The breath caught in her throat becomes a sigh; Beech's tail stops its slow snaking through the air, his bristled whiskers relaxing. Barley does not notice their tension any more than the hound or the mare that have joined them; instead, he sneezes another laugh and noses the second bit of cheese from the bartop.
"They aren't to everybody's taste," Rivane's voice is dry: a particular gold ring hidden away in her pack comes to mind. Stolen sweets, nibbled loaves of bread, the rats leave mischief in their wake to which no-one is immune save, mostly, for Rivane herself. It strikes her as unsubtle, the daughter of outcasts gifted the companionship of a troublesome and reviled species. She finds in their history too many parallels to think that the choice was a random one, and it makes her wonder about the swift courser and his star-dusted mare. Still, she accepts the compliment with a fond smile for the little rogues though it has nothing to do with anything she has done, "Rats, y'know, not the best reputation, and these two in particular."
This is not entirely true: nobody has caught Beech yet to know he's a thief, and Barley is as apt to make a friend of a potential enemy as anything else. He is charming: stout, and smiling, and always willing to part with a crumb of cheese to gain a new friend. It's good to have friends, he would say, to which Rivane always replies that they are her friends, and she doesn't need any others. This is also not true, and none of her companions accept it aside from Breadnut, who agrees: the fewer, the better.
(Barley, why do you have to feed the dog? Now it will never go away.)
Drawn at last by the smell of cheese, the little rex peeks his nose out from beneath the folded edge of the unlatched bag, pink hands gripping the edge tightly and kinked whiskers pointing in every direction. His bright eyes are nearly a match for Rivane's as they follow the hound nervously. He will not be so easily won over.
"Something sweet..." Rivane considers this, ignoring the bickering rodents. Her ears flick back and forth in a cascade as she mulls over the request. Any confidence she exudes is mostly an act, a thin and shining veneer of self-assurance that barely manages to contain her apprehensions, but she grasps it tightly and close to her breast.
"I don't really go in for mixed drinks, so I'm not the best to ask if you want one of those colorful cocktails, but if you just want something sweet, there's a sack mead out of Delumine that's just like drinking honey."
And liable to knock the roan off her feet if she drinks too much of it - something Rivane thinks a real possibility judging by how little you notice the alcohol in drinks like that. Not at all like her own, which reminds you with every sip.
"This? It's whiskey. You're welcome to try if you like," she pauses, unsure how to continue, stepping tentatively into the conversation with a feeling like blindness. She's spent too much time on her own.
"Have you been in Denocte long?"
@Kassandra
