"'Nother round, luv, quick as ye can!"

How many times had she told them not to call her 'luv? Typically she had nothing against affectionate nicknames if they came from the proper source and meant something, but when it was from the mouth of drunkards and pirates - often the same crowd - it had a sinister tone to it; to the regulars and roughhousers, she was certain they saw the bartender as only a wench to fill their cups and their eyes as they drank and made a mess of things. One more thing she was certain of was that if it they called her 'luv' one more time she wasn't going to be held responsible for what happened next. In a place like this, throwing out rowdy customers was a nightly occurance and there were few in the Capes who could do it with such aplomb.

Romi Rackham wouldn't have survived nearly as long as she had if she'd been one to simply sit still and let pirates, liars, all manner of criminal (petty, legal, or otherwise) have their way in her establishment. Well, she called it 'her' establishment but she wasn't the owner, but it was fairly accepted that the 'Call was the best place to get a round in not just because of the drinks but in how the bartender served them. Romi was hardly the most eye-catching of bartenders even in Twin Capes but what others had in their appearance Romi had in the real heart of the matter, the drinks. Other bars had eye candy and nightly fights over said candy as if they were some sort of hostess bar. The Seadog's Call didn't have to worry much about that, any time a fight was about to break up Romi was there to knock sense into the fighters just before knocking them on their ass as they were tossed from the establishment.

The owner once said to her that Romi served drinks like an angel and gave retribution like a devil. Romi wasn't much for angels or devils but the comparison wasn't too far off the mark.

"Not until ya hand over the money from yer last round, and the one before that." Romi shouted from behind the bar to the increasingly more drunk crew that had been thirsting for a refill. A cloth hung from her waist, having just been used to wipe down a long necked bottle. "And don't say yer good for it, we all know 'only thing yer good'fer is nothin'!" There was a pregnant pause from the table that had demanded a refill as all eyes looked to the red-faced captain. When the drunken git burst into laughter, complete with slamming his mug on the table, the rest of the table joined in, once again filling the tavern with noise and elation.

As the laughter continued, Romi placed a tray on top of the bar counter and set five mugs on top of it, tightly together with four glasses surrounding a fifth in the middle. From behind the counter she pulled a tap, spun it around her palm and, quickly placed it on a barrel while in one smooth motion she pulled it. Tipping it, the amber liquid poured smoothly into the mug in the center until it rose to the top with a foamy head. She didn't stop as the liquid reached the top of the center glass, instead letting it overflow, the liquid pooling into the four mugs surrounding the center; it was only after the four around the center had been filled that she stopped tapping the barrel. In the palm of her hand were five mugs of frothing liquor, the perspiration clear on the chilled glass. And not a drop had been spilled, miraculously; a testament to the understanding of her craft.

"Aye, here y'are. This is the last one until ya pay up." Romi placed the round on the table to a rousing cheer before she set up gathering the used mugs just before the rowdy crew engaged in drunken revelry which often saw ale spilling rather than sloshing down their gullet.

This way of life had been largely without thrills, but there was a certain honesty to it, even with the hazards of being leered at and threatened by pirates who were looking to impress before setting out to certain destruction. Braggarts and blowhards, nothing more. She didn't hate it here, but if there was one thing that she couldn't find in the Capes no matter how hard she looked, it was a reason to stay.

The problem there was she hadn't found an opportunity to leave.

Back behind the counter Romi went, using the drunken singing as background noise as she wiped down the mugs and wondered if this was what it felt like to settle.

Romi's eyes flickered to the door when it was thrown open and immediately she assumed the worst. Some rowdy sort looking to cause trouble in what was normally a decent place. One night. That was all she ever asked. One night without having to throw some violent lush on their ass. One night without having to break up a fight over a rigged game of liar's dice. One night where things were simple. She was in the wrong place with the wrong profession for that, but it was something to strive for at any rate. When the boisterous new arrival demanded a table be cleared, Romi had to consider a moment. Were there any house rules about table dancing? This wasn't exactly the kind of joint that serious dancers would normally choose to frequent. So long as there was payment, which there was with the call for another round, then Romi supposed there wasn't harm in it. And if there was, she was close by.

It was only in this instance that Romi saw the downside to her job. By all accounts a show would've been a welcome change and distraction from the normal dealings, but rather than observe the dancing routine, she had to get another round prepared for sailors who were mystified. Romi had caught a glimpse as the dancer came in, recognizing the attire straight off. That was not common around here. Interesting. The bartender only managed a few cursosry glances as she went around the table exchanging empty glasses with full ones, and helping herself to the payment that marked a new round, careful to leave the tips that were meant for the current center of attention. Romi didn't know a waltz from a tango but from what she managed to see, the dancer was talented.

Back behind the bar Romi went, wiping down the returned glasses with a wet rag and a dry cloth. It came as a surprise when the dancer sat down in front of the bar, the section typically reserved for those drinking alone. "Wrong place if wine's what yer after, luv." Romi spoke to the dancer with the same coarse manner that she spoke to the rowdy pirates with, albeit with a softer intonation. She didn't want to scare or intimidate the poor lass. "But yer a fan of red, then how's this strike a fancy?"

Romi grabbed a clean glass and turned to a tapped barrel against the back wall. "How much do ya know about wine? Maybe it flows like the sands of Alabasta where yer from but place like this? Wine's a fancy lad's drink and fancy lads don't come to places like this." Romi let the mention of Alabasta hang in the air. "What I mean t'ask is: do you know what many wines use in their composition?" Romi turned to face the dancer while one hand patted the side of the barrel. "Oak and oxidation. Ales aged in a certain barrel come with similar aromatic profiles."

Romi pulled on the tap and a frothy red liquid filled the mug. "This here is a barrel aged sour ale with a savory twist. It is, in other words, a beer that tastes just like a red wine." Romi spun into a twirl suddenly and, mid-spin, slid the glass along the bartop, ending the spin just in time for her to place her palm down and catch the sliding glass; as she handed the red wine tasting ale to the dancer, she offered a friendly, grin. THe kind bartenders were known for.

"This one's on the house, luv. Consider it a gift for livening up the joint. But you look troubled and not the kind of trouble that's fixed with wine, women...men...or a fight. What's got ya down? One woman to another, is it romance woes? The guy ya came in with, ya need him roughed up a bit? No...I know that look." Romi peered directly at the dancer's face, the corners of her lips curving into a grin. "You miss something. Someone. Maybe...homesickness? Love sickness? Sea sickness? Whatever it is, I've a cure for what ails ya...that is if ya like ales, yeah."