starter call: @cobaltsouled, blue !
“Nice having a third cleric around,” Molly chirps, tricep pillowed on the table as he gazes absently after Cree. She stands some paces away with an expression he’s come to read as overwhelmed by tiefling-related enthusiasm while Jester gesticulates wildly through a story about a dragon. The way her hands bob and flutter remind him of blue Morphos. “I know you still don’t trust her, but really. She’s been a gem.”
It’s been an odd couple of months of travel, odder still to be with the Nein again in a completely different country. Cree has been an asset in that time, a companion, loyal enough to defy the Gentleman to find him, to take him somewhere he’ll have trouble following.
“I will do what I can to keep us safe, Lucien,” she’d said, digging through her satchel with a clink. “Even if that means calling you Mollymauk.” A river he couldn’t name roared beside them. She pulled out a bundle of leather, unrolled it, pulled out phial after phial caked with blood. She methodically cleaned each, shattered their remains, and threw them into the river.
“Call me Molly,” he murmured after a while; so fresh from the grave, he had no idea how to stifle his relief. She smiled at him with a twitch of whiskers. First night he’d slept peacefully in an age.
“I actually think. Y’know, I think Yash’ will like her,” he continues, flashing Beau a lopsided grin. He finishes off his ale and pushes his tankard away, stretching his arms out across the surface of the table like a large, lazy cat. “How long’s it been since she fucked off again?”
Molly cradles his cheek in his hand, tail wafting languidly over the bench seat, and smiles with a soft affection marred by yearning. “I’ve gotta give the bloody Stormlord a curfew. I miss her.”
