>>5949296:)
>>5949290“We wait,” is all you whisper to the inquisitor who gives a nod in return.
He doesn’t speak and neither do you as more patrons file out of the tavern, either going upstairs to their rooms or out the door. An inquisitor silently waiting with royalty in a dingy bar isn’t a sight you see every day. The mere presence of the two of you seems to be unnerving enough to cause some people to turn tail and run. It’s like the adventures have a sixth sense that tells them something bad is about to happen. Though you see a couple loitering outside the establishment, perhaps hoping to catch you if you decide to leave. Soon enough the only occupants in the tavern are the inquisitor, you, and the Purse Punchers. Goddess, it’s such a stupid name.
Even still you can feel your heart quickening as the silence drags on. Like the moment right before a duel yet so much worse. In a duel, the only thing you have to worry about is an accident or complete humiliation, but this isn’t a duel. You’ve entered a lion’s den while cold, wet, and tired, you’re about to face a Stranger, and Strangers are <span class="mu-s">dangerous.</span> How is the inquisitor managing to stay so calm!?
A knock breaks you out of your anxiety episode, you notice it’s the inquisitor's knuckles hitting the table. He nods his head over to the door the bartender went through and mouths the words, ‘Get ready,’ before slowly resting the same hand near the hilt of his sheathed sword.
Soon enough the door opens revealing Oliver ushering in a small woman, who looks more like an adventurer than a bartender, holding towels with both her hands. Her glove-covered hands. “Hi! So you must be her Royal Highness, it’s an honor to have you at the Dawn’s Light!” The girl says as she practically bounces towards you handing you all but one of the towels. That one going to the inquisitor.
As to not be rude or reveal that you know, they know, that there’s a Stranger here you take the towels without so much as a thank you. It is best to keep up your haughty noble appearance. Then you throw the first towel onto your face and dry your head off, you’re certain you do so with elegance and grace that fits only the highest of nobility. At least Oliver and Clarice seem to think so as they keep staring at you with “warm” smiles.
The inquisitor doesn’t even try to hide his laugh as he sets his towel on the table without drying himself.
“Mr. Oliver, sir, you appear to be hurt. Is everything alright with your hand?” You decide to lay your cards out early hoping to catch him off guard. At the other side of the table, the inquisitor slightly nods in approval.
“Oh, that’s nothing you need to worry about, Your Highness, some lads got a bit rowdy and there was an accident with some broken glass. Doesn’t even hurt, see?” Oliver completely his point by waving his right hand into the air. There’s not even a wince from the pain a wound that causes that much blood should have.
