Closed [Drunken Fish] Stealing from the Competition (Glen)

[Caela Dorin]

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16th Winter 514AV

Morwen's icy fingers were tightening their hold on the city and Caela could feel it in the air coming off the sea. It was early days yet, the temperatures not as low as they had gone in the past, but the dancer was really feeling the chill. It seemed a nicer idea to retreat into the more sheltered areas of the city, hide herself away in the warmth of her place of work and not emerge until dusk to scuttle home. Instead she was foolishly moving through the most exposed areas in Sunberth and heading to a tavern where she could possibly be manhandled but would be without the protection Merv normally provided. It didn't sound like a good idea in her head and it was thus far worse in reality. It would be so easy to turn back but she pressed on.

The heat of gathered bodies hit her as soon as she passed through the doors of the Drunken Fish, the odours of old sweat and adulterated ale carried with it. The scarf covering her hair was removed with a flourish, shaking out the golden locks as she made her way towards the bar. The blonde wanted to be noticed and it was clear to see in the way she held herself and the way she moved. Her hair and the glimpses of red dress showing beneath her cloak brought a splash of colour into the sea of neutral tones that populated the place. It meant that she stuck out, even in a place scattered with gaudily clad whores.

Caela swayed her way between the patrons, a glance skimming over those around her. She remained aloof, careful not to catch the eye of anyone just yet as she assessed the environment. Eyes trawled over her "competition", the cheap whores that the Drunken Fish was known for. Many of them were past their prime, cosmetics like thick war paint on their faces to hide the faults. Some were fresher stock, new off the boats or the streets or wherever they came from. They already showed signs of what this style of life was doing to them, dark circles and unfocused eyes underlying their fake laughter and smiles. The sailors didn't care. As long as they had womanly flesh to wrap their arms around or tug into their laps, they were content. The free flow of alcohol helped to make everything appear better but she still drew curious and lustful stares, a better alternative to what they already possessed.

Once at the bar, her examination of her surroundings continued. Her elbow brushed lightly against the arm of the man who stood to her left. An apologetic smile and a soft flutter of lashes met the glare that was turned on her as she was in the act of removing her cloak, the rough cloth sliding off the porcelain skin of her bare shoulders and back. His expression changed, eyes moving hungrily over the skin presented and lingering on the slit down the front, which offered delightful glimpses of what lay beneath. She pretended not to notice, seemingly too preoccupied with placing her cloak and scarf over her arm. A hand swept back through her hair, her elbow grazing the material of her dress and stretching it for a tick to allow a more appealing display. The leer that had appeared on his face sickened her. An arm snaked out to slip around her waist, hand ready to grasp at any flesh he could get ahold of but she swayed out of his reach, a coy smile gracing her lips.

There was a flash of annoyance, Caela clever enough to take the hint to move further out of his reach in as casual a way as she could. Her gaze flickered to him as she clicked her fingers to get the bartender's attention. It seemed a poor beginning for her attempts at luring customers, the sailors no doubt more used to taking what they wanted than the patrons of the Pig's Foot. She'd have to tread carefully if she didn't want to come out of this place worse for wear. Better to find a small group and play the men off one another. Safer that way, or so she hoped but she had to at least try.

Her attention was turned from her recent target to the bartender. "Have any rum? If not, I'll take a mug of ale, I suppose," she informed him.
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[Glen Fiddich]

It was already turning into a long day. Already he had been roused from a not entirely restful sleep by some scruffy imbecile hammering on the hull of his ship with one end of a barge pole. If it weren't for the fact that the boy was only about a third the height of the pole and not old enough for even for a wispy ghosting of facial hair, Glen would probably have leapt onto the quay and throttled him. As it was, the boy had informed him that the barkeep who was supposed to be working the early shift was unaccounted for, and Manowar had sent him to demand Glen's urgent arrival at work. Grudgingly, and with even more grumbling and scowling than usual, Glen had obliged; matters had been made worse when his insistence upon being paid for the extra shift had been met with if you can find who was supposed to be here, you can charge him for it. The fact that the Fish wasn't currently a blood-soaked mound of corpses was a true testament to how far Glen's ability to control his temper these last few years.

That temper had become steadily more frayed over the course of the day, and as the sound of snapping fingers cut through the ambiance of the Fish, another strand snapped along with it. His eyes sought out the source of the noise, and found her in an instant. A grimace reared it's head behind his features, but his expression was too locked in the same gruff half-scowl that he had worn most of the day to shift and let his inward reaction show. It didn't take more than a moment to size her up; he knew her type instantly. No matter where you travelled, or what kind of city you found yourself in, Glen would bet his last copper that at least one someone of her ilk was around somewhere. She was the look but don't touch type, the kind who flaunted what she had, and expected money and opportunity to simply pile itself up at her feet because of what the gods and goddesses had burdened her with. Duchesses, heiresses, dancers, all of those celibate priestesses that the gods insisted on having as a giant petch you, I have a temple full of pretty girls and you don't have shyke to the honest and honestish working men of the world; different cuts, but all the same cloth.

Glen wasn't a lecherous or lustful man; not exceptionally, at any rate. Granted, he'd be in you before your legs had even finished opening if the invitation was there, but he didn't hunt for it, wasn't the kind to give chase, or look for it where it wasn't on offer. Way he saw it, finding the affections of a woman was the same as sailing, near as makes no difference. There were two ways of going about it: hoist up a sail, wait for the wind to catch you, and then trim the sails to get where you wanted to go; or forget the sail, grab the oars, and try to paddle yourself face-first into a stormy headwind like a petching moron. It was a well known fact that women knew exactly what they wanted, whereas men didn't have the damndest clue; better to wait for the mystery to unfold itself than put yourself in the line of fire trying to solve it.

People like this new woman though? They were those bastard breezes, the ones that gusted at you for a little while, blew you out to sea, and then petched off completely, leaving you stranded on waters as smooth as glass, with nary a breath of wind to help you on your course. There was no need for a dress like that unless you wanted eyes on you; no need to put those kinds of assets on display unless you planned to exploit them; it was all entrapment, all bait, all a lure for unsuspecting men to blunder their way into fuelling some sort of egotistical power trip, to be manipulated to whatever whims the temptress had that evening. Everything about them was built on a lie; as far as he was concerned, an honest prostitute was worth more as a person than a whore who pretended they weren't.

More than a few of Glen's many scars were from women like that, though usually the wounds wound up somewhere deep inside his chest cavity.

Glen had a simple tactic for dealing with those kind of women though: blatant denial. He wasn't sure if it worked, and truth be told it probably didn't; but it made him feel better, and right now that was the flotsam in a storm of frustration that he clung to for dear life. "It was three ales, right?" he confirmed with the customer he'd already been serving, taking his time to drag out the process as long as possible, pouring each pint with far more care than drunken sailors would ordinarily be afforded. Two other orders followed, Glen systematically working his way through every conceivable patron until finally necessity forced him to pay actual attention to the self-proclaimed rose among their field of thorns.

"Think you might be a bit lost, love," Glen observed, reaching beneath the bar and pulling out the bottle of watered rum they served to the patrons who were too drunk and rowdy for another undiluted shot to be wise. "Doubt you'll find anyone in here who can afford your sort of rates."

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[Caela Dorin]

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He looked straight at her. He knew she was there, knew she'd ordered, had acknowledged her petching presence and had chosen to ignore her. Simply lovely. She watched him work, silently fantasising about the physical pain she'd like to put him through for what he was doing. It was spite although she couldn't work out why. Maybe she'd been unlucky enough to catch him in a foul mood and she'd proved an easy target in his eyes. Well she could play along with his little games, take the snub as if it was nothing and play a game of her own if such action was called for.

Caela couldn't help but hate him for it. She didn't want to be in this tavern but at the very least she could have hoped for some control over the situation. All it would have taken was some alcohol to provide a bit of liquid courage and the more uncomfortable stares, coming from the men she most needed to avoid, would have glanced right off her. Instead she was left with no such courage and an uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck from stares no doubt directed from behind her. To make matters worse, she couldn't get away from the man standing beside her, the one who was edging towards her with something in his eyes that was leaving her feeling more afraid by the second. Something was screaming at the dancer that she should have known better than to come fishing in this part of town, especially given the kind of past receptions she'd received... when she wasn't all dressed up.

A smile managed to fix itself on her features, not seductive, not inviting or alluring by any means, but she wielded it in the hopes of making the sailor beside her keep his distance. She was very hopeful that it could be read as It was nice knowing you but I'm done with you now rather than some kind of encouragement. She wasn't sure that any smile could convey the sort of message she wanted it to but she tried to appear outwardly cool. It wasn't clear how well that was working though she was fairly certain that she could keep obvious signs of terror at bay if she wanted.

The bastard of a bartender decided to grace her with his presence at the exact moment the sailor chose to put an arm around her waist and pull her flush with his side. He grinned huge beside her, something that brought a twitch to her eye for a tick, a transformation of her smile to a grimace and back again. She squirmed slightly in his grip before pressing a discreet blade to an area the man was no doubt very much attached to and was pleased when the grin on his face froze in place. She was glad to have invested in the smaller blade that was for certain.

"Let go of my waist and then get the petch away from me or all your grasping could become a bit pointless," she suggested pleasantly, pressing the point in until she earned a flinch and his hold was relinquished reluctantly. The hatred in his eyes was met with a cool stare from the blonde, a flicker down to where the cloak obscured what she was doing and also hid the size of her weapon, before he thought better of it and retreated a short distance. She doubted that that would be the end of him. A bright smile was directed at the barman. His comments made her hate her more but she wasn't going to allow herself to be so easily chased off, even if the odds were certainly not in her favour.

"Oh, I know exactly where I am, love. You aren't the first to thing me ditsy though. It's 'cos I'm blonde, isn't it?" she giggled softly. It was a faked sound of girlish mirth, the credibility of which was completely undermined by the roll of her eyes and the poison that was filling her gaze. Her eyes were only for the barman though. "And rates? What are you going on about with your rates? You make it sound like I have to be bought like a night in a room or something from the market. Silly you thinking a thing like that." The soft giggle came again, Caela's head cocked slightly to the side as her smile broadened. "Are you going to get me the drink I asked for or are you too attached to my presence to be willing to let me go?" she purred.


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[Glen Fiddich]

That laugh came at him like the kind of unexpected gust of wind that swung the boom around and cracked you across the back of the head if you weren't paying attention. His mind quickly adopted a stubborn state of confusion, struggling to comprehend what was actually happening. Gone was the aloof elegance that had demanded his attention with the snap of her fingers, replaced by something giggly and flirtatious. For a moment his gaze studied her features, searching for a clue as to which of the two natures was false: had her confidence been an act, playing a part without realising the implications of it, or was this some strange attempt to disarm him somehow, for some nefarious end?

A stray thought changed his mind completely.

Clearly this poor girl is damaged in the head.

It was the only explanation that made sense. Glen had seen it before, though admittedly it was usually with mercenaries and brawlers. A few too many blows to the head, or one traumatic experience too many, and a fragile mind could shatter like glass, thoughts transforming utterly as they shifted across the cracks from one segment to the other, like the way that light went all blurry as it shone through a broken window. They could seem sober and sane at one moment, and then erupt into tears or anger of hysterics or the deepest darkest sorrow in an instant, their mood changing faster than the tides.

Clearly, this poor girl was suffering from that same affliction. Though she looked as if she might perhaps be able to handle herself - there was certainly an elegant control to the way that she moved - the amount of unmarred and unscarred flesh on display suggested that some kind of mercenary or warrior career was unlikely; perhaps the trauma responsible for her broken mind had been forced upon her, and perhaps other things as well, probably by the same kind of bottom-feeding scum that this tavern was filled with.

That notion twisted Glen's gut with concern. Part of him still lingered on the notion that this might be some sort of ploy, and that the woman was here to somehow profit or gain advantage from the affect her looks had on the drooling masses; but if that first impression was wrong, as they frequently were, then this poor girl could be quite firmly in the path of significant harm and distress; and utterly oblivious of it, too.

Dutifully, he uncorked the rum and poured a carefully measured shot into the cleanest glass he could find. "What I mean to say," he explained quietly, setting the glass gently down in front of the ditsy temptress, "Is that you seem like a nice, classy sort of girl; but this ain't a nice, classy sort of place. It's not safe for a pretty girl like you to be wandering alone into a place like this, especially not wearing a dress like that."

His eyes locked with hers, gently earnest in their insistent hope that she heed his warning. "The guys in here have a nasty habit of grasping a little too hard for that what they don't deserve, and I'm pretty sure you neither want or deserve that kind of attention."

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[Caela Dorin]

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He was clearly puzzled by her attitude, a fact that brightened the dancer's mood a little. It was entertaining to find someone who appeared interested in deciphering her rather than just falling into one of her carefully laid traps. She had no plans for the barman and she was certain that that was something that ought to be clear to him; you didn't stare daggers at someone you were interested in. Caela watched to see if he'd continue to provide some sort of amusing distraction from the atmosphere of this shyke hole or whether he'd turn out to be irritating once more.

The rum was placed before her at last and she grasped for it eagerly, swilling the contents and allowing the fumes to waft up to her nose. She sniffed delicately, noticing that it wasn't as strong as she would have anticipated before she sipped at it and confirmed her suspicions; it was watered down. That would suit her purposes just fine. Having a somewhat clear head was probably all for the better and if the alcohol that she consumed had nothing more than placebo effect then she'd be more than contented as long as it did the job. A more generous drink was taken, the contents washed around in her mouth and swallowed as she considered the interesting turn the conversation had taken. Brows were raised, her mouth warring between an expression of mirth and bemusement.

What was this? Concern? No, surely not. Not concern in this city, in this area and from such a barman no less but it certainly seemed to be the case. He also seemed to be under the impression that she had wandered in here by accident. Did he really think that she was stupid enough to walk in here like this without having any idea what she could be getting herself into? The blonde could do little more than blink for a chime as she registered exactly what was happening. She appeared to be completely right and yet it was still hard to believe. The venom that had been in her gaze before was totally gone, replaced by a growing confusion as she examined his face. Caela searched for some sign of deception but couldn't find it.

Her gaze dropped into her glass for a moment, the dancer fighting for control over the emotions he had let loose inside of her. He cared, actually cared about whether some guy in this bar took a fancy to her and made a grab at her. People had come to her aid before certainly but usually that was when something was happening, not beforehand. He was trying to ensure that she didn't need rescuing by the sounds of it. It was clear that he'd be much happier if she left and went somewhere else, a classy place, as if there was one of those in Sunberth. Where did he think that she'd come from? Surely, he had to realise that no one could spend time in this place for long without gaining some sort of taint. She wasn't some innocent tourist and she couldn't imagine any tourist getting as far as Sunberth who still had some form of innocence still intact. It made her wonder what sort of a place he must have come from?

Mentally trampling the thoughts that were almost ready to explode out of her, she reined herself in, eyes filled with intense seriousness returned to his own. "I'm no fool. I'm Sunberth born and bred, I know what I'm about," she replied softly, holding his gaze for a few moments before she returned it to the glass of spirits once more, another measure of its contents downed before it was replaced on the bar. A hand vanished under the cloak and returned a few moments later with a purse, the contents briefly examined before a number of coins were placed in a neat stack between them.

"I assume that covers what I owe you?"
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[Glen Fiddich]

If there was one word that described this woman above all, it was pretty. Pretty eyes. Pretty face. Pretty smile.

Pretty stupid.

Born and bred, she'd said. All that meant was that she should have known better. This part of the city wasn't for people like her. You didn't bring pretty things into this part of town. Pretty things wound up stolen; wound up broken; wound up preyed upon by people who figured the best way to avenge their misfortunate ugly lives was to bring suffering to those who seemed to have it otherwise. Glen knew better than to judge someone on looks alone, and he knew far too many vicious and formidable woman to ever let that colour his opinion; perhaps she could handle herself better than her airs and graces and that pretty dress. Even so, he couldn't help judge how reckless this all was. It was like taking a knife to your arm and then diving into shark-infested waters: it didn't matter how tough a fighter you secretly were, it didn't matter how much of an expert you were on the vicious creatures; it was still a petching stupid thing to do.

Glen shouldn't have cared; most other people wouldn't have. If this woman wanted to flaunt herself around like raw meat in front of starving predators, then that was her business. If she wanted to go and get herself raped in some back alley - her back alley, more than likely - that was her choice to make. But an annoying, infuriating, irritating voice in his head wouldn't let him simply ignore her. It wasn't a conscience, he knew he didn't have one of those; it was the Old Bear, and that residual stain of his morality that Glen just couldn't quite manage to wash off.

Sometimes people need protecting. Sometimes people need protecting from themselves.

Especially when they're petching idiots.

"Do you have any idea how much mess I'm going to have to clean up when you get raped and murdered?" he muttered under his breath as he counted out the coins. A long, heavy, heaving sigh escaped as he slipped the coppers out of view. "Know what you're about, do you?" he challenged. "And what is that, prey tell? What's a fine slice like you doing in a dive like this?"

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