I breathed an inward sigh of relief when the woman finally lifted the weight of her chest off my neck. Gods above, it's always so horrifying when people don't understand personal space! Like, if I wanted to feel someone's floppy milkbags, I'd reach out with my own two hands and give them a good squeeze! Please refrain from making me uncomfortable by draping them all over me that I lock up and become the perfect shelf for your chest. It's inconsiderate.

The barkeep finished piecing together a pair of sandwiches and sauntered over to my table, dropping the pair of plates in front of me. The blonde pulled up a chair, scooted it incredibly close to mine, and sat down.

A casual glance around the tavern confirmed my original suspicion--every other chair was empty, every other table clean of mugs. Not a single soul outside of mine, the owner, and the strange woman. And yet she decided to share a space with me. Again, she decided to share my space with me. If I rocked to the side a little bit, I would've knocked her onto the floor.

I didn't notice it until the soft thunk of it hitting the edge of her seat broke the silence, but the woman wore a sword strapped to her back. It looked like a big slab of metal wrapped in a sheathe, threatening in its size and weight alone. Somehow, the blonde was able to move pretty freely, considering how nasty it looked to carry. It was a surprising she wasn't doubled over whenever she walked. Even more curious that she didn't give her shoulders a break and let it rest against the table while she relaxed.

Needing something to take my mind off this weird little night, I turned my attention toward my sandwich. It was a neat little thing, a couple slices of white bread holding a small stack of lunch meat and two slices of cheese. I wrapped my briar-knit fingers around it, careful not to spill anything. It was then that I noticed the blonde out of the corner of my eyes, looking at me rather... expectingly?

I wasn't sure how to feel. I just sat there, wondering what was going through her mind. "Yes. Food," I said as a sort of test, waving my sandwich around in the air between us.

Gods, I hope she wasn't expecting me to feed her.

My free hand shifted my metal facemask up enough to expose the mossy surface of my jaw and a row of sharpened teeth. Just enough space for me to shove a couple bites of incredibly basic but adequate sandwich into my mouth. I let the mask drop back down as I chewed my food.

I felt that familiar ping of curiosity in the back of my mind. Maybe I was just starved for conversation, maybe I was a fucking idiot. But either way (probably both, to be honest), I found myself asking the question.

"So," I started awkwardly, my mouth still full of food. "What's your story?"