Well, this was a new one, the lady in question was more verbal than he had expected her to be. And she was not shy about it....nor the fact that she was carrying concealed weapons, either. But all in due time, Blazh told to himself. Blazh, too lost to the machinations and spinning wheels of his wayward imagination, barely noticed her question, focusing more on the open gash that her delicate forearm was now sporting. It took him a moment to snap himself from the trance, finally addressing what
Syvis said earlier. "It is nothing you seemed to differ from the usual crowd that gathers here and that caught my eye. Tis a bit rare for me to just so casually stumble upon beautiful
elven women."
Blazh absentmindedly snapped his fingers, summoning one of the inns Patreon. A balding, middle-aged man came to the pair. He was perhaps in his late fifties. Atop of that, he was rather nervous-looking, with short stature, an indictment of his age and possibly, stunted development. He had an odd gait. It was slightly lurching as he went, perhaps he was leaning too far forwards, it was hard to tell. It had the effect of making him stand out in a crowd, and not in a good way. He took Blazh's order before skittering back into his work area.
His drink arrived shortly. And Blazh courteously handed a few coins to the waiter, it was his polite little way of discretely telling the man to fuck off somewhere else, effectively dismissing him from their presence.
Blazh eyed the amber liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes. He poked them with the nail of his index finger to hear them jingle in the pre-dawn silence. He watched, entranced, as they bounce back up- remaining mostly submerged like mini icebergs. Wrapping his long fingers around the glass, he felt his heat leach into the drink. Alcohol. The elixir of his life. He raised the glass to sip, feeling the keen burn on his tongue and throat- a burn that made him recoil as a boy. Yet now it was a feeling he longed for. He lowered the glass to the table, letting it fall heavily, but not so much that it would spill. He rested his head in the left hand, still mesmerized by the fluid.
It was mead. An alcoholic beverage is created by fermenting honey with water, sometimes with various fruits, spices, grains, or hops. Its usual alcohol content could be anywhere from 9 to 18 percent. In many ways, it was similar to ale but usually pack-in double the punch. Furthermore, its sweetness could mask the initial bitterness of alcohol, making it all the easier for one to get pants-on-head levels of drunk.
"Before we continue our conversation." The male started, using a wavy hand gesture to emphasize his point. Of course, half of his brain was still pre-occupied by the wound on her forearm, it made him itch in some highly uncomfortable ways, ways that he would rather not speak about openly. "I think that we should at the very least, know each other's names before continuing, I am Blazh,
Blazh Orlov." The male's voice piqued slightly here, a little wrinkle dancing at the edges of his mouth. He might have been a grown-ass man, but there was that almost child-like twinkle in his eyes. Amplified further by thick, bushy eyebrows that put them in a wide frame. "I am aware that it is an informal greeting. As I am sure you know, when people say 'It's my pleasure,' they usually mean something along the lines of, 'There's nothing on Earth I would rather do less.”
Something was nudging him in the back of his head, almost instinctively, he reached forward and took the knife into his bare palm, using a spare handkerchief to wipe away any excess blood. The knife was a dual blade with a hardwood handle. Everything about it was precise. The knife's internal structure was made from a single piece of high carbon stainless steel, hand-honed, and about 12 centimeters long. It was expert-level craftsmanship, something that Blazh greatly admired. He always had a thing or two for bladed objects. It was hit utilitarian nature rearing its head. To him, a proper knife was something that one could use to murder another man, or to make dinner, or to create wooden carvings. A proper blade had more uses than Blazh had fingers on his hands.
He nonchalantly placed the murderous instrument back to its original resting place, before diverting his attention back to
Syvis herself. The increasingly large bloody stain on her white sleeve made him internally wince, partially because it was running a perfectly good clothing article. But more so because she seemed to have lost a whole shot glass worth of blood by now, which, for someone of her size and lithe build, wasn't exactly a little.
His breath seemed to stutter in his lungs before he let it go, feeling the tension drain from his body. He reached out, gently prodding at her wound with his index finger, careful to not hurt
Syvis any further. "I can heal that gnarly little gash of yours, but you will have to calm yourself first."