Inn 53

"Oooh Ooh yes yes yes!" Jelly was bouncing up and down excitedly, thus managing to luckily miss the swipe of a claw. "I will I will! I'll take her out and TERRORIZE PEOPLE! And do all that cleaning and whatever. yeah."

This wasn't remotely true. He'd forget by the end of the day.

"Are you trying to give the cat to that thing as a pet?" Weft asked in a calm and rational manner.

Basaltine showed up from the treeline, absolutely drenched in none-too-pleasant water. He growled something under his breath when he caught scent of Jelly. Then he cast a shrewd look at Suitov, who was engaged in examining Cluckbeak's wing, and began to creep around outside the mage's field of vision, heading for the door to the building.

"Don't you even think about it," Suitov said out loud, half turning his head, once the dog had trailed his filthy pawprints as far as the back porch.

Basaltine sat down with a disappointed squelch. Thwarted.

The rain poured down on the Cross'd Roads, when suddenly a bright flash shone briefly out from the center of the trails, followed briefly by a loud pop.
Standing where the light once was was a tall figure in a black cloak, features hidden by a jet black tricorne.
Behind him, a small figure was breathing heavily, but soon righted itself, brushing still glowing cinders off cloth and out of hair.
The man's garb was slightly singed in places, and a large burnt patch of road marked the entry point of the pair, but all were erased at the wave of the his hand.
He glanced around, and walked brusquely towards what he assumed was an Inn, despite its dilapidated state.

Since this was rather bad weather for working outside, even if it was still mild, Sylvie had settled inside, near an open window. She liked the sound of the rain. The occasional gust of light wind, at least today, carried the rain further from this side of the building, so there was hardly any danger of even just the windowsill getting wet.

Her battered diary, and writing implemets, were set aside for the moment to listen to Basaltine. It was just as well, since she couldn't quite decide what to note down in the limited space.

She heard a dull pop from outside, louder than even the big drops splattering, and looked out of the window reflexively, however, that window wasn't facing the front path.

Basaltine was lying in the fireplace (which, yes, was lit) and regaling Sylvie with the tale of a filthy-sounding cloth bag he'd dug up out of the middle of a mud-pit. The state of his front and legs when he'd arrived bore witness at least to the digging part of the story. He had, however, stood and shook himself in the rain until the worst of it had fallen off, before coming inside.

Partway through the tale of the epic struggle when the cloth monster had reared up and gnashed its terrible teeth and yowled its terrible yowl, the dog broke off, cocked his ears and whined.

The two figures entered the inn, and regarded the scene before them.

The man removed his hat, there was no surprise or curiosity in his features, as if a dark woman with red hair and dog on fire were normal occuances or he'd just lost his ability to be surprised.

"Hyimesaltar."

His voice was cheery and rhythmic, he was almost singing.

Not waiting for a response, he began to cycle through a varied assortment of strange tongues, his voice changing pitch and inflection at a ridiculous rate, his hand waving in exotic geastures.

Unable to find the right language, he paused for a moment, sighed, and rubbed his temples with one hand.

"Knowing my luck, you all probably just speak English."

Ignoring her partner's strange spectacle, the other figure removed her hat and shook her hair loose so that it could hang down her back. She then strode over to the bar, sitting down in the shadows.

Sylvie didn't. She setttled for a smile and a shrug, and looked at the dog in the fireplace.

From a deeper shadow behind the bar (which no-one was tending), more precisely from the top of the shelf, there was a jingling noise.

The dog, meanwhile, had understood every single greeting without distinction, and thought this guy mighty odd for saying hello twenty-plus times.

A hind leg shifted, scattering the skeletons of one or two ex-logs, and the firelight threw up orange-red crazing in the beast's eyes.

He winked at the girl.

"What's English?" he asked, appearing to be speaking in each listener's own native language - or the one with which they were most familiar.

The woman at the bar visibly stiffened at the sound of the dog's voice, but did not otherwise move.

The man however, seemed relieved that he was able to make himself understood.

"My name is Caedis, and the one behind me is Cyrand."

He smiled, showing a flawless set of white teeth, only the canines were slightly larger than normal.

"We apologise for any intrusion, but we are looking for a place to stay. Temporarily of course, and you would be compensated."

Gesturing towards the window, he continued.

"The rain shorted out our method of trasportation, but Cyrand is convinced that she should be able to make the repairs. We'd be out of your hair in only a short while."

"Sure thing," said the dog. "I'm Basaltine, by the way, the head dog around here, because I'm very beautiful and talented. Speaking of which, this is Sylvie. She can do things with trees like you wouldn't believe. Can I see the transportation? Did it explode?"

The thumping, crackling noise from the fireplace appeared to be Basaltine's tail going wagwagwag.

Sylvie was amused despite herself. Basaltine's enthusiasm had a certain charme, even if some of the things he said went against the grain for her. Deciding that she didn't want to complicate matters just right now, she didn't ask him to translate what the newcomer had said yet.

"Trees? Really?"

Cadius looked intrigued.

"So you would be a fellow magi?"

Clapping his hands and widening his smile to epic proportions, he turned his attention back to Basaltine.

His eyes narrowed and he spoke in an archaic tongue.

"And I suppose you would be an entity? An incorporeal?"

Before this chaotic not-conversation could progress any further, Sylvie asked Basaltine, "Would you please tell him that I don't understand a word of what he says?"

Basaltine tilted his head. "Sylvie doesn't understand you, squire," he said. He stepped down out of the fire onto the rug, which had been selected for somewhat unusual properties: rugged, easy-clean, resistant to temperatures up to somewhere in the thousands.

"Besides," the dog added, "do I look incorporeal?" He leered with a great many teeth that certainly looked tangible enough.

"Fascinating."

Caedis closely examined the dog, smiling brightly.

After a short time, he turned his head to Sylvie, seeming to consider his next course of action.

Suddenly, he turned to his companion, gave her a slight nod, then turned his concentration back to Sylvie.

When he next spoke, his voice seemed to echo through the listener's minds (perfectly comprehensibly of course).

"I apologize for the incursion, but I'm afraid this is the best way to make myself understood."

Slight whispering seemed to glide through the minds of the listeners, as if there were another conversation not far away, but just out of earshot.

"Incursion? I don't get..." Basaltine flicked an ear briefly. "Oh, right, psychics."

Unconcernedly, he scuffed his paws in a civilised manner until they were less dirty than the rug.

Sylvie twitched, a little surprised. She wasn't really comfortable with it, because she didn't know how much went the other way.

"I guess," she answered with a shrug and a subdued smile.

Finding herself with nothing better to do, Ferrl gathered up the glasses left by the last few patrons and dumped them in the sink. She wasn't bored enough to wash them up, anyhow. That was a job for privates and civvies. Laffent Ferrl was not in uniform; rather, she was wearing steamed silks in the current Instarrian style. Ferrl happened to think that these looked more like posh pyjamas than anything else, but anyhow, they displayed her finely-muscled midriff to attractive effect and were not excessively floaty, so she wasn't complaining.

She waved to the returning bar staff, bought a beer and took out a somewhat dog-eared deck of cards. These she shuffled while looking around ready to collar anyone who seemed to have wages to lose.

A recent arrival upended a purse that held various dregs, spreading an assortment of bits of shaped metal, plastic, bone, wood and paper on the counter, and asked the bar staff, "Do you accept any of this?" She was speaking slowly and quietly, with a hoarse voice, a bit out of practise, as well as dried out.
A short negotiation informed her about local payment policies. She got the feeling the staff thought it a bit odd someone wanted to pay for water, but did so anyway, partly to make up for the mess.

She had most of her hair covered with a kerchief, and most of her other clothes with a dustcoat, dust being the operative keyword. Fine, yellow brown dust had seeped into her skin and the fabric of her clothes and duffel. Flakes of dried mud the same colour added some interest through different texture to the hem of the coat and her jeans. The monochrome earthy look might some people think of a rather peculiar golem, if they ignored her face.

Her colourful change collection sweeped up again she looked around for somewhere to sit down and rehydrate.