When in Rome...

[Albel Rofasi]

((Open))

Cold, impersonal rain assaulted the ground outside; thunder rolled quietly at nearly regular intervals. One could nearly tell time on it. Most of Underwood's denizens took cover in popular hangouts; this made finding the bar easier for Albel, who dearly needed a stiff drink. The bar she chose looked filled with a massive party of adventurers, their discussions filtering out towards the street. Laughing and chastising emanated from the lumber used to make it. The distinct scent of stew, warm ale and wet hair assaulted Albel's senses the moment she walked through the door.

With two minutes of entering the establishment, Albel found herself seated at a table by the wall, her back turned to a section particularly lacking a window. At the moment, it meant her taking a seat at a table by a corner, leaned back in a depressive slump. Traveling alone didn't strike her as odd at first, but when you deal with a motley crew of daring individuals on a daily basis, you feel like needing a little company on occasion. Of course, around her were numerous men, women and otherwise that talked over the silence, as if that was their service. A little golden silence felt good right about now, thought Albel, but bars attracted noise as much as it attracted beer and passable food.

Here was Albel, age 28, uncommonly attractive for a pirate. Her mousy gray hair, now flat from the rain, slightly stuck the area of her back spanning her two shoulders even while she sat down. She had already removed her reddish-brown tweed coat and placed it beside her on the chair; it looked slightly like a dampened towel. Without her tweed coat, she showed off her sleeveless white linen shirt, as ubiquitous for pirates as the hats, which she, to her irritation, lacked. Her shapely form stuck out from under the linen, which the rain bombarded as earnestly as possible when she approached the bar. Her unassuming brown trousers, dark brown belt and matching boots didn't suggest she was anyone of high status; to the contrary, they made her look like, well, a pirate once she wore the entire ensemble.

Albel kept her leather satchel beside her at all times, as close to her person at all times as well. She never trusted anyone with it any more than she trusted anyone with her body. She anticipated getting a few, shall we say, 'suitors' before the day was over. A few drunken men in a bar with a few lovely women in sight often didn't go well; her in case, it didn't mean well for the men. 'Fun' for her at the moment meant spending some time with a nice, warm, if ornery, cup of ale and her thoughts.

The ale sat in from of her on the table, minding its own business; not that it had much choice. The mug that contained the ale looked like a fairly common piece of pottery for a medieval setting; it stuck out in her mind, given she was used to a little different style. Her thoughts always stayed in the same place: in her mind, currently mulling about with the enthusiasm of a paranoid android. Albel also ordered the stew, which smelled like vegetables nearing their prime. It came with a little meat, but that was all that could be afforded. It gave her some happiness, though; food usually went down well after a cold walk in the rain.

"Far from home," she muttered quietly to herself. "And alone. A little company would be nice, I guess, but alas.'

[Reinhardt]

"Far from home, and alone. A little company would be nice, I guess, but alas."

Slightly melodious and yet with a distinctly coarse undertone, the voice carried over the general murmur of the tavern to reach Reinhardt's ears, which perked up immediately. Turning his head to quickly scan the room, his eyes searched for the one who so perfectly echoed his internal sentiments. Sure, back in Ecylia he was probably one of the last people to actively search out company, but here was different. Here, he thought with a quiet disappointment, he was completely alone. It took him no longer than a few seconds to spot her; his endeavour aided by the fact that she was sitting alone just a table behind him, she had an air somewhat different from the others - she was new, like he- and she was, well, a she. Picking up his still-full pewter cup, he stood slowly from his seat and hesitantly approached the seated figure.

Now that he was closer, the thought of engaging in conversation with her seemed a little more intimidating. She appeared to be slim, and not particularly tall, but it was the woman's other features that were the cause of his vacillation. Her hair - dreadlocks of muted silver- cascaded down to just above her shoulders, framing her face. Reinhardt wasn't sure whether to call her beautiful or pretty, but he could certainly see why men - or some women, he mused with an internal grin- would approach her. Deciding to follow through with his initial intent, he ran his free hand through his hair somewhat nervously, cleared his throat, and spoke with as much casual geniality as he could muster.

"Hello. I heard you talking to yourself... Uh, mind if I sit down?"

[Albel Rofasi]

"Hello. I heard you talking to yourself...uh, mind if I sit down?"

Albel turned her gaze vaguely skyward to identify her new companion. Not that she expected a familiar face: she knew she wasn't in Kansas anymore, though she never actually used the word 'Kansas' when describing her situation. Sooner or later, she thought, someone sharing her predicament would saunter over, looking for a shoulder to cry on or a fair voice to speak to them. She wagered 90% of the time, the person that answered her plea for company, if half-hearted, was male and sought pleasure over professionalism.

He looked new; or, more accurately, something set him apart from the other stalwart adventurers supporting the bar, so to speak. It could've been his flaxen locks, combed back slightly in an amiable, if anxious fashion. It may have been his tattoo, conspicuously etched on his arm. It may still have been the fact he hardly touched his ale, let alone reeking of it and looking tipsy. Whatever the reason, it coupled with his amiable tone of voice helped support the notion that she needed the company.

Mortal company, anyway.

"You may," spoke Albel in her delightfully British accent. She honored brevity in bars, especially when chatting with others. She figured if worse became worst, the conversation could always end as quickly as it began. "I guess I can use the company. Well, the company of the living, at least."

An incorporeal being, silent to most people's senses save for the chill to the touch, manifested itself quickly behind her as she uttered her words. If anyone saw the spirit, she looked distinctively female. Her wardrobe, as much of it as you can see, followed the same theme as Albel's clothing options; the shoes were up to debate, as she possessed a vaguely tail-like extension where her feet once existed. The fact that she still wore clothes fascinated her to some degree.

"Very funny," said the spirit behind her. Her voice appealed only to Albel's ears, it seemed; no word on whether her guest picked it up, at least not yet. The spirit's accent was about as pronounced as Albel, meaning enough of one that you can notice, far from bludgeoning the audience vocally with it. "If it weren't for us, you'd be stuck with your pistol and rapier; I'm not banking on your wit saving your arse any time soon."

"Quiet, Alicia," hissed Albel quietly as she turned her head slightly back. "I rather concentrate at the conversation at hand, if you don't mind."

"Oh, really?" asked Alicia, tilting her head as she raised an inquisitive brow. "And it's Arthur, remember? I said this before: I rather like the element of surprise."

"You have," whispered Albel, "You also mentioned your mother named you after your brother to hide your true identity."

"You're one to talk," said Alicia. "Albel's a bit androgynous in its own way. And why are you whispering? It's not like he can hear me."

"We don't know that," whispered Albel once more. "And that's why I'm not speaking up. I'm sure he's wondering who I'm talking to by now."

[Reinhardt]

Reinhardt almost held his breath as the pirate, distracted from whatever internal thoughts she had been musing upon, glanced up at him- her eyes quickly scanning over him as if in appraisal. Almost. The spark of indignation that flared inside him at being considered like a gemstone held any shadow of apprehension he felt at bay. He, Reinhardt Lain, cowed that easily? Doubtful.

"You may." She replied. Her accent was lilting and yet informal; unlike any he had ever heard before. Not that it came as a surprise, he thought, being on a different world. "I guess I can use the company. Well, the company of the living, at least."

Company of the living? She... She must obviously have experience with the dead, he reflected. Exactly what that was, he couldn't speculate, but the thought chilled him. Necromancy of any form was strictly forbidden in Auryl, and being in such proximity with one of those whom he had grown to hate struck a chord. But surely if she was necromancer, her aura would reveal it? And her attire hardly suited one of the dark art. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him.

She is a... Seawoman. Used to battles and bloodthirsty rampages, no doubt. She is probably referring to the countless corpses she has witnessed. Yes... Unsure but sufficiently content with his rudimentary analysis, he bared his teeth in what he hoped was a convincing smile and sat down across from her, setting his ale on the wooden table. An unexpected murmur and movement of the lips indicated she had said something.

"What?" He asked, tilting his head slightly to the right to better hear. He only caught snatches of the dialogue- something about a mother and talking- and he raised an eyebrow in question, while his right hand inconspicuously reached for the pouch attached to his belt. If she was preparing some kind of hex or spell, he would be ready to retaliate. But just in case...

"I don't mean to bother you, but you just stand out here. You're not a regular," the statement spilled from his lips in a soft tone. His bright green eyes, however, played over her lips for a moment, considering the very real possibility of danger. But... Surely not in such a crowded place. The thought bolstering his confidence slightly, he pressed forward.

"Were you... Talking to someone?"

[Albel Rofasi]

Albel and Arthur gazed at their company; Albel's mouth slowly turned agape while the mostly unseen apparition clutched her own ephemeral sides as a snicker graced her lips. "If you laugh," murmured Albel quietly, with her eyes closed momentarily, "I can always make you bunk at the nearest graveyard." Arthur's head shot up like a groundhog as her eyes widened in horror; if ghosts possessed veins, she nearly burst one of them in her forehead.

"Oh, come on, cap," said Arthur. She rubbed her forehead, her hand thus hiding the fact that her eyes looked down at her non-existent feet with indignation. "No need to be that brash over a li'l 'umor, do ya? Not even Davy Jones knows the nutters lurkin' around 'ere."

Albel smiled a meek smile, one that signified she discovered something the ghost never caught. Her eyes slowly opened to reveal the blue underneath, looking past Reinhardt at something only she saw. She knew Davy Jones never found Althanas, but it was more than that. Death's an unsettling topic for even the most brazen of adventurers, even if the man himself acted like a stuffy tourist; when you deal with the dead on a regular basis, especially when it's your own crew, you generally didn't feel obliged to talk much about it.

I can complain, but what good will it do? It'll only make the experience unbearable, and the last thing I need is to feel remorse for it all. I do need to think of my crew's well-being, after all, even if their current being can't hold a mug.

Albel straightened her shirt as best she could and cleared her throat. Discussing this topic wasn't easy; at best, she figured, people would either think she cracked an interesting joke or ask her to talk to their dead fathers about the will. It didn't matter if their fathers even wrote a will; the more important thing was to establish whether she meant what she said. While the rogue in front of her didn't react much from her conversation, she wagered he at least was suspicious.

Albel leaned her elbows on the table, her upper body now arched slightly forward, towards her guest. She ran an index finger across the rim of her mug, careful not to dip it into the ale. Her once solemn face turned serious, her eyebrows lowered, her eyes looking at the man as if telling him the next few bits of conversation may only go by once.

Her eyes blinked slowly as she placed her hand lightly across the rim of the cup. The soup's scent barely registered to either of them any more, as with anything remotely appealing about it.

"I suppose I can provide an explanation," said Albel. "First, what is your name?"

[Taskmienster]

This thread has been sitting since before the beginning of this year (2009). Since no response has been made to create activity I am going to be moving this. If you would like it to be reopened please feel free to PM myself or another admin and they will be able to move it for you back to the Peaceful Promenade.