[img]https://i.imgur.com/qiuPNWq.png[/img]
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The woman at the end of the bar looked like she was losing a very intense argument—with herself.

She perched on the stool like it might buck her off at any moment, knees glued together, spine ramrod straight, hands clenched in her lap as if they might go rogue and knock something over. Her red curls had frizzed into wild, anxious spirals, a few strands sticking to her forehead like even her hair was sweating. Her robes—once, probably, the mark of an academic—hung open over a wrinkled blouse that screamed “I’ve been wearing this for two days but please don’t judge me.” A satchel at her hip bulged like it had secrets, and one rebellious piece of paper was poking out the corner like it was trying to escape the stress of its owner.

She wasn’t eavesdropping. Not… exactly.

But her eyes kept sneaking sideways toward the group a few stools down. Big, bright, very green eyes—like fresh spring grass if that grass also had mild anxiety. Every time someone laughed, she smiled reflexively, like maybe she could be included by proximity. But every silence made her shoulders inch up toward her ears like they were trying to hide her. She was frazzled to say the least. 

But more than anything she was very, [b]very thirsty.[/b]

Her mouth was so dry it felt like her tongue had been replaced by parchment. She reached a trembling hand halfway toward the bar—and froze. Gears, the Warforged bartender, was in the middle of a conversation with other patrons. Lots of hand gestures, too. Talis didn’t want to interrupt. That would be rude. Worse—what if someone looked at her?

So she sat. And waited. And slowly melted into a human puddle of mild panic and dehydration.

A single bead of sweat traced a dramatic, theatrical path down her temple. She stared at the empty spot of the bar before  her like she was trying to manifest a glass of water through sheer force of will.

Endearing, though. Something about her was just… root-for-the-underdog adorable. Maybe it was the way she bit her lip and kept mouthing the phrase “Excuse me” like she was practicing for a spelling bee. Or the part where she swatted at a fly, missed entirely, and then apologized to the fly. [b]Out loud.[/b]

The fly came back. She sighed. A deep, world-weary sigh of someone just barely hanging on.

[color=olive]“All right,”[/color] she whispered, rallying. [color=olive] “Hydration is a basic need. You can do this. Just… words. You know words.”[/color]

She turned toward the bar. Drew in a breath. Steeled herself. Lifted a hand—

—and then bam! A gnome arrived, all sudden and cheerful and incredibly gnome-shaped.

Talis flinched. Like, full-body flinch. Shoulders shot up, eyes went wide, and then—uh-oh—there was momentum.

She yeeped, or at least let out a noise that could only be described as a “yeep”. It was an involuntary sound, somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup, and it escaped her just as she slipped right off her stool in a spectacular tumble of limbs, bag, and dignity. She hit the floor with a solid thump, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe it would offer a do-over.

But! She had managed—miraculously—to cling to her satchel in the process. Her arms were wrapped around it like it was a small, terrified animal.

[color=olive] “I’m fine!”[/color] she called from the floor before anyone could even think to ask, voice muffled slightly by the scarf now halfway across her face. [color=olive] “Totally fine. Just testing the… uh… gravity. Works great. Still functional.”[/color]

She peeled herself upright slowly, like she wasn’t entirely sure her bones had survived the landing.

The satchel remained firmly in her grasp.[/color]