He’s regaining his composure by the bar when she steps into the main room of the little bar. On the stage there is now a small band of troubadours, livening up the atmosphere of the place, the conversation around the bar now picking up as well. She knows her impact on people and she stops to receive favors from adoring audience members as she navigates across the room. Few gold coins here, a flower there. The money disappears into the folds of her dress very quickly, while the flowers find new homes in the hair of this young lady or the lapel of that young man.
“White Garlean, please”, her voice startles him out of his daze, and he looks up in disbelief. She’s changed her outfit and washed off the paint, but she is still breathtaking. Small flecks of brass still make her skin sparkle gently under the lights of the bar, her black hair falling in waves down her back. Her dress is the blue of the night sky, adorned by soft golden embroidery. It’s clearly Thavnairian in origin, he’s seen enough of Thavnairian handiwork to recognize the authenticity of it immediately. He snaps out of his stupor and turns to the barkeep, lifting two fingers.
“Make that two, please. On me”, he says, and she takes a seat next to him. She smells like sweet exotic flowers with a hint of refreshing citrus and warming spice mixed in between. His sensitive viera sense of smell is almost overwhelmed by her, but he manages to keep his composure. He’s been around beautiful women before; he knows how to handle them. He is about to speak up when he feels her soft hands take a hold of his right hand, lifting it and turning it palm up. Stunned, he allows her, even though he’d usually simply pull away.
“What a beautiful palm you have”, she says, her voice soft and pleasant in his ears, “’tis not your dominant hand, yet your line of the life is so strong and long”, she continues, traveling the tip of her index finger along the line crossing from below his forefinger to the base of his palm. “And”, she says, now chuckling, “I’ve never seen a line of the head this strong. You must be quite headstrong”, she says, raising her eyes to meet his, a playful smile on her lips. His eyes, like icy darksteel, feel cooling on her. He scoffs, looking at the barkeep who is just about to place the two drinks before them. The barkeep is grinning, and he knows she pulls this stuff on all prospective clients. He brings the glass to her lips just as she speaks up again.
“And this heart line… it starts barely visible until it strengthens right here, third of the way in”, her voice is curious, full of laughter, “seems like you’re about to meet someone quite special indeed.” She says, and he stares at her for a second before drinking his glass empty in two big gulps. He gestures the barkeep for another before turning his head to her.
“Highly doubtful”, he says in a dry tone, pulling his palm away from her hands reluctantly, but with a determination. She looks slightly disappointed, chewing on her lower lip before turning to her drink and taking a sip. “What use would it be for me to fall for anyone, special or not, when I will simply outlive them anyway?” He mutters, as much to himself as to her. She tilts her head a little, her huge brass earrings jingling lightly with the movement. He tries to avoid checking out that beautiful neck, but it’s difficult to stay focused. She lifts an eyebrow and looks at him, making him quickly look away, pretending as if he’s been simply staring at his empty glass the entire time. She takes in his long black ears, like two sharp daggers, covered in velvety fur, and his flowy long black hair, thick as is typical of the viera. His skin is a beautiful light color, and she can make out the outline of a tattoo at his collar. She turns her body slightly more towards him, resting her elbow on the bar and leaning her cheek against her palm.
“I don’t think these things are entirely under our control”, she says, picking up her glass and twirling the ice within. Little does she know that this is his favorite cocktail. Coffee liqueur, vodka and – in this case – a generous splash of buffalo milk. “I think we meet the people we’re meant to meet, and all meetings, however brief they may be, are meaningful to us in one way or another.” He takes in her words, mulling them over in his head before sighing and handing out his right palm again.
“Okay then”, he says, “tell me my fate.” She chuckles, shaking her head.
“Oh no, mister. I will need both hands for that.” She takes a hold of his right palm with one hand, holding out the other expectantly. He gives her a glance, but puts down his glass and turns to her, holding out his left palm as well. Gently, she places both of his hands on her lap, the silk of her dress incredibly soft and cool against his skin. She runs her fingers down his palms, and a rush of excitement, maybe even desire, runs up from the root of his spine. He shifts slightly in his chair, and she pretends not to notice. While she examines his palms, he examines her. He knows people, and he knows them well. He’s had almost a century to learn the ins and outs of them, no matter the race. This miqo’te sat in front of him right now though… she’s unlike anyone he’s met before. To him, it feels like she is present in her entirety, hiding nothing, holding nothing back, just… here, in the moment. What ulterior motives she might have, are all present in the setting. She is a paid woman, that’s for sure, and he knows she is entertaining him in hopes of gil. Still, she picked him out of everyone here.
She’s about to open her mouth when an old woman steps through the curtains.
“Kali”, she barks, making the miqo’te jolt upright, letting go of his hands. He looks over the miqo’te’s shoulder – Kali, he thinks – at this old crone. Kali’s scared, he can tell, scared to her core of this woman. He wants to stop her from going, to prevent whatever is to come, but there’s nothing he can do. She’s already gone, slipped through the curtain into the depths of the building like she was never there. The old woman pierces him with her eyes, measuring him with her gaze. She scoffs, turning to follow Kali behind the curtain.
He turns back to his drink, noticing that hers is also left halfway. His eyes stop on it for a moment before gliding back to his own. What he sees, startles him. There is a folded note under his glass, and he never saw anyone put it there. He looks at the barkeep, but the burly man is over on the other side of the bar, talking to another customer. No one else is around, so it must have been her. But when? Carefully he pulls the note out from under the glass, afraid it’ll disappear into thin air. It doesn’t, and as he opens it, he is certain that it’s from her.
“Help me.” It says, in a cursive handwriting with large loops, “I beg of you. Help me.”
Whatever it takes, he swears, emptying his glass and standing up.
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