Welcome to Gaia! ::

Gently Riasha put the kitten down. With a sound of delight, she plucked some of the flowers and put them in her hair too. Smiling to herself, she does a little spin, though the execution is somewhat hampered by her clothes. Sighing, she shakes her head. "I'm not even sure any of the magic would carry over; I don't know how I ended up here, and I don't know how things will be when I return. Or even if I can return."

"My people have legends about this place," Jóna said, wiping steak juices off her knife before stowing it. "They said that whoever enters it may only exit into their own world where they came from. I'm not sure if they specify whether you can bring objects with you. I'm curious to see if this comes with me," she said, motioning to the necklace Lance made for her.

Lance sighed and focused on Riasha's hair. He thought if she had more of it, she could put more flowers in it. He turned his hands over, and his tattoos lit a little. Her hair grew out rapidly, and he stopped it before it reached the ground. Carefully, he used his magic to braid her hair with the white roses.

"Lovely," he said, smiling.

Dahlia cuddled up to Riasha, her little eyes opening and closing as she yawned. Stretching out, she rolled on her back, purring.

"No," Lance said simply.

His plan was to leave her hair alone. That knife however... His tattoos glowed as the knife flew from its sheath, and floated above the table, hovering blade down. From the top, he encrusted it with gems that sparkled in the light. For the blade itself, he lined it in thick diamond, strong enough to cut through anything.

"I don't feel as though either of you deserve death."

The knife hit the table with a light thud. It pulsed a golden glow twice before the blade turned to a solid black color.

The young woman twitched slightly at the odd sensation of having her hair grow back. Reaching back to feel the long locks, her eyes shine with delight. Then, just to be sure she wasn't daft, she pulls her long plait forward. Laughing softly she pats the braid with fondness as though it were an old friend. If the thought crossed her mind that he might be flirting with her, it didn't show. Moving a bit more into the center, she does several more dance steps; the movements whimsical, though still a bit on the awkward side. "It's harder without the right shoes, or clothes, or music," she finally says, sitting down and sighing. Then she furrows her brows for a moment. "When do you think someone does deserve to die?" she asks Lance.

And then Jóna has a fit about the knife. "I'm sure he meant well," she says reproachfully to the elf. "You probably could have just asked him to change it back, or to make it less sparkly." She didn't point out that in her culture a knife like that could be sold, bit by bit, to feed a whole troupe for some time.

Jóna shot a glare toward Riasha. "He could have probably asked me first before ruining my best knife! Look, I get that he gets you wet because he gives you flowers and hair and crap, but mind your own godsbedamned business," she snapped, still on her feet.

She didn't even watch the demonstration, instead watching his eyes. "Don't ever touch my things without my permission. Take it with you when you leave." She shoved the knife toward him on the table, throwing off the necklace and bouncing it across the table after it.

Her best knife. The knife she made. Smithing tools were so difficult to find and she practically had to beg one of the few smiths they had to teach her. Weapons were either picked off of bodies or refashioned from old weapons. Hers had been of her own creation, a few knife, something rarely ever seen. The ore it came from was the last that had even been brought into the swamp in the last thirty years.

And now it was ruined.

Still furious, she left the table and went for the counter, just for something to do. She started scanning at the unfamiliar selections of the menu, blinking rapidly.

Riasha looks properly chastized by Jóna's words. It really wasn't her business, but she just didn't like to see her being rude. Then again, perhaps it was overstepping his bounds when Lance changed the knife in the first place. She purses her lips together. "I'm sorry," she says. "You're right that he probably could have asked first," she conceedes. "But if he can make it that way, he can probably undo it if that is what you want..." And then he does just that. "See," she adds meekly.

Walking over to Lance, she pats his shoulder. "I know you meant well." Then she tries to change the subject by answering his question. "Well, usually the skirt part isn't as long; it goes down to about here," and she gestures to the middle of her shin. "I usually wear white with silver accents because it looks good in the night when I usually perform. They even put bluing powder in the fire so that it reflects nicely," she says, her voice growing a little distant as she recalls the details of her life when it was so much simpler...and safer. "The other women usually wear very bright colors."