It was yet another busy night at the bar for Nyllia, regular customers in their usual seats talking about the past week’s issues and adventures, and some new customers sitting at the bar flirting with her slacking co-workers. Meanwhile, the yellow blood is serving the customers with outstanding efficiency.
On busy nights such as these, Nyllia does not have the time, nor can she spare the energy to whip her co-workers into shape. Using her psiionics, she mixes drinks, washes glasses, and serves the patrons. Doing all of this takes all her concentration and effort, which normally leaves her burnt out at the end of the night.
No matter how busy she is, she always looks to be in control of everything around her, not showing signs of her fatigue until the very end of the night. Her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, shorter pieces of hair framing her face. Her co-workers tend to look sloppy in comparison, unbuttoning their blouses and forgetting their name tag. When the nights are slower, sometimes her co-workers don’t even show up. A little help would be appreciated, but unfortunately that rarely happens without some form of resistance.
As the night goes on, Nyllia notices a new troll walk into the bar, sitting away from the other customers. She takes this as a sign that this troll came for a drink and nothing else. After finishing a couple more orders, she makes her way over to the exhausted looking troll. She can empathize with the exhaustion. She herself would love to have a drink right about now.
“What’ll it be for you tonight?”
Hilliaden leans back in his chair and crosses a leg, slender and sleek in his business casual. He glances over the troll, a little surprised to find she’s a lowblood. Usually, it’s the greens and teals working the bars he’s been in. Sometimes a stray blueblood if there’s frequent subjug clientele. But she seems to be handling things well enough, so he keeps his judgments reserved.
“Just an Old Fashioned for now,” he says in a low tone. He really doesn't need to get drunk, but if the whiskey calls him for seconds later he won’t fight it. He throws a glance over his shoulder at the lounging employees before turning back her while she makes her drink.
“You’ll have to pardon my nosiness,” he peeks at her nametag, “Nyllia, but are you the owner here?” He certainly hopes not. If she is, she would stand to whip her employees into shape.
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