Out of Character:
“You were sent here to help, you say?” Tryle Silverleaf eyed the newcomer with an equal share of suspicion and curiosity, yet he remained assiduous in polishing the bar counter, each skillful brush of his rag imbuing the wood with a richer, wine-like lustre. “By whom, if you don’t mind my asking?” the half-elf went on, sparing a courteous glance to the fair-haired woman standing opposite the countertop.
“The Cabal sent me,” she replied almost dazedly, her tone so soft it was as if she had just woken from a long, lethargic dream. “I’m supposed to help with freelance establishments like these,” the girl continued, her half-lidded gaze wandering left and right without a hurry. The bartender watched her look from the assorted tables to his workers and waitstaff, then to the lukewarm ring of flames that was the portal to his world. “That would look nice in my apartment,” she said out of the blue, with about as much emotion as a heavily-sedated patient could muster.
“I… suppose so,” Tryle answered tentatively, throwing the rag over his shoulder as he straightened his back. “Then I take you have met these elusive godlings? For the organizers of such an event, I have to say they have been rather inconspicuous.”
“They’re not,” the girl answered in her faraway tone. “They’re absent. Preparations to make.”
“So you have talked to them,” Tryle said with a satisfied smile.
“No. They left me a memo.” The strange lass paused for a pensive moment, blue-grey eyes flashing with an intensity that belied her lackadaisical demeanour. “They’re not the most well-mannered bunch.”
“Those seeking godhood rarely are, I agree.” While serving a tankard brimming with froth and gold to a new patron sitting at the bar, the half-elf continued his subtle appraisal of this bizarre creature, seemingly unfazed by the countless untold mysteries that surrounded her. “How are you going to help?”
“Waitressing.” Holding the folds of her long, crimson skirt, she sank into a curtsey, reserved yet elegant. Once more, she broke away to inspect her surroundings, though this time with a bit more focus in her eyes. “I can also spruce the furniture with macramé tablecloths.”
“Ah… just waitressing shall be fine, thank you.” His heart quite nearly sank when she showed her first obvious emotion since their meeting – disappointment. “We… can see about the decorations at a later time. Meanwhile, would you mind bringing this mug of malt to the lone man with the slouch hat?” The girl merely nodded, gingerly taking the sloshing dark mug in her hands. “Oh, and may I ask your name?”
“You may.”
“Ah, yes, thank you again. Then… what is your name?”
“Elliot,” she said darkly, and Tryle now sensed a grim quality to the air she breathed. “But I’d rather be called Elle or Ellie.” Again, she took one of those pauses that were rapidly becoming her trademark. “Or Elizabeth.”
“Duly noted,” the bartender added with amusement as she turned round and left. He watched her waltz through a tight throng of tables and a thicker crowd of people, awed by her unexpected ease and even grace. “Dance on, Elizabeth, and speak not... lest the illusion shatter.”
“Mister Slouch-Hat-Man, sir?” Elliot called out loudly – and repeatedly – as she addressed the lonesome patron. “Here’s your drink, courtesy of that man at the bar,” she said without shame, rudely pointing back at the half-elf with her thumb.
And so, in Tryle Silverleaf’s mind played the wistful symphony of a thousand broken shards.
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