. People conversed, some mumbling while others shouted over the dull roar. Tables were jostled and chairs scraped against the stone floor; tankards clanked and spilled along with the rolling of bones. It was, simply, another night in the 'poor district' of Wardd City; revelry in a dockside tavern, the salty and downtrodden easing the aches of their day with a frothing pint. In the low light of scattered oil lamps, she watched them; the lip of her chair pressed against a sturdy, if rough-hewn, support pillar. She noticed a few familiar, grizzled faces, mostly sailors she'd traded stories with in previous nights, but not the familiar face she had sought. With a huff, she lowered herself and the chair to a sitting position.
Her companion had yet to show his face, leaving the Half-Orc woman to hold their hard earned prize. Her hand slid easily into the deep pockets of her leather trousers, feeling the smooth curve of a perfectly cut gem. The image of it came to her mind; a stone of blood red, cut into a nearly perfect oval, mottled with errant flecks of black. Fingers wiggled and tapped against the surface, the distant, phantom ringing of golden coins tempting her ears. With a sigh, Oara Bloodgrin removed her hand from the depths of her pockets; following the motion with a flick of her wrist, smacking away the trailing, frayed edge of her indigo cloak.
Thunder clapped from outside, shaking the boards above her head slightly, the sound of fresh rain pouring down. From here, she could hear it smacking in fat drops against the nearby ocean; muffled beneath the sound of rain against clay tiles of the Weeping Dragon's roof. A few of the patrons paused in their motions, turning to look toward the closed, metal door of the tavern. She trailed their gazes, looking through the small open slat intended to allow the enforcers to bar entry to certain patrons. It was from there that the electric blue flash touched the room, fading away in an instant. A mighty storm had been on the horizon for nearly three days, she remembered hearing out on Wardd City's cobbled streets, and many of the sea laborers would be landlocked for a fortnight or so. Oara gave a slight grin, her slender lips twitching upward at the edges; just barely covering her tiny tusks.
With a sharp exhalation, she stood, taking time to push in her chair before approaching the bar. Tall, as she was her head remained close to the ceiling. Weaving between the scattered tables was a simple affair for her, avoided by molesting hands or salacious advances. Approaching the uneven, polished, oaken bar was even simpler; several seats before the rotund barkeep vacant and awaiting her. Straddling the tall stool, she lowered herself, with a certain awkward grace, making certain that the troublesome edge of her cloak wouldn't be caught under her ass. The Human watched her from beneath bushy, black brows, offering a wan, crooked smile.
"Still waitin', eh, Oara?"
She gave a snorting laugh, slapping her palm against the table. Relaxing, she retracted her hand and gave an emphatic shrug.
"You know me, Georke, always ahead."
The barkeep gave a knowing nod and pressed his knuckles against the bar, leaning forward, shifting his eyes from side to side before meeting the woman's.
"Aye, lass, I know, I know. What'll it be? Know ye didn't come over here for naught but a conversation."
He said the last part with a wink, his heavy, baggy lid dipping down over his left eye for just an instant.
She continued to stare at him, her own reddish-brown eyes meeting his plain brown; biting down on her lower lip lightly as she contemplated.
"A cup of Moon's Silver."
Georke seemed balked at the statement, his eyes widening in surprise for a moment before he made the motion to retrieve a dirty jar of what appeared to be cloudy water. It was one of the more expensive drinks that sat on the shelf and had been there since long before Oara even stepped foot in the place. A glass appeared in the man's hand, snatched from under the counter with serpentine speed. It made a light noise against the wood, followed by the sloshing flow of the thick alcohol. She watched as he filled the glass; light catching in the cloudy murk rumble as another peal of thunder lightly shook the counter. As Georke's fingers left the glass, Oara snatched it up and drained the contents without hesitation. With a grimace, she lowered it down; forcing the burn down her throat and into her empty stomach.