Rolled 5, 4, 1, 4 = 14 (4d20)
>>5168480>>5168158>>5168004>>5167968Since you aren’t wearing YOUR face, you decide there’s no harm in taking a chance. Besides, what are you if not a charmer, and what is a skirt-chaser like Sir Chase if not easily-charmed? You quickly wolf down what remains of your meal and follow the two men outside.
“Sirs!” you call to them. “Sirs, wait!”
The older one looks over his shoulder at you with a difficult-to-read expression—you think it might be annoyance, though Irinnile has another, more paranoid explanation for his steely-eyed half-glare. Chase, though, is all smiles as soon as he recognizes you.
“Ah, the fetching young maiden with whom I locked eyes!” he says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance more… Closely.”
“The pleasssure is all mine,” you reply, even deigning to curtsy; this widens the younger man’s grin.
“And to what do we both owe such pleasure?” he asks.
“What did you mean about ssaving the ccity?”
Sir Chase blinks a couple times, then laughs. It is an artificial sound, boisterous to cover up for a nervousness.
“You were right, Sir Innis,” he says, looking to his companion. “I WAS a little too loud.”
The other man just gruffly harrumphs, not taking his eyes off of you. Irinnile withers away to the depths of you, hiding behind your demon-disguising charm and afraid to even THINK of moving or acting.
“Miss,” Sir Chase says, taking to you as if to a hatchling—or, well, a little girl, you suppose, “we of the Order of Paladins of Hawksong save this city more times before breakfast than all the tales of our valor you hear about in the press and around the taverns… Just in smaller ways, sometimes.”
“The tiring work musst exxxplain the bagss under your eyess,” you say, without thinking.
Innes flinches back, struck square in his pride. You smile and tilt your head, telling him: “Only joking. I’m ever ssso grateful to be able to thank one of you mossst noble heroesss in perssson.”
“Um, well… Thank you, Miss…?”
“What daring-do are you off to do now?” you ask, changing the subject while you think of a pseudonym.
“Well,” Sir Chase says, looking this way and that before leaning in closer, “but we’re—”
