[closed]

[stonefaith]

Date & Time: 08/15, evening
Location: WHERE ELSE. bar, western edge of the city
Characters: Koltira Deathweaver (deadelfwalking), Bariyan e Kodhi (stonefaith)
Summary: Yeah let's talk about small children and your scary sadism and other such completely not awkward topics
Warnings: TBD

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Bariyan was there early, set up at one of the booths lining the far wall. He'd brought his netbook with him but by the time late evening rolled around he was done with it. Now he was sitting back in his seat, feet kicked up on the table -- regardless of the owner's baleful looks -- picking at the new stitches around his throat, nursing the same drink he'd had for the past hour or so.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't allow himself to get completely drunk before this meeting. He had to be sharp on all accounts.

Bariyan suspected that he'd jump straight into heavy drinking the moment this was over, though.

Comments

[deadelfwalking]

Koltira was not usually a nervous man, but he approached the bar with more than a little trepidation in his heart. Bariyan's tone over the phone hadn't exactly been friendly, and Koltira recalled the last look in his eyes, too, the one of suspicion and mistrust. He had thought Bariyan a friend, but perhaps that judgment was preemptive.

He had shed the armor today, though he still carried Byfrost--he had no choice in that matter. Instead, Koltira had put on his one good suit: black with grey pinstripes, well-tailored, over a black tie and a blue silk shirt. Leather gloves covered his hands and dark sunglasses hid his eyes. There was nothing to be done about his ears or the cracked skin of his face, unfortunately.

The dreadplate was in an ominously glowing pile back in his room. He had decided that it was neither necessary nor wise to wear it while simply walking about the city, but he missed its weight and presence as he worked his way through the as-yet sparsely populated bar. When Koltira slid into the booth across from Bariyan, he folded his hands one over the other on the table, feeling awkwardly prim.

"Evening," he said, with no particular inflection.