Shirley ♕ 001

[truailligh]

Who: truailligh and ilpromenade
What: Checking out her place of solace/trying to get back on an even keel
Where: Her place of solace
When: Day
Warnings: Maybe some language? Oh and misbehaving jukebox

Comments

[showmeshinies]

Music. The sound came to his ears from several streets away. Jarlaxle cocked his head and listened for a moment. It didn't sound like anything that would be coming out of the place he was looking for, but the new sound intrigued him. He followed the noise through the busy streets, winding his way inconspicuously in and out of the daytime crowd to the source

[truailligh]

With the music playing and with her so absorbed in her cleaning, she didn't hear the stranger when he came in and she jumped in surprise, stopping what she was doing as she looked the newcomer up and down. She hadn't really talked to anyone face to face since her arrival; even the people in her house had been kept at a distance as she tried to piece together what she could but it would do her good to talk and maybe attempt to make friends.

She almost snorted to herself. Friends wasn't something she'd been particularly good at but punters at the pub had always managed to get on relatively well with her and so she smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear absent-mindedly. Whatever this person happened to be would be new to her - she hadn't seen anyone like that at all when the pub had been back where it belonged in London.

"Hello," she finally said, composure more or less recovered, smiling at the...whatever-it-was in the doorway, "I'm Shirley, welcome to Alea Iacta Est, magically relocated by some means from London to Promenade."

[showmeshinies]

Magically, hmm? Jarlaxle approached the bar (making sure to let his boots and assortment of bright jewelry jingle naturally) once she had recovered her composure, eyes on the alluring woman before him. She was certainly a thing of beauty, as he found most women to be. He tilted his head slightly, and offered her a smile that held just the right hint of confusion. "I am Jarlaxle." The drow swept his hat off his head and across the floor in a low bow better suited to a prince than a dark elf clad in adventuring clothes. The movement revealed his bald head and long, pointed ears that were covered with piercings.

"You'll have to pardon me," he said. "I have no idea what 'London' is. Is that the name of the place you're from?"

Jarlaxle watched her face closely, red eyes looking for any physical indications that she might be lying to him. He was well-trained in such things and wary of any potential enemy spies. With the ball finally rolling on gathering information, he could not afford any mistakes.

[truailligh]

Someone was certainly resplendent and Jarlaxle had just won himself more than a few style points with a self-confessed fashionista although there was a certain quality to it that seemed more suited to something out of a fantasy film or maybe something historical if it was veering close to the wind, playing fast and loose with the facts. The ears gave an eyebrow raise and part of her mind said elf but elves had always been pale and slender with L'Oreal worthy hair that seemed impractical for a race so associated with archery of all the things. At least she had a name. Jarlaxle. Nope, no help in trying to secure an origin though but she was already starting to become used to that and it hadn't even been a week yet in ths stupid city with its ridiculous set of rules for day and night

[showmeshinies]

It was going to take awhile to get used to hearing the names of all these strange places. He smiled charmingly at her and slid into a stool at the bar. Thus far, he liked this 'Shirley', a liking which only grew as she offered him a drink

[truailligh]

"I'll be back in a moment," she promised as soon as he finished speaking, lifting the cellar door to disappear down and thank Nuada, the torch was still in the same place it always was so she wasn't about to break her neck in the pitch black by tripping over something in her heels. While she didn't know much about wine, the cellar was organised in such a way as to make it easier to find the drinks that the more distinguished (read: practically ancient) clients favoured and she dusted off a suitable looking bottle. Going down to the cellar allowed her a little additional time to think without worrying about keeping a neutral expression on her face and her initial suspicions had been right; she'd never heard of where he was from at all, not even in passing or looking through some of the more ancient tomes that she and Cassandra had taken the opportunity to peruse

[showmeshinies]

As Shirley slipped down into the cellar, the drow took the opportunity to silently do a quick once-over of the place using his divination wands and other magical devices, hoping to gain some kind of insight into it such as how it was moved. Nothing came through on his spells, however, and with a sigh, he realized that if he wanted to learn anything else, he would have to drag Gromph here. The old Archmage likely would not enjoy it, and the music would have him complaining the whole time, no doubt. If anything were to be learned from the places of solace, however, his brother would have to just suck it up and deal with it - not that he would dare to say that to his face

[truailligh]

At most, the only real magic that stayed around the pub focussed mostly on the jukebox and the cash register, the latter of which was remaining quiet for now and Shirley didn't trust the damn thing at all. Sooner or later it would shoot open, just as she was leaning forward most likely, knocking the breath out of her and leaving an ugly bruise. She hadn't even cast a strong cosaint yet

[showmeshinies]

She was certainly rather free with her information, and it made him slightly uneasy. Jarlaxle suspected it was either his friendly posture and appearance or the fact that they had something in common by being brought here against their will that made her tongue so loose. He prayed it wasn't a natural thing, else how would he find out if she was willing to use this bar to fulfill his own designs? His long, black fingers, clad in fabulous gold and silver rings that any king would be envious of, tap-tapped on the bar as he considered how best to approach this. On the one hand, bars were some of the best places to get information. That was something universally known, he suspected. By that same logic, however, this would be a place that their Hosts would likely watch closely for that same reason. Did he dare take his chances attempting to recruit her? The people he had met with had agreed to keep the group to just themselves for now, but Jarlaxle had never been one to play by the rules. If he could extend his own network here safely, it

[truailligh]

If Jarlaxle had been a woman, specifically an older woman, he wouldn't have found Shirley nearly as friendly and chatty; blame the banshee power for that odd quirk that extended to those who were nothing to do with the blood.

"Saturday is the the first day of the weekend; Monday through Friday are the horrible working days of the week, Saturday and Sunday make up the weekend but half a tenday sounds just about right." So the other buildings she'd seen on her brief trips out and about were full of others who'd been inexplicably brought here against their will. "I've not really spoken much to my housemates yet bar one or two but I don't think any of them are from the same place as me or if they are, there are some very striking differences." Something that baffled, annoyed and worried her in equal measures, keeping her up at night trying to make sense of it. She needed a library with a nice stack of dusty old books to pore over even if that would remind her of other times spent doing that

[showmeshinies]

So the humans where she lived spent only five days out of seven working. Quite frankly, that sounded like a marvelous idea, having two days out of seven to sit back and rest. Jarlaxle had never been so lucky, save for when he was adventuring. He enjoyed his job though, and so didn't really mind. With Kimmuriel in a position to take over whenever he needed a break, Jarlaxle was fine working ten tendays in a row if need be

[truailligh]

"Magical," she clarified and held out her wrists, tilting them in the light that filtered through until the faint silver markings became just about visible; on the left a horse shoe facing towards her and on the right a pentagram. "Scáth," she nodded towards the right wrist, "and cosaint. Scáth means shade or protection, it's for hiding myself or an object. Cosaint is safeguard and it wards a building." It wouldn't hurt to let him know that; it wasn't as if he would know about the blood sacrifice (or lack thereof in the case of these markings and spells) or how the markings worked. And if need be, well there was her little bone knife tucked into her clothes

[showmeshinies]

That was interesting. Jarlaxle leaned forward and scrutinized the marks closely. He had seen pentagrams and horse shoes before, of course, but it was more curious to see horse shoes being used that way. "Magical tattoos?" he asked. Some wizards were rather fond of them where he came from, and it would not surprise him to discover that even his own brother had a few of them tucked away under the robes of the Archmage

[truailligh]

"Not tattoos, markings. They're cut into your skin with a knife made of bone." She didn't reveal her own, no sense in that, not when it was the only weapon she carried with her at all and when it was so needed for her to be able to perform any magic and in a dream world, a quick blast of truailligh or gnáthaigh even in their weaker forms, might be more powerful than they usually would. People would be bound to be suspicious if someone started being violently ill for no reason or starting seeing ghosts and shadowed images stalking them down the streets and in their rooms.

"Physical traps? How so? Booby traps?" She was trying to come out with something but outside of the hidden nets that were triggered by catching a foot, she really couldn't think of anything much and those would be obtrusive to say the least in somewhere with Alea's layout. "You never told me the companion from home was your brother, must be nice

[showmeshinies]

Perhaps this human was tougher than she looked. Many humans were not, from his experience, able to withstand the pain of a knife carving into their skin. The new information forced him to reevaluate his opinion of Shirley, and he found that he liked it. If she could withstand something like that, one of a million different methods for torture used by his own race, she was a cut above the rest here

[truailligh]

If Jarlaxle had been in Orbis Alia when she'd been receiving the markings, he'd have heard the screaming and crying because it had hurt more than anything else she'd experienced, shooting from searing, blistering heat to feeling as though she'd been submerged in ice and even now she shuddered at the phantom memory of it, especially the line across her throat, hidden by her necklace today.

"Unless that creeper scientist guy is lurking around here and mouthbreathing all over my windows then I think I'd like to rule out the killing option. It's painful. For me." Death was something she was hoping to avoid here because a break from the grief and from the never ending migraines it caused would be a welcome relief, no matter how short.

"Is it rude to ask how old you live to be? It's only supposed to be rude if you're asking a lady and unless your race is extremely different then you're definitely not a lady."