Unattended [Deirdre] 10.W.509

[Tundris]

A busy tavern overflowed with night crawling patrons who laughed and swayed in their chairs as ale was passed out and songs were sung of the Gods. A mix of smells floated about in the smokey rooms - scents that foreigners and shop keepers held in their clothes after a hard days work. Bar wenches lay draped in the laps of lonely men while innocuous brawling mingled with cheers and jokes.

Amongst the movement of the tavern sat an especially intoxicated Harl Growsner - one of the many messengers who spent their life traveling the Endrykas trade routes to deliver letters and parcels to all corners of Cyphrus. With a slurred drawl he coerced a wench to come back to his tent, who wriggled in his grasp and leaned away from him to escape the smell of decay that radiated from his pasty mouth. After losing the battle he slumped back in his chair and patted his gut to fish out a burp that had been snaking its way up his esophagus. As he rose from his chair an empty ale mug whizzed in his direction and struck him on the side of his head. With little coordination he tumbled over a table and spilled the drinks of the patrons sitting there, who responded by strong arming him out of the tavern.

Eventually he arrived at his small camp site, his horse nibbled away in a grain pouch and jerked its head at the sound of the messenger collapsing into his tent. Supplies in his way were strewn about and the large sack with letters to be delivered lay open and scattered on the right side of the tent. An egg shaped bump swelled above his ear as he quickly fell into a slumber, not even bothering to fasten the tent flap ties.

[Deirdre]

10.W.509



Deirdre liked to think shadows breathed with her on nights like these, she was with them often enough. Sitting in the cool grass outside the tavern, the Kelvic allowed her eyes to sink into the inky night sky riddled with fireflies. It was effortless to keep her mind calm when in such lovely company, and easier under the circumstances. It was not often that a messenger became intoxicated, he must be nearing the end of his journey.

Having watched the man enter the Eastern Trading Post with his sack of precious cargo, Deirdre knew all too well this endeavor would prove profitable. She had quietly stalked the man as a cat since his arrival, until he had pitched camp and went to the one of the local taverns. So here she was outside the establishment slowly twisting grass between her fingers, waiting for the man to have his fill of drink.

A loud crash resounded from inside the common room of the tavern, and Deirdre stiffened with alarm for a few seconds. Detecting no immediate danger to herself she quietly repositioned herself into a crouch, awaiting further developments. She was rewarded when her mark was thrust out of the tavern's glow and engulfed in the darkness. Deirdre straightened herself and pursued the man, carefully staying outside his field of vision. Despite her normally cautious nature it occurred to her that it was uncalled for in this situation. Regardless she maintained her distance. As the man reached his camp and collapsed, Deirdre heard the horse start. She quickly closed the short distance to the tent and immediately saw what she had came for.

Men should not be so careless with such precious cargo, It reflects poorly upon their characters. regardless..

Scooping up the bag of letters, Deirdre relished the sound of parchments softly rustling within their cloth carrier. To her, it was the sound of success. A light breeze played across Deirdre's face, wrinkling her nose with the pungent smell of ale and sweat to her nose and spoiling her brief victory. As well the man began snoring deeply, and loudly. Suddenly Deirdre felt the need to remove herself from the site, this man was being louder in slumber than during his few moments of lucidity. No need to draw unwanted attention to this area.

Tents and pavilions crowded Deirdre's path, the Eastern Trading Post was a labyrinth this time of year. Under most circumstances she would not take these letters to her own tent, but this man was not waking up anytime soon. Upon reaching said destination Deirdre lay the bag of parchments down upon her fathers table, still smelling strongly of juniper and jasmine. Her eyes began flickering across the various scrawlings on the letters, taking in every word. Tales simpering mothers missing their children, feuding families, and disgruntled merchants danced through her mind for the remainder of the night. Out of the entire bag Deirdre kept eleven of the letters, tossing the remains in an ally well away from her tent. But only one of these truly captured her attention, stories of these sorts always ended well. Provided she allowed "well" to be an extremely amorphous term.