Who: Lenyra Caelestis & open (1/4) Where: a seedy tavern in the lower city
The tavern smells of ale and unwashed bodies, the fires stoked high enough that the heat is almost overwhelming in the small room. Beneath her veil, curls cling to the sides of her neck, but she does not lower it. With her hair hidden beneath the blue silk, her face seems moonlike in its hue and serenity. She eyes the bowl before her with faint interest, like a woman observing a bubbling brook. Once her calm observation is complete, she stirs the mysterious contents into a gooey cluster. Meat stew, the serving boy told her. Veal, venison, pork.
A clump surfaces from the mass, all sinew and no fat. Neither veal, venison, nor pork. She ladles a few pieces onto her spoon. Brings it closer to her nose. Sniffs it. Does not recoil. Eats it. Does not recoil. Her face seems a shade paler, perhaps, but that could be a trick of the light.
Chewing slowly, she tries to decipher the mystery contents while rumors drift to her ears by mere accident. Her asset is late, but she has never been one to waste a spare moment. Most concern idle gossip, the affairs of common life and loins. But one must sift through the silt to find gold. The woes of greedy landlords and runaway sons soon give way to tales of more insidious torments. Forsaken battering against Aurea's outskirts, turning bustling villages into silent yards of graves and plague. Death tolls that go unreported within the city. The unseen, unheeded and unremembered.
But not by the speakers.
Not by her.
Her eyes finally lift from the bowl, reflecting the candles, distorted, dappled light dancing across the surface of a frozen pond.
They find a silhouette.
Perhaps the person is a familiar face. Perhaps they are causing a disturbance. Or perhaps they simply seem as though they might possess a trove of information. Glance after glance follows until, finally, her lips tilt.
An invitation.