milliways_bar | (no subject)

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cavilo

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There's a very pretty, very eye-catching, very small woman in the bar, drinking cinnamon wine and feeling thoroughly satisfied with herself.

Three tiny nation-states on a planet called Daxrallahembroosh have been in a bidding war for her shipment of weapons over the past week. Yesterday she managed to simultaneously accept all three bids, collect full payment, and leave the system before any of her customers discovered they'd gotten less than a quarter of the promised goods.

This universe has one huge advantage over the one she left behind: there are so many inhabited worlds, and travel between them is so simple. No bottlenecking at wormhole points -- just point in the direction you want and go.

And of course there's always this place to kick back and relax.

Life is good.

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He can't help but be distracted by the self-satisfaction on the pale woman's face. Not only is it a bitter reminder of his own discontent, but she looks a hell of a lot like Cheza.

Well... minus the lack of red eyes and pale purple hair. But close enough.

He swirls his own wine in its glass and tips his unmasked face in her direction.

"I take it you're not a flower."

One delicate blonde eyebrow rises, and one corner of that red mouth curls in amusement.

"That depends what you mean by flower, stranger."

He smiles ruefully and sips at his drink.

"Do you bloom by the moon and mark the path for wolves to paradise?" he asks wryly.

... okay, now both brows are up.

"Well."

(She may be struggling not to laugh.)

"Not literally."

"So I thought."

She probably thinks him crazy... in all fairness perhaps he is, but not for hunting flowers.

"And I never knew a flower with a taste for wine. I suppose it would be akin to cannibalism, hm."

"That would depend on the flower," she suggests, "or the wine."

If she does think him crazy, she doesn't hold it against him.

Surprised but pleased by her wit, he laughs.

"True."

Edited 2012-01-25 03:33 (UTC)

She smiles, this time more warmly.

"And what's your name, mysterious stranger who likes flowers?"

He inclines his head and unconsciously touches his eye patch. "Darcia the Third."

"And you are? You look more at home here than some of the other patrons, myself included."

He remembers how confused he was the first time he entered, which wasn't all that long ago.

The Third, he says. Aristocrat, then -- or the kind of bourgeoisie that ape the aristocracy.

"I'm Lara," she tells him, still smiling warmly. "And what makes you say that, Darcia the Third?"

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