[[OOC: 2nd Firstfall, afternoon.]] Celeste Monroe
Isabela stood over the dying man, who was making a vain attempt to keep at least some of the blood in his body. Two others had already stopped twitching and were on their way to give their regards to whatever ran things on the other side of the Fade. The sultry air and close alleyways of Lowtown, combined with the exertions of the fight, had made her sweaty and the bastards had got blood on a chemise that had gone on freshly washed just that morning. And removing blood was worth two bits more to the washerwoman than the cheapest price. Isabela wiped down her daggers and returned them to their sheathes.
“Maker’s bloody balls.”
This day had been going so beautifully. She had woken up with only a slight hangover to receive a message that one of her informants was actually doing his job for a change and might have something useful for her about the book or Castillion. She’d spent the morning pulling a few strings here and there on some of her legitimate business partnerships, and then come here to receive the details in full.
Except there wasn’t anything about the book, or Castillion, or anything at all. They were Maker-damn bounty hunters who had decided it was worth their while to have a crack at her, a decision only one of them was currently left to regret. They hadn’t even been a good fight, for fuck’s sake. And now the man was spitting curses at her, which normally rolled off her like water from a duck, but then he descended into insults about how it was no wonder that she’d lost her ship, that she’d probably had to whore her way to the position of captain, that she had no right still calling herself by that title. That poured salt into a wound that nearly two years had done little to close.
She let him die as she searched the bodies of his friends. Annoyed by the waste of time and infuriated by the fresh reminder of her loss, she at least had the brief gratification of finding some silvers and a couple of gold on them. It would buy her a few decent rounds at the Hanged Man, and keep Corff off her back about payment for another few days. And right now she needed a drink.
It was mid-afternoon and most folks weren’t out of work yet, so the tavern was on the quieter side. This was not what Isabela wanted. She wanted distraction and noise, and even her favourite spot to find both was turning up nothing. This was a shitter of a day.
She ordered an orange brandy and found her usual seat at a table with her back against the wall, inhaling her first round while indulging in an extremely bad mood. Something fun or interesting had better walk through the front door soon, or she would start a fight.
Isabela stood over the dying man, who was making a vain attempt to keep at least some of the blood in his body. Two others had already stopped twitching and were on their way to give their regards to whatever ran things on the other side of the Fade. The sultry air and close alleyways of Lowtown, combined with the exertions of the fight, had made her sweaty and the bastards had got blood on a chemise that had gone on freshly washed just that morning. And removing blood was worth two bits more to the washerwoman than the cheapest price. Isabela wiped down her daggers and returned them to their sheathes.
“Maker’s bloody balls.”
This day had been going so beautifully. She had woken up with only a slight hangover to receive a message that one of her informants was actually doing his job for a change and might have something useful for her about the book or Castillion. She’d spent the morning pulling a few strings here and there on some of her legitimate business partnerships, and then come here to receive the details in full.
Except there wasn’t anything about the book, or Castillion, or anything at all. They were Maker-damn bounty hunters who had decided it was worth their while to have a crack at her, a decision only one of them was currently left to regret. They hadn’t even been a good fight, for fuck’s sake. And now the man was spitting curses at her, which normally rolled off her like water from a duck, but then he descended into insults about how it was no wonder that she’d lost her ship, that she’d probably had to whore her way to the position of captain, that she had no right still calling herself by that title. That poured salt into a wound that nearly two years had done little to close.
She let him die as she searched the bodies of his friends. Annoyed by the waste of time and infuriated by the fresh reminder of her loss, she at least had the brief gratification of finding some silvers and a couple of gold on them. It would buy her a few decent rounds at the Hanged Man, and keep Corff off her back about payment for another few days. And right now she needed a drink.
It was mid-afternoon and most folks weren’t out of work yet, so the tavern was on the quieter side. This was not what Isabela wanted. She wanted distraction and noise, and even her favourite spot to find both was turning up nothing. This was a shitter of a day.
She ordered an orange brandy and found her usual seat at a table with her back against the wall, inhaling her first round while indulging in an extremely bad mood. Something fun or interesting had better walk through the front door soon, or she would start a fight.
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