Backdated ~4/4, Dinner Sans Dancing (And that's 'no', not 'skeleton chaperone')

[queenofsalt]

CHARACTERS: Lessa & Loki
DATE: ~April 4th, pre Nalawi islands opening up
WARNINGS: Nah
SUMMARY: Lessa had invited a few people to discuss how to proceed with the problem of a missing fire god. Loki took it and ran.


Lessa was just about done with these trying conversations: most of the people who had responded to her call to action were more interested in poking holes through her various theories and mooching off of Nalawi good will than in attempting to solve their combined task. Even Ramoth, usually a docile golden dragon, was looking a mite bit harried, her usually opalescent eyes whirling with little sparks of orange here and there amid a calm tint of green.

She was ready to wrap up at the inn to take a long, calming walk, but she knew she had one more request for a visit, and frankly after all of this serious defensive positioning, all she wanted to do was eat and let someone else jape for a while. She hoped that Loki of Asgard was as entertaining sober as he was while swinging about on a festival dance floor.

That in mind, while Ramoth guarded the cheese platter (she'd taken a liking to the shark liver pâté, despite the fact that it was neither writhing nor spurting blood) Lessa could be found near the innkeep's counter, ordering wine and passing over a few shells that counted as currency in this world.

Better to loosen the brain to conjure up new ideas, too, she told herself. She expected that the process of tolerating Loki would be made easier if she was not entirely sober, herself.

Comments

[selfimage]

Their missions always left a sour taste in Loki's mouth.

While some aspects of multiversal travel sat well with him (as he didn't favor returning to Asgard at the moment), others remained painfully irritating. There were always more questions than answers, and even as someone who had traveled through mayfly dimensions, he had been ignorant to ALASTAIR's presence. Fate and destiny, and the interior of the so-called mechanical room were in the forefront of his mind, the mission ticking away in the gears behind it. It was the slim line between choice and its opposing force. He didn't really like being the opposing force.

Loki comes through the door with quiet footsteps and an dramatic billow of his jacket.

"Hail," he says it in such a poetic tone that it makes up for the low volume of his voice. "Lady Lessa the Weyrwoman. All appropriate tidings extended, of course." He's dressed differently from when she last saw him, the less dress is replaced with more, and the hat with a diadem fashioned with two golden horns. The jacket, green and fur-lined, is ostentatious enough to capture patron attention, even if it's for a brief moment.

"You've made yourself at home." His eyes go to the dragon with a cant of his head, as if he were offering a silent greeting, before he turns back to her. "Both of you."

[queenofsalt]

"Appropriate to the situation at hand, of course," she replies, having turned to catch the ostentation for all that it was worth. Now that is about as much as an entrance as someone is going to get without beating up dust and sand and scaring the stuffing out of those who've never sat astride a dragon.

In this under-sized Inn, it's so much larger than life that Less has to strain to keep her smile genuine. There's no way he can't know he's being a multi-dimensional diva.

Ramoth, on the other hand, eats it up. She extends her wings wide enough to challenge the man for position of most dramatic, and if Loki is capable of catching psychic voices, he might even hear, Not bad, for a green, before Ramoth curls up a little tighter and rests her snout delicately over a paw.

"We haven't had much of a choice," Lessa tells him, darting a glance Ramoth's way just as he had. "With access to other islands cut off and repairs underway at most of the other buildings, there are few enough places to gather. The accommodations are as cramped as a drudge's cheese room, and as fragrant at times, but if ALASTAIR is forcing us to call it home, home it will have to be. I'm putting a petition in for a world of mountain aeries, wherever we're to go next."

Aimless chatter, and she knows it, and usually she'd probably disdain it, but Lessa's been feeling stymied by their combined lack of progress. She brings a bottle and sets it near the orb of glowing obsidian that lights her table, then proceeds to clear sheaves of paper and old hides (unbeknownst to her, made of cat) into a tidy pile to make space for his fanciness. "Care to stoop?" The chairs here are not necessarily human sized, even for one as diminutive as Lessa.

[selfimage]

There's a faint snort, as if in reply. He's no stranger to psychic voices, not when every sorcerer and mutant has a good knack for it. Instead he cants his head in recognition, raising a brow and looking faintly amused at the brief display of draconic glamor. (Different from the other he'd met in Dany's presence, and different from the one that supposedly came from his loins back in Asgard—supposedly.

"You really want me to fall on my butt," says the six foot tall, four hundred fifty pound Asgardian. "I haven't had a good sit since I've arrived. Though I could just take a load off and let ALASTAIR take care of the bill." He does, however, head closer to her collection of writings. "I suppose that's what happens when they don't see you coming." His words are absent, said mostly to himself.

Rudely, he picks up the nearest paper from the neat little pile and stretches it between dark finger nails for a look.