Azcadelia Rosan
The White Swan Inn. Azcadelia never felt easy near the home of snobby snobs and overly melodramatic women but here she was, sitting with them. Azcadelia sat at a table, alone, in a cream tunic and cloth pants. She wasn’t dressed for the place and it was aware to her without the need of upper class citizens and snooty professors gawking at her for her out of place attire. Azcadelia returned her own glares as she sat at the table as if waiting.
And waiting is what she was doing. Azcadelia was waiting for a woman that had slipped a letter underneath her door late in the night. The letter wasn’t found until the morning when Azcadelia had decided to finally rise from it’s drunken slumber. The letter had read:
Azcadelia snorted at the thought of wearing something that wouldn’t embarrass her new client and defied the request anyway. It was an insult to her. She had always esteemed herself with the ability to clothe herself in suitable and attractive garments. So, purposefully she wore a tunic she had found stuffed behind her bed and the pants that had came with her arrival into Syliras. The clothes were uncomfortable but they did the job of disproving a point.
She crossed her legs and flicked a stray strand of hair from her face. The rest of her hair laid down her back in a rugged windswept pattern, signature to those of women that spend their time on the prarie, contrasting with the styled hair and wavy locs of the women around her; even some of the men had more extravagantly styled hair than she. It didn’t phase her. It was all her ploy. She waved to a waiter to come to her table and he came, after sometime. “What can I do for you, miss,” he stated, eyes cast judgingly upon her.
Flashing her own judging glare she responded, “May I have a glass of wine and tray of fruits please?” The mister nodded and strolled off the kitchen to retrieve her order. In the meantime she decided it best to actually do something about her unsightly hair - it was even bothering her. So, she withdrew her golden comb, a gift from her mother, from her pant’s pocket and brought it to her hair. After sometime she combed the unkempt unsightliness from it and stuffed the comb back into the recesses of her pocket. A finger ran through it as she waited for the waiter to return. It was a childish habit that had stuck with her since she was a girl and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t dispell it - it frustrated her like many other things about herself that she didn’t particularly like.
Finally, her olive jade eyes spotted the waiter swinging from the doors that led to the kitchen. In his hand, held high, was the tray of fruits she had ordered. In the waiter’s other hand was a bottle of red wine and in his fingers was a small empty glass waiting to be filled with the crimson goodness. He set the tray upon her table and poured the wine, nodded and was off to serve another well groomed woman.
And waiting is what she was doing. Azcadelia was waiting for a woman that had slipped a letter underneath her door late in the night. The letter wasn’t found until the morning when Azcadelia had decided to finally rise from it’s drunken slumber. The letter had read:
To Azcadelia, the crimson haired woman,
I, who shall not be named, am calling upon thee to perform a job that I need done. We shall discuss further in the White Swan Inn during the breakfast hour. You will have to pay to enter but I shall pay you back for anything you order in your stay. Go to the table in the far left corner of the dining hall and await my arrival and do, please, wear something that isn’t too embarrassing for me.
Azcadelia snorted at the thought of wearing something that wouldn’t embarrass her new client and defied the request anyway. It was an insult to her. She had always esteemed herself with the ability to clothe herself in suitable and attractive garments. So, purposefully she wore a tunic she had found stuffed behind her bed and the pants that had came with her arrival into Syliras. The clothes were uncomfortable but they did the job of disproving a point.
She crossed her legs and flicked a stray strand of hair from her face. The rest of her hair laid down her back in a rugged windswept pattern, signature to those of women that spend their time on the prarie, contrasting with the styled hair and wavy locs of the women around her; even some of the men had more extravagantly styled hair than she. It didn’t phase her. It was all her ploy. She waved to a waiter to come to her table and he came, after sometime. “What can I do for you, miss,” he stated, eyes cast judgingly upon her.
Flashing her own judging glare she responded, “May I have a glass of wine and tray of fruits please?” The mister nodded and strolled off the kitchen to retrieve her order. In the meantime she decided it best to actually do something about her unsightly hair - it was even bothering her. So, she withdrew her golden comb, a gift from her mother, from her pant’s pocket and brought it to her hair. After sometime she combed the unkempt unsightliness from it and stuffed the comb back into the recesses of her pocket. A finger ran through it as she waited for the waiter to return. It was a childish habit that had stuck with her since she was a girl and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t dispell it - it frustrated her like many other things about herself that she didn’t particularly like.
Finally, her olive jade eyes spotted the waiter swinging from the doors that led to the kitchen. In his hand, held high, was the tray of fruits she had ordered. In the waiter’s other hand was a bottle of red wine and in his fingers was a small empty glass waiting to be filled with the crimson goodness. He set the tray upon her table and poured the wine, nodded and was off to serve another well groomed woman.
