The Luni was not sure what to think when the various members of the misfit ensemble first noticed her take a seat. The dwarves were momentarily silenced by the flurry of activity, the Wild-elf was sniffing at the air and the Tindra’s face seemed to inexplicably twitch, perhaps as a response to her sitting in his spot? Looking upon the Wilf-elf, she felt her hand slowly move towards the necklace she wore, and her memories started to compare the woman in front of her with the one that had given her so the charm and so much more. It was a mostly pleasant affair, all things considered.
And then the Shadowborne sat down.
The Luni noticeably stiffened as he did so, seemingly uncomfortable enough with the notion as to involuntarily react to it. Her fingers tightened around the shaft of the spear, but in the end she managed to subdue the overbearing urge to strike at the Shadowborne. They were godless, heathen creatures: their very skin an emblem of the darkness and decay that makes a mockery of Suin.
She needed to distract herself from the urge to attack, and was sure that someone would notice her reaction, at least a little. She looked down at the food she’d gathered, picking up an apple and crunching into it with an angry hunger.
Listening into the conversation of the female human and Iano, she overheard the conversation about the human’s specialisation: Necromancy. The taste of bile rose in her mouth, as she tried to further repress the urge to strike at the many heathens that made up the ranks of the Silver Leaves. First, the Shadowborne, and now one of Zail’s disgusting followers? Was there no vetting process in the Leaves?
It wasn’t until the Tindra tried to tell a joke that the Luni’s eyes moved away from her breakfast and her mind away from the growing discomfort of being in such an enclosed space with so many people she found distasteful. She had to admit, the joke was an intellectual play on words, with the connotations of ‘raise’ being used as both a sexual means and as a colloquialism for resurrection. She had heard many such jokes since leaving her home city, although they were still far beneath her telling of them, nor would she openly admit to their merit.
Indeed, she was bored with the Tindra’s gutter humour, and in truth, she wanted something to happen that might distract her from the discomfort that the Shadowborne and the necromancer brought out within her. If she didn’t want to focus on the heretical beings, she would focus on one of the two beings that had brought her here. The Wild-Hari seemingly ignored her, so the Tindra would do nicely.
Rising from her seat at the table, the Luni-Hari lifted up the spear, tip still pointed at the ground, so as not to alert anyone of the obvious “Hmm, your choice of words was likely a deliberate choice to use the sexual approach to the word, so I shall have to call a woman who raises her dead lover ‘lonely.’ Now that we have gotten your awful joke out of the way, I would challenge you to a battle: gold-skin. Instructor Isabella speaks highly of you, and I would like to test your blades. One of the bigger two, if you will: I have no interest in your ‘short’ sword.”
She offered the Red-haired one a self-assured smile, challenging him in both words and her very body language, which screamed confidence and aggression. She offered a glance at the other table-members, so as to make sure none tried to blind-side her. She doubted the Wild-Hari would object, as this was a clear power play, but the Humans? There was no telling how they might react to the Luni’s display.