Closed After Hours (Abashai)

[Shiress]

60th Day
Fall 513

The Rearing Stallion had emptied some bells earlier, the tables cleaned and chairs propped, bar wiped down and clean mugs lined up perfectly along the rough and worn counter top. Most all the wall lamps had long been extinguished, save two or three. A gentle fire still warmed the hearth, its flame, licking and rolling around several fresh logs sending shadows crawling and dancing up the nearby walls.

This is where Shiress sat, leaning back in a chair, hair cascading over the back nearly reaching the floor, legs propped and crossed in another, fingers curled around a mug that sat on the table by her side. This was not her first ale of the night, since closing she had had her fair share of the amber colored liquid and her features told the tale. Not wanting the loneliness of her empty apartment, the barmaid had learned the hard way that it was best for her to drink alone and she was content to do so. This night anyway.

The evening lapsed on with barely a hint of recognition on her face. She could have easily been sitting there for ten chimes or two bells - she didn't quite know, and presently, didn't care. There was a wistful look about her, green eyes staring thoughtfully into the fire with a weight of memory and thought of home. Nights like these, the girl felt so alone, missing her family terribly and her thoughts were often plagued with their well being. Zeltiva felt forever away, a desolate island, surrounded by a season of travel, that held answers to the questions her heart ached to know. Was her family alive? Were they in Zeltiva? Were they looking for her? Did they assume her dead? Did she really want to know the truth? She was confused, this much she did know.

Shiress slowly lifted the mug to her lips, eyes closing as she pulled in a long draft of the warm ale, returned it to the table and reached for the pitcher to top it off again, her ritual at present. Just as the newly filled mug would meet her lips once more, the old, worn hinges of the wooden door groaned and creaked as the tavern's entrance swung open. The sound of foot steps followed quickly, cutting through the silence as well as Shiress' nerves. The mug hovered just above the table top, eyes creasing with an audible sigh. "We're closed! She groaned not withdrawing her eyes from the fireplace, a slight slur to her words. "Go die somewhere else. She added giving herself a satisfied chuckle in her mug as it pressed against her lips again. "Close the door behind you first."

The barmaid was in no mood for company this evening.

[Abashai]

Abashai and Nya had been up late. While Micah slumbered in the Kelvic's lap, they had discussed, debated and cajoled over plans, frustrations and tasks that needed completed to move their work forward. Once the conversation had wound down, Nya curled up with the child, and Abashai sought some fresh air to dispel the weight of the monumental mission the two had discussed.

His wanderings, nighttime walks in which both he and Nya often indulged, sometimes together, sometimes on their own, varied in course. This night, the Benshiran found a thirst he rarely suffered. Abashai was not a drinker, and before the trials of Ravok, the follower of Yahal found no solace in wine or ale. But his service to the Black Sun agent Kialandra compelled him on occasion to imbibe, sometimes in the line of duty, sometimes to ease the haunting that ate at his soul.

The sign over the door of the Rearing Stallion swung subtly in the autumn breeze, creating a subtle creaking. The window to the establishment revealed a dimly lit interior, void of patrons, apparently closed at the late hour. However, the form of a woman lingered at a table, mug before her. Curious.

Abashai pressed a calloused palm against the door and pushed, finding the portal unlocked. He strolled into the empty tavern, the heavy silence cracked by the creak of the door, the footfall of his boots on the wooden planks of the floor. Only the crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the empty space between the sounds. Until the woman spoke.

She was young, attractive, her garb suggesting she was a server at the establisment. Her long mane shifted only a bit as her tongue wagged with uninviting words, marred by the sluggishness of a progressing intoxication. Abashai stopped before the table, crystal blue-green eyes slipping from the hearthfire to the ill-mannered woman tugging a swallow from the heavy ale mug.

"I don't plan to die, well, not tonight." He crooned in a baritone voice, thick with a desert accent. Abashai studied the woman, an air of discontentment about her. Usually unconcerned with the woes of others, at least not as he once was, the Benshiran found himself wanting of a drink, and would suffer the company of the girl to slake that thirst.

"One does not usually drink alone, unless they wish to forget something. Talking with a stranger can also serve to distract one from what we wish to drown with beer." Abashai did not wait for her answer or approval. He strode to the bar, reached for his own mug and returned to the table. Dragging out the chair opposite the drinking woman, Abashai lowered himself to sit at the table, pouring himself a mug of amber liquid. He lifted the cup to his lips and took a long swig of the ale. His eyes fell to the hand holding her mug, observing a marking on the back of her wrist. He could see a scar, the nature of the puckered flesh similar to the brand he wore upon his shoulder, the brand of a slave. Even at the odd angle, Abashai could see the scars formed letters. Shiress.

Clear, pensive eyes shfited back to the ale swirling in his mug, before lifting his gaze again to the young woman. "I am Abashai."

[Shiress]

Shiress returned the mug softly to the table, green eyes shifting slightly from the fire as the stranger spoke, his accent foreign and unfamiliar. She withdrew her legs from the chair and straightened herself, finally casting her full gaze to the man as he pulled himself a mug from the bar. She was unable to tell what the man looked like in the dim light of the tavern, or maybe it was the inebriated blindness settling into her eyes. Probably a combination of the two.

Her forearms rested across the table, fingers wrapping snugly around her mug, as she watched the stranger approach. As he took his seat, she crossed her legs beneath the table and cocked her head, chestnut locks falling across her eye as she smirked annoyingly at the helping he took of of her ale. "Talkin' ta shrangers gets me in trouble." She slurred, jerking her hand away to her lap as she followed his gaze to her wrist. She stared intently at the man with narrowed eyes for what seemed a season before her features began to soften, almost against her own will it seemed. "I'm Miss-Understood. Glad ta meet ya, Aba -Abashy -Abraham; what ever you said."

Lifting her mug to her lips once again she gave another snorted chuckle at herself as her eyes wandered off. Clever that was she thought, as it did seem to her that she was a very misunderstood person and in a lot of ways. As the mug lowered, green eyes settled back on the strangers. "Looks like I'm not tha only one submerging my demons in ale this night. she commented nodding to his mug with an arched brow. Her eyes then drifted passed the mug to the mans coat, or more so, the hilt of a dagger peeking out from it. She sat back hesitantly, eyes raising again as the hand resting in her lap moved slowly to the dagger strapped around her leg. She slipped it slowly from the scabbard and placed it in her lap, cleared her throat and swiped curls away from her eye as she leaned forward again.

"Why does a man wander the streets alone in the night? She questioned resting her chin against her knuckles. "What be your demons that ale may drown, or is it company that you seek?" The stare she gave the man was relentless as she awaited his explanation.

[Abashai]

Abashai lifted the mug again for a drink, blue-green eyes fixed over the brim of the cup on the young woman. She did not appear afraid, or even surprised as she quipped back at him. Her manner of speech betrayed the amount of ale she had already imbibed, her lazily spoken words muddied in pronunciation. One deep green eye peered out of the curtain of dark hair, studying him critically. The Benshiran met her gaze with steely resolve.

Finally, tender lips parted to mutter again, offering a snarky retort for a name, and butchering the stranger's. She was amused at herself, and the dark man coughed a small laught in his throat. Abashai's mug settled gently onto the table. "Shai is fine." The girl's sardonic reply only confirmed the Benshiran's assumption that the embrace of intoxication was the balm she sought that night for some unspoken woes.

Miss Understood's attention strayed for a moment, though Abashai's remained upon her. She was a fine distraction, her harbored resentment and lack of fear made her a promising conversation, if she could maintain a level of intelligible speech. She was attractive, and her somewhat unkempt style made him think of Nya, who never was one for human fashion. Had he the inclination, she would be worth the bed. But Abashai allowed himself no such indulgences since fleeing Ravok. Too great was the weight upon him, too convoluted was the entanglement with Nya to threaten either their plans or the Kelvic with indiscretion.

A small smile creased his face when the woman accused him of escaping in alcohol as well. "I hardly say I am drowning anything. Is everyone who enjoys a mug of ale hiding in it's bottom?"

The barmaid's emerald gaze drifted to the pommel of the dagger jutting out of his coat. With little subtlety, she reached under the table, the slight lift of her shoulder suggesting she had pulled her own blade free. Abashai said nothing, in fact, in his mind he commended her for demonstrating some form of caution.

The brunette's inquiries continued. She had a right to pry, he conceded, since he all but barged into the closed tavern and helped himself to her ale. "I find a late night walk helps clear the mind. Who does not need some time to clear the clutter of the day? As for company, I am not one to socialize. But you have caught me, or I have caught you, on the rare occasion where some company sounds...pleasant." Abashai lifted his mug in a form of salute to the young woman before taking a drink. Lowering his cup again, he added. "And I will pay for what I drink. So, Miss Understood, what is it about you that is misunderstood?"