Inn 56

Captain Stupendous zoomed around the lawn for a few orbits, ran into the woods, hyper-barked until all nearby giants were frightened off, emerged with a magic staff of power, dropped it, rolled around a moment or two, forgot about the stick, scratched himself under the chin with some enjoyment, broke wind and came in to land on the back porch.

"Are we once again safe from space-cats?" Suitov enquired through the open window.

Captain Stupendous's tail thumped on the boards. "You're lucky I'm here, defenceless citizen," he said.

Jaina entered from upstairs with a wave to our hero. "Thank you, splendiferous hero!" she called to the latter.

She kissed Suitov and took a seat near him. "I have a favour to ask."

Suitov smiled, sat and solemnly took her hands. "I'm afraid I have to decline," he said. "I did ask, but they won't consider constructing a Djew depot somewhere with such irregular transport links."

Jaina's brow scrunched in confusion until Suitov hit the punchline. "You're terrible," she said, but she grinned and squeezed his hands. "Although that is bad news indeed."

She shook her head, dropping a cascade of red hair over her face. "I want your help in testing the limits of my portal ability. It's easy for me to travel between the Jaded Soul and here, but what if I could make it easy for anybody? Make a portal that didn't close? I could live there but be steps away from you." She did not add, instead of living on property owned by a man, the way a kept woman would do. Not aloud.

Her hands had begun to faintly glow from her anxiety. Flustered, she pulled them out of Suitov's and dropped them to her sides, willing them to stop.

"I don't think I have quite the - I don't know, strength? Mojo? - to pull it off, but maybe we could figure something out together. I don't even know where we should start. Hence the favour."

"Let any passing creature into your quarters? Is that wise?" Suitov was of course already turning over ideas as to how it could be done.

A horrific crash ensued from the direction of the window.

"I know opening those things takes chunks out of you," Suitov continued without reacting. "Exactly how safely can you experiment without overextending yourself?"

Jaina relaxed. "No, it wouldn't be at all wise. The ship already has some basic internal security systems. It's been awhile since I even tested them, but I can check them out and upgrade or replace parts if necessary. The portal itself could exit in the airlock, which can already be sealed by remote--"

At the sudden noise, Jaina's training took over. Her hands immediately stopped visibly glowing. One came up to guard her throat, while the other reached for a stake from her boot. She had it in hand before she identified the source of the commotion.

"Dammit, Bazzy." She chuckled abashedly as she slipped the stake back into hiding.

"Sorry, Ice. You'll have me to blame if you develop tan lines shaped like fingers. I think you said something more? I didn't catch."

"I meant to do that," said Basaltine, who had tried to jump through the window while carrying the stick, and now repeated the attempt empty-mouthed with greater success.

He came to plonk his chin down in Jaina's lap. "If you can make him tan, you're the one who should be giving out magic advice," he added.

"I, ah, asked how safely you can experiment without overextending yourself," said Suitov.

Jaina chuckled at the hellhound and said absently, "I see," although she clearly didn't, and "I'll keep that in mind," which perhaps she would. Her embarrassment had not fully faded, but the arrival of hellhound head roused her to scritch behind his ears.

A moment of scritchies and silence followed while she thought how best to answer Suitov. "There's a lot I don't know about my portals, and their limits are part of that. They - hurt. Sometimes a lot. They don't seem to leave any damage; at least, nothing permanent or readily apparent.

"I've never left one open for long, so I don't know how that will affect things. Well, affect me. I guess that should be the first test?"

"With the primary aim of finding a different power source, yes," he said.

Perhaps it was a bit dusty, but it didn't seem to bother the man kicking the door in (politely -- he'd been schooled about that) and stuffing himself inside. He looked around, noted with a little sniff that although the place was still running, it wasn't running like it ought to have. "Yeah, this would be the place, Mrs Auregarde," Serpentine said, stuffing himself through the door wing first, body second, another wing third. "Looks a bit too quiet, ask me."

"Ah, dear. It is a start, not a disappointment. Think positively. You are certain he had been seen here in the past?" asked a female voice, highfalutin and very warm. It still, or sometimes at least, gave Serpentine the jitters. It reminded him too much of a male version of that voice. And the mode of speech, too, that was decidedly a little odd.

"Yeah, he has. Dropped him down some twenty feet into a shrubbery or something, once. Wearing a jester's hat. Him, I mean."

The woman walked in and examined the building, raising the hem of her skirt. "Well, quaint, at the very least. Rustic, not so. It seems to be quite... charming, nonetheless."

Serpentine scritched his forehead. "Whatever you say, Mrs Auregarde. Hey! You!"

A servant, familiar with the winged man and quite nervous about what Serpentine might do to the wine cellar or the kitchen's contents, blanched. "Yes... sir? Madam?"

"What's going on?"

"It's been... quiet, sir," the servant said, looking suspiciously at the two.

Mrs Auregarde put on her most charming smile and flitted onward, one hand holding a fan and another a straw hat. "My, what a lovely place," she positively purred.

The servant melted immediately.

Serpetine bit back a snicker before saying: "Um, yeah, Mrs. Anyway, last time I saw him, was here."

Mrs Auregarde turned to look at the servant, all five foot six of her pleasing, attractive exterior simply pulsing with good cheer, charm and gentle humour. "Thank you, Serpentine. You there -- I would fain know what to call you before intruding further?"

"Uhm... Wilhelm, madam."

"So, Wilhelm. Good Serpentine here tells me a half-elf by the name of Sebastian has been here before. I would very much like to talk to him. Have you seen him?"

"Well... no... ma'am. Not for a year or three."

"Ah." Mrs Auregarde didn't even look disappointed. She simply shrugged philosophically, regarded Serpentine and then smiled at poor Wilhelm. "Alas. However, since we are here... what is there to eat and drink? I am afraid my good friend might be parched and famished. I would like some tea, too. He is partial to alcohol."

For one reason or another, something caused Wilhelm to bow quickly and fulfill the wishes of these two. Serpentine was only half the reason.

"Charming," Mrs Auregarde said. "I do hope he remembers your appetite, if you have been here before."

"Me too," Serpentine grunted. He was just glad it wasn't all tea and biscuits anymore.

If there was anyone well equipped to carry two bushel sacks of blue posole and make it look graceful, not to mention sound almost noiseless, that someone was outside at this very moment. Weft was secretly quite pleased that the management had chosen to feed the vile beasts in the stables themselves - and left him to take the surplus feed back to the inn.

He didn't like admitting to being less than useful in any regard if he couldn't help it, but the fact was that large, supposedly-domesticated alien creatures often took an immediate... dislike to Weft, if that wasn't too mild a word for some of the bites, pecks, saddle-throwings and stomps he'd suffered over the years. And these particular creatures laid their eggs scrambled when they got upset, which reduced their resale value by messing up the tartan.

So Weft was carrying the grain.

The signs of new arrivals caused him to change course from the back door and enter from the front instead. The Phlocks didn't like him intimidating the customers, either, so he put on his best obedient smile on the way past. That faltered a little when he got an eyeful of something his training labelled as angel while his eyes registered as bruiser. The woman with him was - beautiful, frankly.

"Hello ma'am and, and sir," Weft said, with a nod to the hired hand, and suddenly excruciatingly aware of the bright pink and spring green knitting yarn visible inside the top of one of his sacks.

"Oh. It's you," said Serpentine, eyeing Weft over with a critical, perceptive eye. He laid his scarred hands on the table Mrs Auregarde had insisted on, one that took in the most sunlight from the windows, and gave his food (lots of it) and bottle (not enough in it) another evaluating look, then one more at the tea, biscuits and tiny portion she was having.

And of course, as he ought to have known, Argilla turned on the dimply smile, raised dark eyebrows and regarded Weft with eyes disturbingly familiar. She sat well poised, chaste and dressed in crimson, black and white, straight black hair impeccable and well-styled. "My, Serpentine. Please, manners, manners."

"...yeah, sorry. Hello."

"My apologies. I have been trying to school him, good sir. He is not as threatening as he looks, I assure you," Argilla continued, sipping her tea daintily, though she had to admit someone who consisted mainly of muscle, scars and wings from the waist up ought to be treated with a certain kind of wariness. And of course, there was the fact that Serpentine wore mainly leather trousers, gloves and a light, worn shirt she just couldn't get him to relinquish in exchange for new, better garments.

Serpentine, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind her comments and tolerated her. He drank and then sank his sharp canines into a bit of meat. It was raw.

Weft bobbed his head a fraction. For some reason his feet felt twice as big as usual, and despite the unimpeachably neat appearance that was an order assassin's baseline, he felt scruffy.

"That's quite all right, ma'am, because I'm more so. Than I look, I mean." Yes, Brother Pounce, that was suave, why not do your best to come off as threatening the guest? He blinked hastily and tried something different. "To what, I mean, is there a reason for your visit, ma'am, or are you passing through too?"

He was quite happy to appear to ignore the winged man if the favour was mutual. Appearances being what they were, of course, Weft was well prepared to leave a stiletto sticking out of the man's eye within seconds if he did anything funny. Not because Weft's principal was anywhere close by to be endangered; no, this would be just for the satisfaction of it.

Wait. What? Before Serpentine could glare at Weft long enough to go through the mental exercise of which arm to dislocate first and where to plant his elbow after a particular maneouver, Argilla pat-patted his hand, no matter how slick it was with the juices of the meat. Her gaze was entirely on Weft and the smile never wavered; Serpentine never stood a chance.

"Ah, yes, actually. Why not have a seat? Perchance you might be of assistance. It is a small matter, one that can be summed into a single question. There is of course the problem that not everyone can answer it. Oh, but I ought to explain. I am looking for one Sebastian. Serpentine here tells me he knows the man from mutual travels and has seen him here, last. I was told he has not been seen as of late and I am eager to say hello to him. Would you happen to know anyone who might have an inkling, say?"

"I'll be with you in one moment, ma'am." Weft moved like a breath of air into the kitchen, where he dropped off the sacks and, with just a little regret, his half-finished cropped spring cardigan with elven knot patterns, which was just coincidentally made to Miss Sylvie's size. He did pause for a lightning-quick groom, too.

His reappearance was every bit as silent as his departure. Weft sat down, across from the nice lady, a position that was just coincidentally tactically optimum with respect to her - servant? Lackey? Bodyguard? He hoped not the last option. Some people would just give his de facto profession a bad name.

"Now, 'Sebastian', you said, ma'am? Seems to me I do remember the name from somewhere. Are you out with a price on his head?"

"Certainly," Argilla said very pleasantly, then began to chitchat with Serpentine about the air pressure. It turned out Serpentine was an expert on that, and Argilla was very interested in the weather.

While Weft had been away, they had been discussing something else with some cheer (well, grunts from Serpentine), and some laughter had been involved. There was a hint of a grin on the bruiser's face that got wiped out the moment he noticed Weft, whom he eyed very suspiciously. He cracked his knuckles as he stared mournfully at an empty bottle of wine and a very empty plate. He'd licked it clean.

Argilla, on the other hand, welcomed Weft with a warm smile but looked inordinately surprised upon hearing the question. "Why, good man! No. He is my father." She began to rummage through the big bag Serpentine had dragged along.

"Unfortunately," Serpentine said, tone equally mournful as his plate-inspecting stare.

"I came to inform him of his great-great-grandchildren. Oh, and the previous as well, obviously," Argilla beamed, pulling out miniature paintings. "Also, to ask him what am I to do, seeing as I look as young as my great-grandchildren. Serpentine tells me this is hereditary. Quite puzzling, I must say."

The winged man looked pained.

Weft's face lit up. "He's got new great-great-grandchildren? And you're his daughter? I'm honoured to meet you! My name's Brother Weft and I do know your father, in a kind of complicated way. He mentioned the youngness thing to me once or twice. It gives him fantastic skin. I see you've inherited that --" Weft paused. "Um. Sorry." Unseen and UNheard, brother, does that sound at all familiar to you?

Weft sat back, very correctly, and glanced down at the tabletop. The barbarian didn't appear to have licked the varnish off yet. Wil was hovering, ready to collect plates and take orders for seconds. He didn't have the discreet ultra-courtesy common to Instarrian waitstaff. Weft could have tried to teach him, he supposed, but these pink-blooded Shade types were incapable of achieving the grace of a newborn rook.

Serpentine, having contained his amusement, did go for seconds. If this guy knew Sebastian, he was a disaster waiting to be happen -- just as much as he was himself and the Fox, well, he was a walking disaster. Hence why he was a little wary being around Argilla Auregarde sometimes, but so far nothing bad had happened. (Tea and biscuits notwithstanding.) In about a second he assessed that observation again, because...

...Argilla laughed, delighted, setting the painting down and clapping her gloved hands together. She genuinely seemed to be happy to meet Weft, and charmed as well. "Why, how fortuitous! And what a polite young man you are, Brother Weft."

Serpentine wanted his booze quick.

"Please, no apologies, good brother, and you flatter me -- I assure you I am more honoured to meet you, delighted at the very least if you do insist on being more honoured. Ah, but my manners! Would you like a cup of tea? I suspect you may have a story or two to tell of father; good Serpentine has told me some, and of course I have heard the legends."

Serpentine really wanted his booze. Her old man was bad enough when he felt like putting on a show, but there was a difference.

She wasn't putting on a show, or if she was, he couldn't tell.

Weft sat forward again, more demurely this time now the largely-pleasant surprise had worn off. The reason that surprise wasn't totally pleasant, of course, being the wingnut opposite, who was less than entirely successful at concealing his disapproval of Weft. And even that represented a refreshing thread of normality. People weren't meant to approve of Weft. The monk was essentially a quiet, formal guided missile; not the sort of thing anyone enjoyed to have brandished in their faces.

However, it was also true that his role as originally envisaged had not anticipated much in the way of... downtime. The thought that a killer assassin might be left behind to amuse himself and make friends, however kindly such instruction was phrased, in the middle of active ops was not one that had occurred to anyone occupying the same mental planet as Weft. Or, indeed, the same actual planet. He was sure he'd slip up and cause offence at any moment.

"A 'story or two' is one way of saying it, sure, ma'am," he offered with a small, genuine smile. The charm offensive was working on him, even if he had had any reason to suspect it was contrived. "A catalogue of disasters, mistaken identities, deadly monsters, improvised poetry and bandit attacks would be another way."

He paused when Wil began hovering in his direction in response to the nice woman's offer of tea. Technically he should decline out of self-deprecation, but technically he was also supposed to avoid giving offence, and many of these people seemed to take refusal as rudeness. "Goat, skimmed, please Wil."

Wil was clearly on his best behaviour, because the milk arrived in a glass. Weft hadn't found the saucer especially funny last time. Alas, he'd been in a minority.

About the same time, another guest arrived. From Nico's point of view, it had been several weeks, maybe a few months since she and Sylvie had left the Cross'd Roads. Somewhere along the way she had traded her long duster for a short jacket, and acquired a bright orange-red shirt. Instead of full-on travelling gear, she only carried a small shoulder bag, and an air of cheerful satisfaction. She had a greeting for anyone who wanted it.