Silverhall. Home. As much as I enjoy adventuring, it is always nice to return. Take a break. Let my magic settle. Catch up with people. Help with my parents’ shop.
After a couple days in the shop and spending time with my parents, checking off that list leads me to The Dead Blossom, a small, dingy, dark, hole in the wall bar owned by one Amos Warren that hasn't always seen my best side. He doesn't seem to mind, though. If he does, he's never told me otherwise. I like to think he lets me stay since I help keep the assholes out.
Maybe I should've been a bouncer.
Pushing open the door, I take a quick look around, spotting a few unfamiliar faces amongst the several familiar ones. Not a bad turn out tonight all things considered. A few of the familiar faces wave to me as I head for the bar. I wave back.
I see Amos working the bar and take a seat in front of him. Bothering the grizzled grump is always fun.
“I lived.”
“I see that.” He sets a drink down in front of me. “How long are you in town for this time?”
“However long it takes to find another group who's heading out who needs a healer.” I take a sip. “And however long it takes to start growing a new batch of herbs for the shop for Dad. The offer to grow you things still stands, by the way.”
He scoffs, “If I start adding lavender to anything it’s not my bar anymore.”
I roll my eyes. “You can use it at home too, you know.”
“What makes you think I go home?”
“I'm not six, I know you don't sleep under the bar.”
That makes him crack a smile. A small one, but I take what I can get. “You sure? Maybe that's why my back's been hurting lately.” We both share a laugh.
“You giving me the evil eye or something!?”
The loud accusation draws both mine and Amos’ attention. At a nearby table, a tall and somewhat muscular man stands over some poor red headed man who looks like he's actively trying to shrink into himself, hands up trying to placate the other with reassurances that he's just sitting there. This does nothing to deescalate the situation. The asshole must have had a few drinks in him.
I frown, and Amos gives me a knowing look. He then goes off to help another patron.
With that, I stand, knock back the rest of my drink, and face the problem, approaching him and leveling him with a glare, crossed arms, and a warning to knock it off.
“Are you the owner or something?” he asks.
“I'm not.”
He has the nerve to smirk. “Then what are you gonna do about it?” he says smuggly. He's taller than me by maybe half a foot and posturing to make himself look even taller.
He quickly finds out just what I'm going to do about it.
CRACK!
He stumbles back from the uppercut, holding his jaw and looking stunned. Unfortunately the feeling only looks like it lasts a few seconds before he's glaring and throwing a punch right back. I dodge, then throw a left hook that he's much more ready for. He aims for my stomach. Tries for a grab. Gets a hit in on my arm. My side. I go for the chest and the face again, missing the latter. It leaves me open and he gets a solid punch in, hitting where I missed. The pain blooms under my eye. I return the hit as best I can, slamming my fist into his side. He returns the hit right to my jaw, sending me stumbling into a table.
I hear footsteps approaching as I brace myself against the table, but they stop before they reach me. I catch a glimpse of Amos glaring down the man who I can only assume is about to finish the fight. Like I hadn't gotten my ass thoroughly kicked enough already.
He kicks my leg as he walks past, muttering something about not worth his time, and I'm grateful for the table I'm leaning on.
After watching him walk out, as best I can anyway, I grab a nearby chair and flop down onto it with a groan. My teeth hurt. My eye hurts. My side hurts. I touch my lip and find blood.
A small bag of ice hits the table just in front of me before I can heal, and I look over at it with my good eye just in time to see Amos heading back to the bar. I make a mental note to tip the man heavily at the end of the night as I press the bag to my eye.
I only look up again when I hear someone clearing their throat. It's the redhead. He smiles politely, tugging at the gloves he wears.
“Um, thank you, for getting him to stop. I'm sorry about the trouble, and your eye.”
I wave off the concern. “It's not the first time, probably won't be the last. I don't mind.” To make my point, I cast a healing spell to relieve the pain in my side.
“Oh, right. Still, thank you.” He extends a hand. “I'm Cian.”
I reach out mine to shake his hand. “I'm Satisa.”
“It's nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
He tugs at his gloved hands again. The poor guy looks like a lost puppy.
I gesture to one of the seats at my table. “You can take a seat, if you want.”
He sits down a bit too fast. He really is a puppy.
We spend the next hour just small talking before parting ways. I heal myself in the meantime, not wanting to worry my parents by coming home with a black eye. Not that it would stop them from hearing about it eventually. At least it didn't hurt anymore.
I end up seeing him around Silverhall quite often. We stop and chat, sometimes he follows while I run errands. I eventually tell him about the shop and he stops by. I think my parents are glad I've seemingly made a friend. It won't last long, but I think I'm glad, too.
sometimes u see the corpses of 33 of ur former townmates in a feast hall and just gotta lock the fuck in until the horrors that caused those horrors are dealt with
gotta bring homestuck shipping back because sometimes ur pc and the npc they are diametrically opposed to need to get violent about it to relieve the tension
getting the reality check that my kingmaker pc only died and returned three (3) months ago in game time and has spent two (2) of those months thinking they were descending into madness really puts a lot of their reactions things in perspective
