OOM: The Dancing Dove
It’s relatively dark in the cellar of the Dancing Dove, when they step through the door from Milliways. George offers an silent prayer of thanks to the Crooked God, that the cellar is empty. As soon as Penelope steps through, he closes the door behind them - lest any sounds from the Bar travel to the tavern upstairs ( Read more... )
But then, even if they had seen, who among them would dare question the Rogue?
And as he’d be seen exiting the cellar with a young woman .. well. Best not to dwell on it.
Several tables are occupied with thieves, all of whom look to him in deference as he enters.
“Yer majesty..” is mumbled from several different directions.
He acknowledges them with a nod, then turns to Penelope.
“Dinner down here? Or upstairs?”
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This place isn't terribly different from the Three Broomsticks or the Leaky Cauldron, really-- except for the whole lack-of-magic business. Not to mention that everyone's addressing George as if he were (still) royalty.
Which is disconcerting.
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He realizes suddenly - and not without a little chagrin - that its been quite some time since he was last seen in the company of a woman that wasn't Alanna, Rispah or his mother.
"Well, if you don't mind being the centre of attention?.."
He grins.
"...then we can eat down here. Otherwise, I'd suggest upstairs."
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The dress is supposed to help her blend in, but she hardly feels very blended at the moment.
"I think," she says slowly, "that ... at least for now, it might be a good idea for me to be someplace where I won't raise any eyebrows if I, um. Get something wrong."
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"Aye, yer majesty." Olin is one of those thin, wiry fellows. Deceptively frail looking, something he plays constantly to his own advantage. George has seen him in a fight. He knows after all the dust had settled, Olin is the only one that walked away.
Even with the time that has passed since Jon's coronation, it still pains him to look around the Dove and see so many people missing. Roark is there. And so are a few of the others. But most of his inner circle are gone.
He motions Penelope to the stairs.
As they reach the top of the stairs - a loud wolf-whistle can be heard.
And his mood lightens.
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She glances up sharply at the wolf-whistle, looks around suspiciously ... then gives up and looks to George.
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He can't help but grin at her expression.
"See, now this is why I recommended we eat above-stairs."
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"Well, my plan's ruined. I was hoping no one would notice me."
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He sticks the key in the lock, waits for the soft light of the glyph to glow, then turns the key. The lock clicks and releases and he opens the door.
"Call me biased - but that would be difficult to arrange. Someone as pretty as you are, is bound to draw some attention..."
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"I just mean, in case I get something wrong." She gestures down at her dress. "It'd be a bit suspicious, wouldn't it?"
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"Never you fear. If anyone noticed anything amiss, I'd simply tell them you were a traveler from some far-off land. Most of the thieves here have never even left the city in the lives - let alone the country. I'd spin them some story and fix it. That is, if they questioned me at all."
He grins wolfishly.
"Old habits die hard. Most of the folk downstairs know better than to question me."
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She steps through the door, taking in the room-- its neatness, richly textured rugs, the windows to the street ... these latter catch her attention, and she gazes out curiously.
"Oh ..."
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"... what do you think?"
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"Oh-- it's lovely. Is it ... yours?"
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