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Evening was falling fast in the little tavern located in the middle of town, a nondescript building that would have held no importance except to the few weary travelers that passed through. The lamps were being lit and like a slowly waking beast, life flickered warm and wavering through the windows. But life had long-since overtaken the tavern, uproarious laughter and whooping sweeping out into the street every time the door was shoved open, muted when the door clicked shut.

The inside was rank, but homely enough, all paneled wood and cracked leather. It smelt of so many things that it was hard to place, dust of the road here, spilt ale there - hardly a place for a bar wench let alone a lady. It was there, however, that Vila had chosen to set up house, leaping headfirst into the tousling bodies of men twice her size, her shrill voice rising above the rest. These were the types of places she liked when she felt she needed a little company. Warm, loud, drunken places that smelt strongly of the open road and unhinged lives.

A large glass mug slammed into the edge of table, set square and center in the middle of the room. Vila sneered, leaning her elbow into the worn wood with the utmost inebriated grace imaginable. She swept her skirt aside and made a show of crossing her legs.

"Tha's two outta threeee, coun' 'em shree, matches ye done los', swee'har'. I know thir' time's th'charm n' all tha' rot, but yeh willin' to lose again, Jooonus?" A small hand twirled lazily through the air, counting off her compatriot's losses and her wins - her eyes were already wandering elsewhere, as though bored. Her lips puckered in an impish smile, and she turned towards him again, scooting her chair up with a squeal of wood against wood and she leaned forward conspiratorially.

"How's abou' I throw th'nex' one, eh?" she said in a stage whisper.

Jonas' fist slammed against the table, rattling the glasses congregated there; there was a collective whoop, "No! Once more!"

Vila clapped her hands theatrically and leaned back in her seat, "Ooh! Darlin' says no! Alrigh', s'yo' pockets."

So her hand clapped against this one time-rival's, and relishing the buzzing stupor and the warmth and the callouses of this stranger's hand, Vila commenced in another arm wrestling match, her eyes squinted with glee.

Vila had taken to propping a fist upon a hip during these matches, fingers clenched tightly to keep it from gripping the table for leverage. Her smile, which she had smoothed into a tame smirk, had grown over the course of the bar side battle, a gleaming, sharp-toothed grin; she could feel the coins jangling in her pockets already, hear the cool metal click-click-click musically against one another. Her eyes, bright like mercury, bore into Jonas' - she was feeding off of his discontent, reveling in the doubt she spied lingering in the back of his mind. Oh yes, this match was hers.

She had tuned out the noises in the bar, paid no heed to the catcalls and whistling that cut through the thick air like arrowheads. Vila had heard them when she had walked into the bar, who was to say they weren't for her now, even after carving a niche for herself in this sty. The way the crowd pushed and surged like the sea, the way it parted and came together around its newest arrival went over her head. Her world was right here, right now, and she was going to win it all.

What a... vile, ugly harpy-fornicatress!

Her brow ticked. A wave of incredulity crashed over her head, broke her concentration with an near audible snap. Her grip slipped and Jonas smashed her into the table with a roar.

"Victory!"

What...on earth....

Vila lay sprawled against the table for but a moment, then gripping the edges, she pushed herself up. Several strands of copper hair were blown from her face and slowly, the halfling turned towards this annoyance with a face as calm as the eye of the storm. The burnished feathers running along her arms were beginning to prickle, her tufts lowering.

"'Scuse m'darlin', can' yeh see M'busy wid somethin'?" she asked, voice lethargic, but brittle. In her drunken stupor, she attempted civility. She turned back to her rival and blew the woman off.

"Tha' only stan's," Vila shot back without turning. "If th'person is worth lis'nen to. In th'case, I kin see yeh're full o' hot air an' sh't."

The murmuring in the bar became silence; she pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. Her little Eden had been sabotaged by this savage masquerading as a lady. Her voice was giving her a massive headache. She glowered at the young lady as she cut her way through the crowd, a look that could have sent flames darting back into their wicks. Reaching for her mug, she prayed for the little solace that it offered her.

"I did'no' lose," she snapped, to which Jonas did in fact look over questioningly. Her brow wrinkled as she stabbed the air with her finger, "Yeh came 'long n' dist'red m'concentration, y'hussy."

There was a point in which Vila began to crumble - what point, she couldn't quite remember. Maybe it was when Elegancia had made herself oh-so friendly with the patrons in this hovel-away-from-home. Perhaps it was when she had set her hands on Jonas' shoulders so nonchalantly and the pleased look on his face when she did. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the trickle of laughter that she had been awarded, laughter of which Vila silenced with a glare that meant finality.

But the anger was there, all there, and it bubbled and frothed and roared in her ears. Vila drained her cup and pushed her chair back; the glass tinkled as it was place amidst its brethren.

"Darlin'," she began slowly. She grabbed the edge of the table, "If y'wan'ed to play wid th'big boys so ba'ly, why di'n't y'say so?"

The table was flipped over with a mighty crash, glass flying hither and thither and shattering on the scraped hardwood.

"Oh mah!" Vila threw an arm across her brow and jutted a hip, in the midst of a over-emphasized crumple. She tossed her thick mane of curls back with a bob of her dark shoulders, "Ah'm evah so sorry 'bout tha', darlin'! Din'now mah own strength!"

By this time there had been a cacophony of squealing chairs and thumping as men shoved the furniture back to either get away from the pair, or give the ladies some room. Several of the patrons remembered their own angry wives waiting at home for them, and scrambled for the door. Others, in the midst of the pre-show showdown began to place bets, coins clicking haphazardly on the bar countertop.

Vila's arms fell akimbo, her sharp flight pinions catching against the cheap cotton of her dress. Oh, this girl was a spitfire, wasn't she? Bit of a dragon, thinking she was some sort of lady as uncouth as she was acting. With the alcohol fanning her own idiocy, the Avian propped her lips up in a smile; her eyelids had fallen half-mast.

"Y'base a lo' on wha' men thank, don'ya?" Leaning forward with a tipsy sneer, Vila grabbed onto one of the assorted ribbons of Elegancia's dress and a sound shrrrk was heard as she tore it off, "Show m'etiquette then, toots."

The glimmer caught Vila's eye, but as she leaned forward for a better glimpse at Elegancia's all-too-glittery calves, the parasol caught her hands, knocked them from beneath her and the Avian was sent crashing to the floor. One knee was barely enough to catch her fall. With a grunt, she pushed herself up again and made a belated swipe for the accessory-turned-weapon. Not only could it do damage to you physically, it bruised your ego too, therefore it had to go.

Vila pushed herself into a crouch and reached forward, grabbing Elegancia's ankle. Damning her bruised knees, she stood up and kicked the broken pieces of table and chair out of her path. She turned, "Scales? Whud'are ya? A snake?"

She didn't give her much time to respond before she was dragging her bodily towards the bar; like Moses at the Red Sea, the crowd of men parted before her. Glasses lined the pock-marked counter top. Vila dropped Ele's leg and reached over the lacquered wood, pulled up a half full decanter, and smashed it against the edge of a stool.

"Wan' me to shave 'em off? Make y'look m'normal." Wavering in her stance, she held the broken glass up to the meager light in lethargic pleasure. Oh, yes.