Landing in Arjuf is a relief, but only a small one. The Realm proper presents a whole different problem in keeping yourself hidden in the Wyld Hunt that will be sent after both you and **** if you slip up and make it known what you are.
But, for now, you can both take a brief respite in the anonymity of this crowded portside restaurant and something that's not horrible shipboard food. It's nothing special, but the skewers of meat are warm and properly spiced, even to your slightly dulled sense of taste, and there's strong rice wine to be had after cold nights on the sea.
You squeeze into seats along the edge where one of the proprietors is pouring drinks. ****, the richer-looking of the two of you, puts an order to him, but well before it comes, a fellow who looks well-enough fed and comfortable enough among the crowd to be the owner stops by.
"I barely believed it when one of my waitstaff told me that the famed Lark Sings at Dawn had graced us with her presence! What brings you to the Blessed Isle?"
She demurs, managing to inject a chipper tone into her words: "Oh, collecting stories for new material—and bringing my old material to new faces and places. What a traveling songstress does, of course!"
He shifts with the slightly false modesty of one about to ask a favor. "Would you know, miss, the performers we'd booked for tonight have run into a bit of trouble with their instruments and some water damage from a recent storm. If you wouldn't mind—"
"I'd love to," she says, without even missing a beat. "Ah, I haven't any instruments with me, but perhaps if you don't mind my asking around in the crowd—"
"I'm sure anyone would be honored of the chance," he says, visibly relieved.
Lark can command the attention of a room without even trying, and soon enough she manages to find a sailor claiming to be decent with a fiddle and a flutist with wild hair and a sallow complexion, who bows extravagantly to Lark and kisses her hand. You don't like him.
The room quiets, waiting, watching—and then, after a few moments of whispered discussion, the room is alive with music. The two instrumentalists know just what to do to back Lark's singing, and Lark puts a lively dance to it, encouraging the crowd to call-and-response on the refrains until they're all singing and clapping along, smiles on their faces.
There's the sudden prickling feeling of attention on you, and you realize that a striking red-haired woman has slid in to the seat Lark vacated and is only keeping half her attention on the performance—because the other half is on you.
"Any more of us here and we'll draw attention," she says, sounding slightly pained, and belatedly, you realize she's speaking Old Realm, of all things, which bears little use outside of Realm scholars and—oh. Oh no.
"Even without—well. Never mind," she continues. "Whose business are you here on..."
Your optimism is so far buried that it takes you a moment to realize that she doesn't know who you are, which is the best news you've had in months. You glance away, trying desperately to catch Lark's attention. "Ah—my own, at the moment," you say, trying to keep it vague. "Taking care of some unfinished business."
Lark finally catches your eye, and is professional enough not to even break mid-line despite registering your alarm.
"Whose business are you—" the woman begins again, and you stuff a piece of meat into your mouth to forestall further conversation, although the woman looks at your funny.
The piece ends just a few moments later. Lark picks her way over without obvious haste, trying not to pull attention to anything strange going on—although as much as you hate the troublesome kind of attention, you wish she'd abandon that care for once in this situation.
"Let's find our lodgings?" she says, brightly, taking your hand, and nodding with only barely perceptible hesitation to your neighbor. You can't stand up fast enough, and once you're into the crowd the two of you practically dash out the back door.
Notable:
Shrike's friend (girlfriend? charge? liege?) is named Lark Sings at Dawn, and she's... an idol, of sorts?
The language the red-haired woman speaks to Shrike is not the common tongue—it seems a little more archaic, maybe—but Shrike seems to understand it perfectly.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 007
But, for now, you can both take a brief respite in the anonymity of this crowded portside restaurant and something that's not horrible shipboard food. It's nothing special, but the skewers of meat are warm and properly spiced, even to your slightly dulled sense of taste, and there's strong rice wine to be had after cold nights on the sea.
You squeeze into seats along the edge where one of the proprietors is pouring drinks. ****, the richer-looking of the two of you, puts an order to him, but well before it comes, a fellow who looks well-enough fed and comfortable enough among the crowd to be the owner stops by.
"I barely believed it when one of my waitstaff told me that the famed Lark Sings at Dawn had graced us with her presence! What brings you to the Blessed Isle?"
She demurs, managing to inject a chipper tone into her words: "Oh, collecting stories for new material—and bringing my old material to new faces and places. What a traveling songstress does, of course!"
He shifts with the slightly false modesty of one about to ask a favor. "Would you know, miss, the performers we'd booked for tonight have run into a bit of trouble with their instruments and some water damage from a recent storm. If you wouldn't mind—"
"I'd love to," she says, without even missing a beat. "Ah, I haven't any instruments with me, but perhaps if you don't mind my asking around in the crowd—"
"I'm sure anyone would be honored of the chance," he says, visibly relieved.
Lark can command the attention of a room without even trying, and soon enough she manages to find a sailor claiming to be decent with a fiddle and a flutist with wild hair and a sallow complexion, who bows extravagantly to Lark and kisses her hand. You don't like him.
The room quiets, waiting, watching—and then, after a few moments of whispered discussion, the room is alive with music. The two instrumentalists know just what to do to back Lark's singing, and Lark puts a lively dance to it, encouraging the crowd to call-and-response on the refrains until they're all singing and clapping along, smiles on their faces.
There's the sudden prickling feeling of attention on you, and you realize that a striking red-haired woman has slid in to the seat Lark vacated and is only keeping half her attention on the performance—because the other half is on you.
"Any more of us here and we'll draw attention," she says, sounding slightly pained, and belatedly, you realize she's speaking Old Realm, of all things, which bears little use outside of Realm scholars and—oh. Oh no.
"Even without—well. Never mind," she continues. "Whose business are you here on..."
Your optimism is so far buried that it takes you a moment to realize that she doesn't know who you are, which is the best news you've had in months. You glance away, trying desperately to catch Lark's attention. "Ah—my own, at the moment," you say, trying to keep it vague. "Taking care of some unfinished business."
Lark finally catches your eye, and is professional enough not to even break mid-line despite registering your alarm.
"Whose business are you—" the woman begins again, and you stuff a piece of meat into your mouth to forestall further conversation, although the woman looks at your funny.
The piece ends just a few moments later. Lark picks her way over without obvious haste, trying not to pull attention to anything strange going on—although as much as you hate the troublesome kind of attention, you wish she'd abandon that care for once in this situation.
"Let's find our lodgings?" she says, brightly, taking your hand, and nodding with only barely perceptible hesitation to your neighbor. You can't stand up fast enough, and once you're into the crowd the two of you practically dash out the back door.
Notable: