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 Posted: Tue May 24, 2011 2:22 am
Roadkill A roleplay featuring Wickwright Finch and his plague, Hopkin, Dragomir Meschke and his plague, Chayele, and Maeve LaChance and her plague, a perpetually dirtied strip of gauze. The setting is an alehouse in a tiny town in Shyregoad near which Wickwright's wagon has been stranded. The time of day is late evening and the weather is rainy.
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"The good news is that they have a bed for us," Wickwright announced to his drenched companions as he went back to the arduous task of wringing the water out of his robes, "Unfortunately, it is only a bed. On the floor. In the kitchen."
The company was soaking, but it wasn't because of the rain. Wickwright's cart had overturned when lightning struck a tree nearby and scared Tristram before they could find shelter. Tristram had run, wagon in tow, and he had run right into a pond. The travelers had fallen out in the crash, though Wickwright had been able to save what possessions he deemed important- Hopkin and his writing supplies. The rest of it would have to get wet until they could find help or morning came. An old man, a skinny whelp, and a couple of excitos weren't going to be able to move the damned wagon on their own.
Hopkin, who already had a bed of his own that Wickwright carried around his shoulder, seemed largely unconcerned with the bad news, more eager to be peering around at the people in this alehouse, curious to see what was going on. The writing materials had been saved, and that was the only matter of importance concerning their crash in Hopkin's mind. He did not particularly care for Tristram after the trip he spent hiding in the ox's mouth, and the rest of the cart was important, but not so much as writing. He needed the writing supplies to teach Chayele Meschke anyway, a process which was painfully and frustratingly slow. It had been two days already and she still didn't understand, making Hopkin confused. How could anyone not understand writing? Was everyone this slow?
"That is acceptable to me," he replied to Wickwright absentmindedly. "Who will help us with our situation?"
"Maybe we can find someone here," Wickwright murmured, glancing around at the patrons of the alehouse as he shook his sleeves dry. "Fancy place like a tavern would be less likely, but there's bound to be someone desperate enough to spare us a few rain soaked hours around here, hm?"
"So you saved more money than you used to get the bed, then," Hopkin replied, relieved despite himself. There was no hurry to get the wagon back, but Hopkin wanted to be sure they could get it. He was born there and the newness of this place made it interesting, but the wagon was home.
Wickwright paused. "Ah," he hesitated, biting his lip, "I believe you've found the flaw in our plan, my little devil."
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Posted: Tue May 24, 2011 11:12 am
Dragomir did not like being wet. He swore that he had established this with the Gods at some previous point in time, but here he was again, dripping from head to toe, with a wailing plague at his waist. He'd managed to wrap her in his wet shirt, further upsetting her - but her cries were so tiny that they were impossible to be heard; this was, to be quite honest, quite alright with Dragomir. "A bed on the floor in the kitchen, eh?" He raised an eyebrow; whatever misgivings he'd had about going with him were now both dispelled and proved - he'd been dumped in a lake by a terrified ox at an almost unholy hour but he felt in better spirits that he was no longer wasting away in bed.
Chayele was not just sad because she was wet - something she too hated - but because she felt rather plain and slow and simple, as Dragomir had always called her. Hopkin had not shown much of his frustration but tone was dreadfully important to the little girl and it sounded as though he thought it was impossible to teach her something he said was simple. She didn't find it simple and he could tell and it frustrated him. Maybe it was simple, after all, and she was just too slow to get it, like Dragomir had said. The thought made her want to curl up in Dragomir's shirt and become a part of the cloth so that she wouldn't have to look at him and disappoint him again. She was wailing quietly so that she didn't have to be heard; she was nowhere at the top of her lungpower and Dragomir knew it as much as she did.
Dragomir, ignoring the wailing as he listened to Wickwright speak, reached in the pocket in which his money rested, also soaking wet - it didn't matter, he supposed, since it was coins, but it muted the soft jingle of them. "No money?" He stepped up, firming his grip on Chayele so that she didn't get free and cause more chaos than she was worth, "I can help. I thought we might need something - I just didn't think it'd be someone to get us back on track." He snorted softly, then pulled out the coins and offered Wickwright enough of a glimpse to see - it wasn't a lot, but it wasn't a pittance either; Dragomir, on the occasion he had a place to work, did so with drive simply because that also meant he was capable of earning coins with which to furnish his place with useless items.
"Now then," he breathed softly, to himself mostly, thinking. "I'm not sure if we have enough to convince anyone to help us rightly..."
He paused, then, in a soft but conspiratorial tone, "Shall I be your youngest son or your but-a-boy grandson, Wickwright..? I think we could play a sympathy card easily -- the drowned family in desperate need of assistance with their last few, drenched coins -- don't you?"
Dragomir, for his part, did rather resemble a drowned street rat, with the way his hair fell into his face and his large clothes soaked to his small frame, revealing his thinness clearly.
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Posted: Thu May 26, 2011 11:44 am
The Silver Thimble was not exactly the most bustling of places. A small alehouse in a small town in the middle of the night in the rain did not equate to success. However, there was Maeve sitting at the bar -- the place she had been for the past few hours. She came in to get away from the rain and find herself a job. Maeve only managed to accomplish one of those things. Lifting up her mug of ale was on the verge of comical; it seemed so large compared to her small hand. Her expression stayed neutral as she set it down, occasionally she peered into it as if it would give her an answer to something.
Looking for answers in ale came to a stop when footsteps hit the floor. Maeve glanced over her shoulder and saw two (rather soggy) men enter the alehouse. She hadn't realized it had been raining so fiercely. It was a good thing she came in hours ago, she supposed. They began to talk amongst themselves, and the mercenary fully turned around on her stool to look at the two. Being able to see them would make eavesdropping somehow easier. Aha, travelers. Not locals. Plans began to sweep through Maeve's mind. She caught one important key word: help. Opportunity had struck.
"You two," she raised her voice, but was all most monotone. Maeve raised up from her seat and hopped off of it delicately. Approaching Wickwright and Dragomir, she stopped herself five feet short of them. Her rapier rested at her hip in plain view as she spoke. "Are you in need of help?"
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Posted: Thu May 26, 2011 12:08 pm
Wickwright looked surprised for a second as Meschke procured money of his own- he had quite forgotten that other people were able to procure money when he might need it, an unfortunate side effect of living alone all his life. He always forgot he wasn't alone, even if he was traveling with a caravan. "Well, that's a bit of luck at least," he muttered, but there wasn't much, Meschke was right, at least not for dragging a wagon out of a forest in a storm at night. He bit back a laugh at Meschke's suggestion, more expecting that kind of ploy from Arelgren than his serious friend. "Son, if you will," he murmured back. "I'm not so old yet that you could pass as my grandson, thank you." He pushed Hopkin back into his hiding place as the excito leaned out from the book bag, trying to hear what they were whispering. "Anyway, let us-"
He turned around to find himself facing a woman and said "Beg pardon," shifting to move past her until she spoke.
"You two. Are you in need of help?"
Wickwright turned back to glance at the woman. Intimidating enough for what she was, but still just a chit of a girl and, his eyes didn't miss the somewhat loosely dangling sleeve, missing an arm it seemed. Hardly useful to their purpose. Still, it didn't hurt to ask if she knew anyone who could help. "Yes, my ox bolted and my wagon is stuck in the forest. We need someone to help us retrieve the ox and the wagon. Do you know of anyone?" That was it. She was probably trying to find business for an associate, maybe her husband. Wickwright felt absurd to have thought she was offering herself in the first place.
In his bag, Hopkin sighed and tried to peek through the crack, but all he could see of the person offering was the strange sleeve. He smiled to himself. Maybe this person was properly flat? He wondered if they were pleasing and scrambled a little harder to see, only to have Wickwright slap the bag and send him tumbling back to the bottom. He peeked up a little more carefully and wondered if Chayele Meschke could perhaps see better. Now that he felt safe again, the book bag had become a terrible hassle to him once more.
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Posted: Thu May 26, 2011 1:07 pm
"Mm." He nodded; son it would be though. He blinked when the women came over and also shifted out of her way, hoping she would go - he blinked in surprise when she didn't and his eyes too caught on the missing arm before smiling. It was, strangely enough, a nice smile. Gentle. Warm. It made his eyes lighter than they were normally and it made him seem personable and kind. It all but burned his face off. He approached Wickwright from the side, standing half behind him as though giving him - his father, after all - the respect to speak first and deal with this individual woman. In reality, it was to give him cover to deal with Chayele; the girl had sprung to life when the woman spoke to them -- she wanted to see who was speaking. But Dragomir couldn't allow her to pop out; revealing he had a plague when he was looking for help didn't seem like it was the most intelligent of ideas, so he waited until he thought he could get away with it, unrolled the shirt, keeping her in his palm as much as he could, then all but threw her into his pocket. Once she was sitting at the bottom, pouting, he found her flat of her head and thwapped her on it with one finger as firmly as he could without fearing he'd knock what little sense she had loose from between her horns.
Dragomir looked up at the one armed woman now that Chayele was officially settled in his pocket. He smiled again and placed one hand lightly on Wickwright's arm, still using the other man's body as a cover in case Chayele tried to make a break for it, something she was quite notorious for. "Y-yes, any help would be a-appreciated..." He murmured in a soft voice, allowing his hair to stay in his eyes this time.
Acting bored him but he couldn't say that he wasn't good at it; years of being a simpering, pathetic fool were good for something. "W-we have a little, if they ... n-need something." He looked down at the coins in his hand, then up at her, sheepishly. Anxiously, he shifted from foot to foot, as though he were worried about something.
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Posted: Fri May 27, 2011 10:21 am
Maeve set her hand on her hip, elbow out, as she listened to the older man speak. She did not lean, however, and stood quite still and straight.
"Do you know of anyone?"
How expected. How typical, really. A woman (especially a one-armed woman) was surely not capable of aiding someone with such a task. Maeve had to deal with this type of thing so often that it did not even phase her anymore. She'd have to prove herself in some way to this man to convince him that she was worth his coin.
Then, another voice popped up from behind the man-- a much younger and stuttering man. Well, Maeve wasn't sure to call him a man; he seemed like a boy. This boy was also completely drenched like the man, but he seemed ten times more pathetic. Part of her wanted to be sympathetic, yet her face did not change. It was business and hopefully this business would help her get out of this small town to somewhere with even more business. Finally, talks of money began.
"I am offering my help and not someone else's." Maeve blinked, raising up her hand to move hair that escaped from her braid out of her face. She'd have to take a gamble. "You can pay me half now and the other half after I've completed my work." Maeve looked straight at Wickwright, determining that Dragomir was definitely not the one to decide in this situation. "If I cannot help you I will return the money that you've all ready given me." Her tone was very straight-forward and did not waver as she spoke. Maeve did not break eye contact with Wickwright as she awaited a response.
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Posted: Sat May 28, 2011 1:53 pm
Wickwright coughed. "Well, that's quite an offer, certainly," he admitted hesitantly. However, though she could give them back their money, she couldn't give them back their time, and he didn't want to waste any. It was his wagon out there in the rain and his ox wandering around and he wanted them back as soon as possible. He didn't have time to try to help a crippled woman feel useful. "We'll, uh..."
"We do need your help." said his bag, glad that a properly flat person was offering. People that were the right shape seemed inherently more trustworthy to Hopkin. If this flat person helped them, Hopkin might get to get a good look at them, and he was terribly keen on doing so. He had seen skinny people, but even the skinniest all had worrying heft to them that the characters in his dream world had eliminated the need for.
Wickwright froze and coughed violently into his hands, a reaction that was practically instinctive after a few months with his talkative burden of a Plague. When he looked up, there was a bright, somewhat glassy smile spread across his face. "So we'll take it. Brilliant! Just... Just brilliant." He slapped his bag heartily and coughed again as an "Oof," came from it. "Can you think of any reason why we shouldn't, my boy?" he asked a tad desperately, looking at Meschke.
"No," replied his bag obediently.
Wickwright coughed again. "No-t that I can, but I'm not you."
The bag was silent for a moment, confused. "No, you're my-"
"BOY, alright. You're my boy." Wickwright finished. He turned to Maeve and smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, I have a slight cold after our little excursion." Shaking his wet sleeves again for illustration, he grabbed his bag and added, "I'm old and susceptible to disease, I fear, but at least I still have enough wits about me to know when I'm being spoken to." He patted his bag again for emphasis. "Others aren't so lucky as I am."
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Posted: Mon May 30, 2011 7:11 pm
Dragomir watched as Wickwright took up explaining; as a son, he knew he had to let Wickwright speak first and so more than willingly stayed quiet, deferential to him at his elbow. Then, of course, Hopkin started talking. His arms tensed up immediately as though he could help, when he knew he could not; instead, his hand went back into his pocket and held tightly onto Chayele, making sure that she had not moved a single inch and it was as if he feared she would suddenly gain a voice and start speaking as loudly as her small lungs would allow her.
He kept a grip on her though and waited for her to stop wiggling, almost urgently, because he didn't want to risk this getting any more suspicious than it already had -- any more and their new female companion was very likely to notice that people who weren't physically there were speaking. When it ended, when Wickwright was flailing at the end, Dragomir stepped in and patted Wickwright on the shoulder. "Yes, of c-course, Father.." The lie came off easily, even affectionately, as if he really was Dragomir's father. "I know that the cold was hard on you." He grimaced. "M-me too, remember."
Dragomir shifted behind Wickwright a little, giving Maeve a look around his arm - he'd have done it over him, if Wickwright weren't so goddamn tall - as if to ask her to have patience with his aging father's rambling, worry creasing his brow as he looked over at his face and patted his shoulder as if to help with the coughs that Wickwright had been facing. Though he could act and hopefully ease any suspicion she might have gained, he couldn't come up with an answer quick enough to decline Maeve the job. His fingers tightened on the coins, regretting that he would be releasing them to anyone, but he smiled at her and shook his head. "I-If you're alright with it, F-Father, I am as well."
Chayele was confused. She was pretty certain that Dragomir and Wickwright were not father and child and they both sounded quite nervous; Hopkin was making odd noises in Wickwright's bag and she was worried, she wanted to see him and she wanted to see who was talking. Dragomir's hand was holding her in place though and she wriggled discontentedly, wanting out.
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Posted: Fri Jun 03, 2011 11:21 am
She quirked a brow. The older man needing help suddenly seemed a bit... off. Hesitant, all most to the point of being strained, she noted. Maeve supposed it was because that she was the one offering help, but hoped for the best all the same. Even if it wasn't a lot of money, it was certainly something and a something that she needed. Silently worrying to herself, but appearing rather neutral outwardly, Maeve adjusted her stance.
"We do need your help."
He was off. It came out of nowhere and she wasn't sure why exactly he had changed his mind, but she was not about to question good fortune. He did seem sick, what with the coughing, and smiling. That was a strange change in demeanor. Hesitance, horrible coughing, and then a smile of acceptance. The man said something about a cold and Maeve just nodded once to confirm it. She'd accept illness for his bizarre behavior at the moment. Still had enough wits, right.
His son was equally just as strange, she feared. His hand kept wandering back to his pocket and it stayed this time, as if it held something important. It must've been more money, or something valuable. Maeve didn't think she looked like a thief, but people being untrusting seemed better than people eager to trust. She motioned to Dragomir, "I have no intention of robbing you of anything. You don't need to clutch so tightly to your other money in your pocket." She was, however, eager to accept the money that was all ready out in the open and in his hand.
Maeve held out her hand, palm up. "Half now, and we can begin in the morning." She looked over the two men again; they were in no shape to go out in the dark and in the rain-- they were all ready soaking. "You both will have been well rested by then, yes?" She asked in a more sincere tone. Ah, that was right. Maeve shook her head. "Forgive me for being rude. My name is Maeve LaChance and it is good to make your acquaintance."
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Posted: Sat Jun 04, 2011 10:03 pm
Wickwright raised his hands. "All is forgiven, I'm afraid that in our present state we fail to present the best impression either." She had accepted their explanation it seemed, or at least she wasn't asking questions about it, and for that, he was grateful to whatever god Jawbone Men prayed to. Truth, maybe, or something like it. It was hard to address hopes to a bone. "My name is Wickwright Finch, and this is my boy, Me- Dragomir." He clenched his teeth as he said the words, offspring were a delicate subject in the tortured Finch family. "It is a pleasure to meet you and receive your, um, help, but I must insist that the first half be paid in the morning before we leave. You know we have the money and though I'm sure you're a decent lass, I'm not quite ready to part with half our money and then go to sleep for the night and leave anyone alone with it. Can you wait a night? If not, we can seek help elsewhere and I thank you for your pains."
He was putting them at risk- they didn't know if anyone else would be so inclined to help them. But if they had to sleep on the situation anyway, he wasn't too keen to go hiring someone right away, let alone this one armed chit of a girl. If she couldn't wait, it would at least leave them free to seek someone who at least had the right number of limbs. "I give you my word that we will not leave in the night, if our bedraggled appearances aren't enough of a promise. My wagon is nearby, even if we were well, we could not leave it any farther than it is while we go in search of help."
In the book bag, Hopkin fretted. Dragomir Meschke had already called Wickwright 'Father' not once, but two times, twice! Hopkin was most agitated at this outright untruth. Dragomir Meschke was very lovely, and thus he wanted to be liked by Dragomir Meschke, however, Dragomir Meschke was not from a Jawbone family, and pretending to be was well nigh sacrilegious. The more he said it, the more distraught Hopkin got, until finally he blurted out "No!" as Wickwright called Dragomir Meschke his boy. "That is incorrect," he added, quietly and sadly. The wagon was gone and now Dragomir Meschke was Wickwright's son and he wasn't sure because Wickwright had comfirmed it, but previously Wickwright had said he had no son, and so had Feilim Finch, who was a Finch boy whereas Dragomir Meschke was a Meschke boy. What overruled what? Wickwright's most recent word? Wickwright's first word? Dragomir Meschke's word as a pretty thing versus Feilim Finch's as a Finch boy? Possessed by a tangled web of thoughts, Hopkin laid his head down on a quill that Wickwright had managed to save and stared at the leather interior of the book bag, no longer preoccupied with the mystery of their flat friend. Now he simply wanted Wickwright to explain, and the longer they spent talking to the flat person, the longer that ws put off. Hopkin did not think it possible to resent someone so perfectly flat, but found himself beginning to, pursing his mouth into a thin, white line of light.
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Posted: Thu Jun 16, 2011 4:18 pm
His pale cheeks coloured almost instantly at her admission of no ill intent - at least not where robbing was concerned. "I didn't assume you would.." He murmured quietly, though his hand did not stray from his pocket.
No, he didn't at all fear this woman stealing what was in his pocket; he could hardly fathom who in their right mind would ever want her. Chayele, as if aware that she was the topic of conversation and not Dragomir's other pocket, struggled and squirmed in earnest, wanting free more than she wanted her life.
As if it were nothing, his hand grasped her nonchalantly and gripped her, while Dragomir's other hand went lightly to his shoulder, not giving a firm hand but not shying away from the contact either; contact was sort of blase to Dragomir, it wasn't something he did often but it also didn't enter his mind as something that might be considered taboo by other people. "Yes, please, Madam, we can give you it tomorrow morning, but I must confess that I would sleep much sounder holding onto the money than not. I - I hope that this doesn't bother you..."
Because, as Wickwright said, Dragomir would rather risk having to find someone else than give his money away; he did not trust this woman's word, no more than he had to -- and it was his money, something he wasn't truly comfortable with giving away anyway. He tried to smile and it came out as nervous as he was beginning to feel.
For a moment, his hand went to his hair and he smoothed it back, feeling somewhat relieved by the simple, familiar motion. This, however, meant that he let Chayele go. What felt like eight years too late, his hand returned to his pocket and squished her back to the bottom. Made much more uncomfortable by the fact that he'd forgotten the most important and damning item on his person, the arm with the money crossed his body and tucked itself under the other one; almost instantly, Dragomir was closed off and remote, his eyes flashing downwards.
He stood there, dripping and cold, and thought of bed. How he wished he could just go now, but he couldn't leave now -- not unless Wickwright excused them; he didn't have the authority, masquerading as his son, to do that. Frustrated, but only slightly, he blew his bangs out of his face.
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Posted: Sun Jul 03, 2011 7:43 am
Maeve swore she heard someone shout "no!". A quick glance around the alehouse proved futile. She just couldn't tell who said it-- maybe she was hearing things, but she didn't think she was tired. More oddities. The woman decided it was best to ignore it for now (just like the other things).
Her hand withdrew back to her side as Wickwright spoke. Of course, that'd make sense. "Then, Mister Finch and.. Dragomir, you should go rest." She winced slightly looking them over once more. "And please dry off. You should not get sick." Sick and weak clients, after all, would be just more of a hassle. Not to mention that they might whine, and Maeve would not be having any of that.
Albeit strange, Maeve had found a job. It was good enough for her. That's right. Think positively.
She bowed her head a bit to the two. "I do not care if you give me the money later as long as I get the money." When the conversation seemed through enough, Maeve turned back around on her heel, returning to her bar stool. Couldn't let something she paid for go to waste.
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Posted: Mon Jul 04, 2011 11:12 pm
"Goodnight," Wickwright offered to Maeve's retreating back. The woman was no Alae. No time for jabber, not even to employers, and gruff, like a man. He supposed that if she was working for a living, she had to be. It was strange to see people missing limbs, and strange to see women taking odd jobs, so Wickwright filed it away in his mind as something to enquire about, but not at the moment, because, strange or not, woman or not, she was right; Sleeping in the dry came first. He quirked a grin at the thought of it- did he really have the right to worry about his health while carrying the plague in his satchel? His aching limbs said yes, so for once, Wickwright shoved his wit aside in order to listen to his body. Now was not the time for action so much as it was the time for sleep. Tristram would not go far, and the wagon had nothing in it that he would miss, nor anything that would be of much value to thieves. The good thing about being a destitute mendicant was that what little you did have, no one else wanted, and thus, Wickwright could sleep easy.
But not for long. Though sleep came easy, it did not stay, and his limbs, which had been complaining about being wet and tired, were soon creaking from sleeping on a kitchen floor. Wickwright found himself reluctantly rising before sunrise, forced to admit that he was getting a little too old for his lifestyle. If his book wasn't a Plague, he would have talked to O'Neill about retirement by now instead of about ultimatums. As it was, he couldn't retire until his work was complete, uncomfortable distractions and all. Meschke was still asleep on the floor, blissfully oblivious to the discomfort of their situation due to the resilience of his youth. Looking at him sleeping so soundly thoroughly annoyed Wickwright, but he managed to stew quietly in his jealousy for a full hour until he nudged his companion insistently awake.
"Come on, son," said the Jawbone Man drily, "Time to face the day."
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Posted: Mon Jul 25, 2011 12:02 am
Dragomir stayed quiet as she left and slowly released his steel grip on Chayele, letting the girl worm around in his pocket and fight to stretch out comfortably. Apparently because he no longer needed to restrain her and keep her from popping out so a perfect stranger wouldn't discover a Plague on his person, she no longer had the desire to get free. He sighed, irritatedly, and let her lounge around. However, as the woman walked away he was forced to follow Wickwright into the kitchen and to where they would be sleeping for the night; most unfortunately, his limbs, no matter how young and limber they might have happened to be compared to Wickwright's, did not approve of sleeping on the floor either and so he took quite a long while to settle down as well.
Unlike his companion, however, when he fell asleep, he fell asleep. He slept soundly until Wickwright nudged him awake as if he were a demon sent to ruin Dragomir's every joy in life (the man rather did love his sleeping, who could fault him?). Chayele, who had decided the best place to sleep was folded up against her Grimm's chest, tumbled out of his now dry shirt and squeaked loudly.
Dragomir was appropriately mortified that his plague was, once again, showing herself off to the world when that could very well get him killed; he quickly shoved her in his pocket and stood up, stretching lazily. "Mmh." He yawned following that incredibly eloquent statement, and stretched his back, listening to the faint crackle of his back and feeling a sense of relief, as though some built up pressure had released itself. He absently patted his pocket in a sign of good will towards Chayele, further proving that he was in a damn good mood after popping his back. "Ah.. Of course, Father.." The last word was punctuated with a yawn and he closed his eyes and shook his head, finally awakening fully. "Shall we see if the woman is up? Maeve, was it?" The night prior was a little hazy - more like blurred together, really, since everything after getting wet was just so generally shitty he piled it into one formless memory blob.
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Posted: Mon Jul 25, 2011 9:12 am
Maeve was assuredly awake, and she had been for a while now. She sat, knees up, against one of the posts holding up the roof outside. Her rapier stayed right at her side, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The mercenary stared out at nothing in particular as she waited for her two clients, but that was all right. The rain had lifted from the night prior, and it was looking to be a much better day. Perhaps now that they would not be soggy messes they would be more comprehendible. Maeve was close to doubting this.
Ah, sounds of stirring were coming from the alehouse. With a small grunt, Maeve stood up and rolled her shoulders. The earlier they could get a move on the better. She reattached her sword to her belt, and went back into the alehouse, taking up her previous stool. This seemed like a better place to wait for them. God knows what they would think if they came out and she was nowhere to be seen. However, Maeve would not speak or call out to them. They would come out when they were ready, and hopefully that would be soon.
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