Little Rozz Potato, for despite her numeric maturity, that was still a term she referred to herself with often. And in the deep voids of her mind, she was still Rozz Potato, the procrastinator. It seemed the term little was no longer the means of describing age, which she had nearly 22 years of. No, it was a terms she referred to her physical stance with. A girl of barely 5ft3, unfathomably blonde and dressed as if she was not a girl at all. A simple red wine shirt and trousers, so very different from the elaborate attire of female noblesse and she never pretended to be such, even if a taste for pretty things lingered in those taste buds. Little, was much more than just her height, however. For as she peered into the Rearing Stallion, not a single head had turned in recognition, as if the girl herself was but a little ghost. Her very persona was little, so very much so that one might stand upon her if they were not careful with their steps. A mouse, a rat. A pretty rat yet a timid rat.
Now, Rozz never drank. Ever. Unless it was particularly good beer, which she simply adored the taste off. The bitterness that would caress the walls of her throat with it's bitter infusion, flaring flecks of rosy scarlet into her delicate, porcelain feature. A certain light hearted rapture about it. Ah how fond she was of that sublime taste. Often she would nab her parents' alcohol in all her sneakiness and savour it in contentment of her recklessness and juvenile rebellion. Whenever, however, she was faced with more than just a taste, her fragile constitution would give out way before the substance would take a toll on her wit. Thus alcohol remained just that, a means of proving her own stubbornness. A means of proving herself beyond that of her parent's expectation, which was once such a very important task at hand. Now she was an adult. now there was no one to deny her recklessness and despite that initial rush of adrenalin at the very act of disobedience was no longer at her fingertips, the underlying sense that she was somehow displeasing her kin remained. And the compulsive risk take that she was, Rozz ventured into the Rearing Stallion in hardly the nonchalant manner she so frequently imagined herself to uphold.
A cognitive convulsion of hardly synchronised nature unravelled before her. A late evening casual scene, where the light of the interior bears a warmer hue and one may be so rash as to, in all this pleasantness, name herself, if just for a moment, a citizen of this great city of Syliras. She could imagine painting this in the style of art deco, where the edges were crisp and colour pristine, much unlike the reality. An idealised freeze frame in time that would linger in her mind for just moments more, a breath of inspiration for such can be found anywhere if one simple keeps their eyes open for long enough, as she slid in much a feline manner from the abrupt stillness in which she partook at her quest entry. This was probably the very first time she had ever stepped foot in the tavern, or any tavern for that matter. A sheltered child she had been and a sheltered youth she remained.
At least she wasn't lost, for if she was to cruise the streets of Syliras aimlessly for such a reason, her timidness would be far greater. Alas, having sought out the waitress, the blonde's fingers grasped manically at the margins of her clothing as she approached. A polite smile, ever so crooked for Rozz was far less pretty when she smiled, plastered upon her face. But such seemed the premonition of humanity; smiles put people at ease. And the more she smiled, the more at ease they seemed.The acute auditory person which she often proved to be, managed to pick up shreds of conversation.
“Your patron forcing you through a wringer?” the waitress asked a man near by with an amused smile on her face. Though the you of deduction, and it being the only real logical explanation, Rozz pinned his identity to be that of a squire. A seemingly nice being, though her eyes did not meet his in fear of acknowledgement. Her blond locks, cropped into a life of their own, loitered in impassive obscurity as perpetually she waved them to the side.
He nodded “Yeah, probably going to get nightmares from it.” he grumbled under his breath. “Just an ale for me.”
The waitress just let out a laugh at his antics. “You can take it. I'll be right back with that.”
A moment in which Rozze's own words sounded in melodic, if not painfully plain in her tone. A voice a little more high pitched that she usually used, a little more hesitant yet once she began, the entire phrase just flowed smoothly before an abrupt collapse in which she furthered that crooked smile. "Could I have the same please." In that moment she came to the realisation of the pure awkwardness of her request and as a prerequisite to a quick escape to another table, which was far too close to the one at which the squire sat, her eyes darted to his for a moment of validation, only to become transfixed in anything that was not him. Suffice to say, strangers simply made her nervous and being alone did not aid in the situation.
by Perc on March 20th, 2013, 1:31 pm 