It's cobwebby inside, littered with old broken furniture. The roof is leaking intermittently. Plourr's greatcoat is stretched out on the brick besides her fire, which is also serving to dry her boots.
"I'm not going by Estill anymore. It's Pol." For a good ten or fifteen years she'd given her name as various slices and slivers of her actual name, foolishly not thinking of the consequences of telling people to call her anything too reminiscent of Isplourrdacartha Kassen Estillo. Even Pol is a corruption of it, but it's something that could plausibly have origins that aren't the royal house of Eiattu. And she hates the thought of abandoning this, last, thing. "What am I always looking for? Money, grub, pretty boys and girls, spirits - I'm developing new skills, though. Thought I'd try a few months as a barkeep, and they need one."
He looks older. Well, obviously. But something's happened in the last however many years that's shaken his worldview. Perhaps not enough to make him dangerous. It seems too much of a transformation for him to have gone subtle and silver-tongued, to be able to come smiling and wait for her back to turn.
Plourr rifles one-handed through the coat and comes up with a flask that she offers, half full of a truly alarming spirit that might be some version of vodka and really shouldn't be shared without knowledge of what it is. "Warm up a touch. You look drowned."
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"I'm not going by Estill anymore. It's Pol." For a good ten or fifteen years she'd given her name as various slices and slivers of her actual name, foolishly not thinking of the consequences of telling people to call her anything too reminiscent of Isplourrdacartha Kassen Estillo. Even Pol is a corruption of it, but it's something that could plausibly have origins that aren't the royal house of Eiattu. And she hates the thought of abandoning this, last, thing. "What am I always looking for? Money, grub, pretty boys and girls, spirits - I'm developing new skills, though. Thought I'd try a few months as a barkeep, and they need one."
He looks older. Well, obviously. But something's happened in the last however many years that's shaken his worldview. Perhaps not enough to make him dangerous. It seems too much of a transformation for him to have gone subtle and silver-tongued, to be able to come smiling and wait for her back to turn.
Plourr rifles one-handed through the coat and comes up with a flask that she offers, half full of a truly alarming spirit that might be some version of vodka and really shouldn't be shared without knowledge of what it is. "Warm up a touch. You look drowned."