People pass around moonshine like it’s the end of time. In a place like this, they might not be far off. Clementine eyes the bottom of her glass and the distortion of the cup across the sand in flickering lights. Someone clears their throat sharply. She looks up, holding up the glass, blinking away the bit of dizziness that comes from too many drinks. “Yes?” And the answer is a pointed look behind her where three people stand in a circle, faces close enough to kiss. But... She squints. Not kiss. They shove each other.
Exasperated, she climbs to her feet and makes her stumbling way over to them. A blink, and she’s there, standing between them. “Really?” she states, one hand moving to her hip. One man - burly, a good head taller than her, but standing in a way that makes her think he’ll run if she makes one sharp retort - stares at her, arms crossing. “Get outta here, lady, this isn’t a conversation for ya.”
Clementine sighs. “I can’t. You’re causing a scene. It’s embarrassing and they’ll make me handle it.” They, of course, being no one. Maybe she can eyeball people at the farm as part of Emre’s strange security task force, but here? At the Pit? His friend - short, sharp-eyed, with an expression of someone who will pick a fight to prove a point - snorts in response. She eyes him thoughtfully. Then a familiar figure appears somewhere behind them and the three men protest at her inattention. She ignores them some more. “I was wondering where you were. I saw your nephew running around with the dancers a little while ago.” The grin on her face is as much the effect of several drinks as it is the sight of a friend.
