(LOG) In the tavern (in which Trylcat makes an appearance)

Morcant was done working. That meant only one thing. One single, common venture down to his local tavern, with one single, common quest to conquer. It was that time of day again; it was time for the male Van Gatt to get wellied. So, he trundled (nobody trundled better than Morcant trundled) down the street with one hand nonchalantly shoved in the pocket of his leather trousers, and the other with his cloak hooked over one shoulder by his forefinger. Shirtless, no surprise to anyone, given the humid nature of the evening. A little refreshment would help. He ham-fisted the door open and ducked on his way in, clunking his way to the bar to his reinforced stool and tossing the heavy black garment over his shoulder to the tender. "Gimme some o' that shit that's like liquidised belch," he thundered, ever unable to moderate 'volume'. "An' if there's too much froth 'gain I'll wrap yer balls through yer gapped-teeth." Cue the clatter of coins on the scarred surface of the bar. Elegant as always.

Ulrika Kergard lounged at the bar against her twin's side, blue leather coat hanging open, grin upon her face. Despite the less than warm reception from the holders of the land, she was in fine spirits while her guards hung warily near, eyes upon the bars' inhabitants. Said inhabitants had not been terribly pleased at the King (who some said was female, others male .. bets were going down about who would and could find out in whispers) until she'd thrown down coins for a few rounds for all of them. Lips twitched in amusement to see how easily they'd come round, most at least. Her head lifted to catch sight of the newest arrival, and she sauntered over, flicking his coins back toward him. "On me tonight, good man. To celebrate my brother's betrothal." Her head jerked toward Cyrus as she clouted the man on the shoulder, unaware as yet of the pair's previous encounter. "Drink up!" Her gaze darted back toward the door, rather hoping that her brother's afianced would make an entrance soon.

Synaria was sure she was going to run poor Sashela ragged, asking for this set of jewels then that. Her gowns changed, at least seven times that evening, and each time she'd ask the servant girl's opinion before promptly changing it in favor of a different color or pattern. Finally she chose the deep hunter green that daringly exposed a bit more skin than even she was accustomed to. Paints were perfectly applied as she set Sashela to brushing her hair and setting the loose curls properly. When she was finished, she did something exceedingly uncommon for her, she turned, and took her paints and powders to Sashela's face. (Depending if the woman resisted or not) All the while, Syn laughed, merrily, excited to get down to the tavern. Finally, she hooked her arm in Sashela's and skipped her way, all the way out of the gates of the castle and down the dark road that lead to the town. Fear of attack didn't seem to set in, until she hit the nearly empty market square, pace quickened as she tugged the girl at her side into the heavy doors of the tavern, and the smile returned, wide blues taking in the missed sights and smells. "Evening!" She called to whoever decided to look upon her and made her way to the bar, to sit herself down right upon its surface.

Osanna normally didn't follow her hulking, leather clad lover down to his usual watering hole, but today, was a special case. A very special case indeed and nobody, had a worse temper, than Osanna. So it wasn't long at all before the doors threw themselves open once again in the Dyer's Tavern. "VanGatt!" Oh a voice like to send a man's balls crawling up into his guts, regardless as to wether or not they'd been forced down his teeth or not. Excelent example of married life for the poor prince. "Jes' what I though' yeh meat head! Drinkin' yerself stupider! S'help me Morcant!"

Morcant had so many things to react to! Poor brute couldn't multitask! And now there were three women (... or perhaps, two and a half-ish-sort-of-when-the-art-wasn't attached) who required his attention. The first! By necessity was Ulrika, she was paying for his belch-juice. Which earned her a bright grin, and a giant clap on her not-so-giant shoulder. "I like yew," he decided, loudly, before his attention was caught by the Hareshi creature who sent him liquor every month. Clearly his next port of call! "Oi," he grunted, quite clearly in her direction. "Yew goin' ter give me an 'ug or just lurk at the far end o' the bar all night? Eh?" Simply oozing Royal respect tonight, wasn't he? Fortunately for him, his balls stayed right where they were when the door slammed open. Ah yes! That mood. Perhaps if he just ignored it... "Well, t'ain't it the lovely surprise t'see m'wife comin' ter see me," he grinned, swivelling in his stool to flash her his most charming (and fueled by the desire not to have his brains bent out of shape by the nearest convenient stove-pot), even, white-toothed grin. "Come 'ere, woman. Join th'party."

Master of Masks while visually present, was not at all in the slightest mentally here; at least not to begin with. All the sounds and shapes around and before him appeared blurred and distant as he stood statue still with his hands loosely clasped together before him. With what sounded like a slow rolling wave as it broke against one rock after another the world came back to the masked man. His head shifted back before shifting to one angle then the next as he examined each of those currently present. His hand separated from one another as his left raised slowly to the hardly detailed chin of his fore mask. "Hmm@" was the only sound that emitted from this man as his right hand inched towards a set of three round pouches that lined the left hip of his person. Master of Masks continued to examine those within the bar as he withdrew a fist sized sphere from the first of the three pouches. Appearing to be made of simple clear glass the masked man placed it before the middle of his chest, letting the sphere rest comfortably on the tips of his fingers as his entire head shifted down in order to look at the thing. Slowly his fingers began to bend ever so slightly and the sphere rotated at a steady pace as he kept a sharp ear on the room around him.

Cyrus Kergard sat with his back to the bar, an elbow hanging off of the table. THe thrum of a victorious coup hung around him, though the Prince himself didn't see the fuss...all they'd really gained were pig's pearls and fancy clothes, and a rather noncommital promise of food. His sister seemed overjoyed, however, and thus Cyrus himself was happy. And there was the matter of his marriage to be properly celebrated. When Morcant arived his ice-eyes stirred to the man, amusement glittering in them. He made no move to acknowledge the man's presence, or draw attention to his own, but the possibility remained on the table. He did owe Cyrus a good beating, after all. When his own bride-to-be waltzed through the door, he waved and would have stood, but the woman seemed intent on running him down where he sat. "Hello there," he greeted Sashela, only to have his concentration broken by the shriek at the door. "Yes, indeed!" He called to the advancing Osanna. "Relax, fair lady. We insist!" His grin hid the knives and spears of the dozen warriors intermingled with the bar's normal patrons, each more or less ready to settle any disturbance.

Ulrika Kergard laughed broadly at the beast's approval of her, barely grunting beneath his fist. It wasn't the first, nor the last, time she'd met such approval. "Glad to hear it!" Whatever further greeting she might have given was distracted for she caught sight of Synaria, snickering rising from her as the woman claimed a seat on the table. It was, however, the sharp yowling of a she-cat that caused her to turn, smirk curling over her lips as Cyrus met her. "Indeed, you must celebrate with us!" A beast for a beast..how fitting. Spinning on one foot, she leaned over toward Synaria, shoulder nudging her. "And aren't you a fine looking one tonight? What'll you have to drink?" Brow arched at the smaller version of the woman, the nature of her gown and paints rather curious, as were those pale blue eyes. "Glad you could join us too, lass. A drink for you too.." There was little to miss in how her eyes swept downward over the serving woman, wink tossed at her as she breathed in the chaos around her.

Master of Masks's fore mask was of simple make, its gray surface vaguely detailed in the brow and cheek area while only the slightest of slits (which arch down) mark were his eyes would be. To the right of his head rested a blackened mask that appeared to be fashioned of crude iron. Its palm sized horns pointed skyward while the elongated sharp-toothed grin did well at portraying its malicious nature as it was remarkably likened to what one would commonly associate a demon to have. The other mask, which held firm to the left of his head, was quite the opposite. The alabaster surface of the androgynous mask gleamed in whatever light happened to find its way across its glassy surface, with delicate features appearing gentle and overall welcoming to anyone who looked upon them. The mask's silver-gold eyes are turned forward, a look of approval set within their eternal gaze resting between them a thin bridge that leads to a petite nose. With the cheekbones raised accordingly to the subtle upward curl of the slight but rosy lips it is not difficult to tell that this delicate face was crafted to resemble an angel. The masked man's attention continues to remain on the glass orb, which he gives a sharp jerk of his hand up, sending the heavy sphere into the air a few inches before it landed securely in his glossy-gloved hand. Steadily he began to move his fingers, shifting his hand from one side to the next as he carefully kept the sphere stationary while his hand itself moved beneath it.

Sashela emerged arm-in-arm with her mistress, her features riddled with disbelief over the Princess' uncharacteristically pleasant disposition. Best not question it, she told herself as they crossed the hardwood toward the bar, her mouth very nearly falling open as Synaria sat herself atop the counter. Averting her pale gaze in shock, she offered curtsies to whom they were due and then shuffled around to where she would inconvenience no one, a velvet dress of deep green hugging her small proportions beneath a crisp white apron. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed her unusually mirthfully mistress, hoping naught would occur to sway her demeanor.

Synaria patted the table beside her, gesturing for Sashela to take a seat beside her. "Darling, relax, have a drink! You're off duty tonight, you're my guest." She announced then realized she had all but stepped in Cyrus' lap. "Hello husband-to-be!" She said with a laugh and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Then that loud, booming voice that she hadn't heard in quite some time. "Morcant!" She yelled out toward him and scooted down from her perch to give him the requested hug. "Been a long time, why havn't you come up for a drink with me, eh?" Eyes widened when she heard the banshee shriek of his name, eyes widened and she slowly backed away, though not before giving Morcant a wink, and turned in time to be accausted by Ulrika. The grin returned again and she gave a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "Oh I don't know. A good honeyed mead maybe?" She asked and began to turn her head only to catch sight of the masked man, her breath catching in her lungs.... could it be?

Osanna might not have been as intimidateing as her friend, the advisor, but she did happen to have a copper fry pan in that muddy old cloak of her's which she winged off into the pile by the door with a look to melt iron at her beloved which was only interupted by a white clad.....nobel boy whore? In the cloth dyer's tavern? And his sister by the looks of it, who didn't happen to resemble a boy whore in the least, or a whore for that matter. Little did she know. She stalked over with a snarl of curses and gave the poor man a mighty smack to the skull with her wepon of choice. No celebrateing it seemed. "Yer out drinkin' an' celebratein' no'?! Yer a little damn early yeh great bollickin' cum factory!" Clang! "Yeh couldna wait?! Oh no!" Good lord, a beast for a beast was right! There weren't many armys that wouldn't run screaming from the woman who seemed to be made of flashing green eyes, disheveld hair and the beggining's of a..pot belly? "Coulda waited five minnus after yer shoved yer face fulla food! Yer gonna be a damned father yeh fuckwit!" Great, and now the world was sure to end.

Cyrus Kergard's eye caught the masked man in the far corner, his cool fingers gripping a finger of whiskey...much harder than he normally drank, but satisfying nontheless. His brow rose at the man's fancy knucklework on his fancy orb, ice-eyes following the lack of motion with keen interest. WHen it became clear the stranger's skill was too great to drop the ball, the Nyrthlond prince turned his glass topside to finish off his drink. Taking careful aim, he whipped the empty glass across the room; it turned a beautiful arc in the air, hanging nearly motionless for a single heartbeat, before it made full contact with the majestic orb. "Honeyed mead," he said with a sigh, "tastes like pickled bees' piss. You really ought to get a better taste for drink, my lovely."

Master of Masks's body when rigid as the empty glass arced precisely across the room, crashing into the delicate glass sphere. While the empty glass was perhaps crafted of sterner stuff the orb was not. On contact it shattered leaving only a few curved pieces in the masked mans palm while the rest rained to the hard-wood floor like glassy-beads of well, glass. Some glass obviously belted the man's thick robes not to mention the glass itself made a good thud into the robed chest of the masked man before tumbling carelessly to the ground and further crushing what shards had fallen there. Ever so carefully his patted his hands together, taking a few moments to pick out what slivers of glass did not fall away themselves. >

Morcant was just done hugging Synaria, and about to answer her, when instead a giant 'clang' appeared to come out of his mouth instead. He scowled and lifted a hand to rub at his offended patch of head. Really, he'd have rathered the Advisor today. At least she hibernated and shut the fuck up when she was pregnant. However! His thunderous response was cut short by her final announcement. Yes! Yes he was. So, he could only grin at her, lift his tankard, and down the whole lot. And instead of a thunderous diatribe, she got a thunderous, self-impressed burp. "I am!" he answered. "T'ain't no better reason ter be celebratin', neither. Th'liddle soldiers've done wot they're s'posed ter do." He paused, his brain catching up with him. Cyrus was the Prince of Nyrthlond. If he was then this 'woman's' brother... Then that made her... He seemed to find his whack-induced brainwave quite amusing for some reason, and he turned his head to Ulrika. "Ey. Yore the one who fucked th'Advisor, right?" >
Master of Masks's> lips turned into something of an amused grin, although it went unseen due to the mask that rested before his face. His robes shifted upwards as he took in a deep breath and retrieved two more glass spheres, thus emptying all three pouches at his belt. Repeating the same pattern as before he began to steadily rotate each sphere between one hand and the next, using his fingers as a bridge with each transition. However, unlike last time his attention was not placed solely on the movement of the spheres but the room and those within it as well. Nice and loudly. That woman couldn't escape the adventures of her loins being discussed in this tavern, apparently. King of Nyrthlond? Not to Van Gatt - rather, 'that one who broke the chair givin' Eave one'.

Ulrika Kergard wrapped her arm with Synaria's and shot her tongue out at Cyrus. "She can have what she-" A brow arched to find herself interrupted by screeching, pale eyes focusing sharply on the woman that sought to disrupt the good time. The news, however, had her grinning, and she called out a huzzah. "Congratulations to you both! All the more to celebrate! Another round!" She was easy with the coin tonight, already having negotiated a fair trade for the evening before the drinking began. She was not, however, going to come between man and frying pan, Ulrika sauntering over to grab the dark-haired serving woman by the arm and forcibly drag her into the commotion. "You must help celebrate their betrothal, you know, and the babe. Come now..." Lips twitched as she heard the crash against the orb, snickering even as it shattered. "Cyrus, look what you've done..." She scolded teasingly. A sudden rumbling from the big fellow had her turning, smirk upon her lips. "Aye, the very one. And who might you be to know about such a thing, eh?" Far from perturbed, a smug grin curled over her lips, the King still dragging Sashela along with her.

Cyrus Kergard flinched when the pot clanged against the justiciar's skull, his own head throbbing in sympathy. A finger rose to order another finger of whiskey, the tender eyeing him suspiciously though eventually the Prince's station won out over the value of the glass. Once that drink was downed and away he hopped onto the bar and lounged, keeping an eye on the great bustle; the wench with the frying pan looked dangerous, and he was in no mood to provoke that kind of fury.

Synaria stared at the man wearing the masks, her mind wandering. Had she her darts, she might have thrown on just to see if he commented on her form. The shattering glass snapped her out of those spiraling thoughts, but not the feeling she had. She grinned at Ulrika and the rest, but her eyes stayed focused on that man Cyrus had thrown the glass at. The wrong drink was placed in her hand and she drank down the whiskey without realizing it was Cyrus' and climbed down from the table, into her husband-to-be's lap with a gentle appology and right back out. Not hearing the clang of the pan, nor the screams of Osanna. She made her way to the masked man and stood there in front of him, wide blue eyes poring over those masks. "Endyme?" She whispered, desperately wanting to hear her friend, the lost jester, utter his usual bright 'Nar!', the name she'd not heard since he disappeared. "Is that you?"

Master of Masks's motions came to a steady stop as Synaria approached. Carefully he placed each sphere within their respective pouches before acknowledging Synaria with a faint tilt of his head to the right. "I'm sorry," he began, his voice unremarkable to the ears as it emitted from behind that gray mask of his, "but I have never gone by the name of Endyme." The Masked man made a careful study of the woman before him, easily reading the desperation set within those wide blue eyes. Steadily he extended his left hand, "My name is Q," his tone softened and his voice lowered in volume as he leaned ever so slightly closer so that his words could be heard over the clatter of noises behind Synaria.

Sashela attempted to follow the King as gracefully as possible, her countenance awash with awkward hesitation. Led into the gathered throng of celebrators, she offered a tiny, relunctant simper, her small hands smoothing over her apron compulsively. Synaria's guest? She didn't trust the idea - couldn't believe the notion. Surely, if she allowed herself to believe it for a split second, the likely joke would come crashing unto her head. Her silvered gaze flitted between Osanna and Morcant, betwixt the Princess and her future husband, nervously observing the interaction culminating among them all. Suddenly distracted by Ulrika's intriguing appearance, she scarcely noticed as Synaria split from the group to join the masked man.

Morcant will NPC Ossy since she had to go. []

Nessa Hjalmar was done with whatever it was she did when she wasn't in Ulrika's company, and entered relatively quietly. As quietly as one can when one is trussed up in scant metal, anyway. The third strinkingly blonde creature to appear in the Dyers' Tavern today, this one was still in her stylised armour with much more milky skin on display than really ought to be appropriate. She didn't say anything, merely boot-thumped her way across the wooden floor with the rippling expanse of her wide-hipped stomach shifting and her clawed gauntlets busying themselves with one another. She seated herself next to Cyrus, apparently focused on getting her primary weaponry off so that she could do something remotely useful with those manicured hands of hers. Noisy place, this tavern. And peculiarly dominated by Nyrthlonders.

Morcant shifted to accomodate the placing of his disgruntled wife on the length of one thigh, plucking up his second tankard and gwapping down half of it before answering Ulrika. "Just one of 'er friends," he answered. "She used ter 'elp me in th'dungeons sometimes. Alas, no more." He eyed the second half of his tankard thoughtfully. "Th'red wench is gone." And, naturally, he finished off the contents of it, and turned his big hand in proper introduction to the Nyrthlond King. "Morcant Van Gatt, cheerful Justiciar. S'm'wife, Osanna. She t'ain't none too pleased wid this pregnancy lark." He passed a glance to Nessa on seating, keeping it as chaste as possible given the pan-wielding presence in his lap, and then looked back to the Sashela-wearing King.

Synaria took the hand in her own henna painted grasp, the ink in her nails twitching with want... want of some power she'd not yet, nor probably would ever, learn. Those strange blue eyes still scouring the masks. He was lying, he had to be. Something bad must have happened and he was hiding. Surely. "Oh." She said quietly, taking a moment before releasing his hand. "Q... a pleasure to meet you then." She said softly. "Princess Synaria." She uttered "Why don't you come celebrate with us?" She asked quietly, turbulant doubt stirring in her mind. She turned and looked over her shoulder at the party goers and opted not to try to return to her former seating, not trusting her rather revealing attire to hold up to trying to climb back over Cyrus. Instead she took a chair away from the crowd, lifting a finger to order another finger of what she now realized had -not- been her drink.

Ulrika Kergard flashed a grin at the serving woman that she'd been muscling around the bar. "A drink, yes? What will you have?" Her head lolled back as she called out to the barkeep for ale for herself, brow arching to encourage the lass to speak her mind, thinking her merely shy. Noticing her gaze on her, she shot her a wink though conversation lingered with Morcant. "The dungeons, you say? I can see her there. Tis a shame she's gone." She lifted her tankard in toast to the absent advisor. "A pleasure to meet you both." Apparently casualness held the evening, her smaller hand firmly shaking his as she caught Nessa out of the corner of her eye. A small acknowledging nod was given, but for the moment, none of the woman's skills were needed in the noisy noisy place. Her lips pursed as she idly watched Synaria, leaning into Cyrus. "Have you seen the mask man before? Or rather..anyone wearing a mask here?" She murmured, scooting over to offer a share of her seat for Sashela.

Master of Masks's grasp of light, a submissive to the female touch. As Synaria spoke Q's body somehow managed to bend into a slight but respectful bow just as his hand was released. "Princess, I assure you the pleasure is all mine," as Synaria took her seat Q was quick to follow, not being one to ever really disobey royalty. As he carefully slipped into his own chair Q's fingers interlaced with one another while simultaneously setting his elbows to the hard wood surface of the table before him. "It seems like quite a night," Q mused with that same unremarkable voice of his as he acknowledged those seated at the bar with a subtle flicker of his chin, "so much to celebrate I presume?"

Trylstrian was a cat. He had to keep reminding himself of this fact, because it was admittedly very difficult to be a cat. Strange wiring, new limbs, and these ridiculous feeling ears. He didn't understand how felines could be so proud with ears like these, but he was not a cat. He also was a cat. When the big man tried to kick him, he could not voice his outrage, because he had none of the jaw structure and lip muscles to formulate anything besides the typical angry cat noise. When he jumped onto the table, he overshot his mark by feet and landed rather gracelessly in the seat beside it; such leg muscles were quite impossible for humans! And when he looked on the servant girl, thinking it was Synaria, it was nearly impossible to get a proper bead on her because the eyes kept focusing far too sharply on her left breast, in this case.

Morcant nodded some, but shrugged soon after. "I'm sure she'd rather we all got wasted and laid in her absence than grumped," he mused, placing the tankard down on the table. "I 'ave no doubt she's doin' much the same. Right, woman." He rose, promptly flinging his temporarily pot-bellied wife over one shoulder and ignoring the repeating clanging against his side, and the no doubt numerous, 'Put me down y'big stupit lummox!'es and other variants thereof. "Time ter go finish one 'alf o'that equation an' start the other, eh?" Clang. Ne'mind. He flashed the remaining patrons a broad grin, quite deliberately lowered a hand to pluck a strand of Syn's hair up and put it back in the wrong place, and thunked his way out of the bar. No doubt with the pleasant image of laying his banshee-beast of a wife in everyone's bleach-requiring brains.

Cyrus Kergard had no trouble keeping his eyes on Nessa's pale head when she sauntered through the pub's door, offering a casual wave when she came to sit down beside him. He failed to grab another drink when he finished off his last, content to let the liquid battle his own inner cool. It was said that alcohol warmed one's insides, but Cyrus felt only two strains of cold swirling within. "You know," he announced to no one in particular, "I never figured out whether you were trying to snatch a husband or scare one away." Comment was quite obviously directed at Nessa, though he didn't shoot a glance her way, his own gaze playing over the solitary Synaria. "There are a few masks at the fair, when they hold it...but none of the courtiers the Old Man keeps wears them," he answered his sister.

Synaria's mouth opened to answer the man who called himself 'Q', but instead of words, a suprised yelp was uttered when the cat all but fell on it's furry head into the seat beside her. "Watch it." She hissed at it, wishing she had the forthought to bring Isotep along with her. She was sure he would have loved a good go at the feline. Syn edged further away and turned her attention back on the man that... wasn't there anymore. It had to be Endy, it just had to. Heaving a sigh she rose from her chair, thoughts heavy and wandering, and made her way back toward the crowd, just in time to have Morcant muss her hair. She dodged the pan weilding woman to give the brute a clap on the back. "Have a good evening, Morcant. Come see me soon, we've drinking to catch up on." She chimed merrily and slid herself into the chair beside the one which held Ulrika and Sashela, a fresh drink placed in her painted hand which was promptly put to her lips.

Nessa Hjalmar didn't glance up from her gauntlet-fiddling at the comment, one brow flicking upwards at the edge as she worked the first one off her hand. "Until the day comes when I can have a husband as happy to bend over as you are, your Highness," she answered (redundant titling, but it served an ironic purpose, if nothing else). "Perhaps I'll make up my mind." Perhaps. But likely not, since she was sure it'd be a slight issue that she was under Ulrika's thumb, amongst other things. The second gauntlet proved easier, ad once she was out of them she plucked a small pot of moisturising salve from her belt pouch and began working it over her palms. She crossed one leg over the other and simply kept an eye out - she wasn't exactly here to do much else, other than bring a fair amount of beatings to anyone who looked like they might be an issue.

Ulrika Kergard couldn't help snickering at the pair as they made their way out, a slight wince at the thought that crossed her mind. No, not something she particularly wanted to consider, better to down her ale as she eyed the amusingly clumsy cat from the corner of her eye. Her brother's response drew a non-committal sound from her lips, the sound rising to a chuckle at Nessa's retort. "Few men are, dear Captain, few men are." Her lips curled in a grin as she nudged at Synaria's shoulder, leaning into her lightly. "Someone you know?" The King queried curiously, elbows resting back against the bar as she lounged lazily.

Trylstrian proceeded to cough up a hairball. It was not the most pleasant experience, and drew back recollections of recent plant material that he had once ingested. With the clump sufficiently disposed of, the pewter snake inside the debris came alive. It uncoiled from its ring configuration and slithered, a minute and inconceivably insignificant hollow glimmer among the flames. It sped across the flooring and slithered its way up Synaria's bench... which surprised Trylstrian. It seemed the woman he was staring at was not her after all. It sought out her finger by crawling surreptitiously in her clothing, and when it presented itself around her finger, there was a note upon it - only slightly eaten away by digestive fluid. For Cyrus. Sneng the Snake was very insistent when it throbbed upon her finger.

Synaria took a long pull from her glass then shook her head to Ulrika. "I had thought so, but apparently I was mistaken." She still wasn't sure if she believed it. The way his tone had softened with her, surely it was the tone her friend had used. But, she was having trouble remembering his voice. Deep in thought, she tried to recall it, over and over, until she felt a tickle beneath her silk. Painted nails reached within the cloth that draped over her arm to chase the tickle and scratch it away, only to feel the sudden tightening around her finger. Heart leapt, it had been so long since he had summoned and she nearly rose from her seat to flee the room... until she saw the note. A streak of jealousy ran hot down her throat, eyes darkening, but she swallowed it down and rose from her chair and slid into Cyrus' lap, lazily draping an arm around his shoulders and begging him with her eyes to look down at the note bearing finger in her lap. "Enjoying your party, darling?" She uttered as playfully as she could manage, grin on her face to take suspicion away then looked toward Ulrika and winked equally impishly.

Cyrus Kergard sighed whimsically, eyes wandering over a few of the younger raiders Ulrika had brought with her. "I know," he confirmed his sister's comment. "Quite a shame." He took no note of the yakking cat, nor the product of same. He relaxed once the masked man disappeared, though he could not remember him exiting...the Prince must have gotten distracted at some point, surely. Synaria's movement took him by surprise and he breathed a nervous laugh. "It seems my lap is quite the comfortable seat!" Only then did he notice her eyes, and his own slowly crawled down her form to her lap. Arching a pale brow he slipped a hand into that lap, palming the note. His cool knuckles grazed the bared flesh of her belly, his own gaze sympathetic, almost sorry. "It's certainly become much more enthralling, my dear." He stole a quick, chaste kiss from her cheek.>>
Cyrus Kergard pocketed the note and wrapped his arms around her for a quick hug. "But I'm afraid the drink's gone right to my head. If you'll excuse me?" He seemed reluctant to let her go, though. Beneath the tenderness in his eyes lingered something strange, akin to fear.

Ulrika Kergard shrugged carelessly. "It's difficult to tell one masked man from another, I would imagine." Her eyes lingered curiously, wondering what it was that had the woman so deep in thought about this fellow. The sudden shift in her behavior drew a curious glance, but another drink was in order, and she set about getting it, head shaking at the ease that had developed between her brother and his wife-to-be. Had she not been so fond of Synaria herself, jealousy might have risen. "Tell me, do you intend to return to Nyrthlond with me? I should be-" Suspicion hadn't risen at the woman in his lap, but her brow furrowed at her brother's comment, giving him a faint nod. Worry crept into her gaze, the look in his rather uncharacteristic. Her smile when it returned was rather forced as she leaned over to kiss his cheek, fingers curling possessively around his wrist for a tight squeeze. "See me before I leave, brother, and let me know if you'll be coming with me."

Trylstrian saw that his work had been carried out, and now attempted to disembark from this terrible place, with its smell of bile and liquor, and the faintest traces of urine. He waited for the most timely manner with which to extricate himself, and when the door of the tavern opened next, he jettisoned himself off of his seat. Except once again, this was a terribly unfamiliar body, which meant that he was now skidding through the door with a meowling protest. The next body he chose would be far less limber, he would see to that. This new trick of his was useful, certainly, but he was unsure as to how well his pride would survive intact if he let himself continue in this way. Ironically, it was this hurt ego which made him look most like a cat when his tail twitched furiously and his ears laid back; scouring his way out of the village before some pleb tried to make him dinner.

Synaria watched him carefully, the emotions that passed through his gaze not lost on her. She could have comforted him, but there was little she could utter out loud. "Of course, have yourself a wonderful night." She said lightly, feeling a slight shiver course down her spine where his cold knuckled touched mixed with a slight fear. "Take care." She added lightly, returning the kiss to his cheek and removing herself from his lap even though he seemed content to keep her there. A touch was given to his wrist followed by a flash of a look that simply screamed 'Don't keep him waiting.' With that, she returned to her chair at the opposite side of Ulrika, even though her feet wanted desperately to follow after Cyrus. "How about another round?" She said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Bright ivory smile flashed at the tender as he poured her another. "It's a lovely party Ulrika, thank you." She said with that blinding grin aimed toward her. She'd not comment on the returning to Nyrthl
Synaria>>Nyrthlond, not until she and a few others had a chance to discuss it.

Cyrus Kergard wanted nothing more than to keep the woman in his lap forever, at that moment...no matter his bravado, he didn't want to die. Not now, when his promises were still unkept. Hell, he even considered whisking the woman away in a show to rival Morcant's...but in the end his arms failed him, and off she went. He nodded at his sister. "Of course, Ulrika...we'll discuss it later." He flashed her a convincing smile and stood, daring to curtsey in an attempt to still the terror that threatened. "Carry on without me," he managed, and then he was marching out the door and into the evening.