RP:Carrying the Conversation

Frostmaw Tavern

Gorehilt guzzles a tall stein of beer to encouraging cries of "chug! chug! chug!" Higher and higher it tips until, with dimples of golden foam dribbling down his green cheeks, Gorehilt inverts the empty glass to hold it over his head. He cheers. His tablemates cheer. The all slap each other on the shoulders and laugh for no good reason. Before tonight, Gorehilt had met none of them, but now they feel as close as bosom companions. Who are they, trappers? Soldiers? Shopkeeps? What's it matter? The ale and laughter flow freely together. Speaking of ale, Gorehilt is fresh out. Pulling himself away from the others, he trots to the bar. "Drargon. Drargon!" Gorehilt bangs his stein raucously on the bar.

Loravelle still found herself not at all used to having free time. Waiting hand over foot for people was her job, and being told for the second night in a row that she can do as she pleased for the majority of the day was baffling. The folks that worked here cleaned all the rooms upstairs, which chopped her daily chores down to half. At least now, she didn't feel as cold. The leather, fur-collared jacket tossed her way by the stranger the night before had only been removed once to bathe and change clothes. To her embarrassment, Loravelle slept with it on, grateful for its warmth. She crept downstairs, this time with more caution than the night before. Maybe it would be empty this time, and she could quietly sit and...do what? Stare at a wall? Try a drink? There were a few pieces of copper left in her coin purse before the Bradley family paid her again. Perhaps just enough for a snack. Adjusting one of the several wooden combs and ornaments holding her updo in place, she finds herself stopping short. Had she wandered in on a party? The chants and cheers, the sound of banging. Well, Loravelle is startled. Her pale grey eyes go wide as she takes in the folk gathered around the rowdy table, and keeps her gaze downcast while turning to make a beeline for the bar. A glass of water it is, she thinks to herself, but due to her eyes being glued to the floor, the small woman collides with Gorehilt. An audible gasp follows, and she staggers back, her posture falling quickly to that of one that is clearly subservient – lesser. Hands clasped loosely in front, chin tilted downward. She bends in a half curtsy to excuse herself, and scurries past, putting a few bar stools between herself and him.

Gorehilt has just wrapped his fingers through the handle of his fresh pour of ale when, "ah no!" It's not much of a jostle, and he only spills a few drops over the brim. "Easy!" He laughs and glares playfully at Loravelle. His table, which had watched this play out, shouts jeering encouragements. Needing somewhere to direct his mock antagonism (and sensing Loravelle would be the wrong place to point it), Gorehilt throws a rude hand gesture toward his crass companions, then turns to follow close after the small woman. "Hey, you don't have to run off. I wasn't really mad." The half-orc cadet leans back with both elbows on the bar, posting up next to Loravelle as close as may be socially permissible. Maybe a hair closer? "You're too polite. I can tell already. Read the room," he teases and does his best to present a disarming smile. "Cheers." Gorehilt lifts his glass to her, and again, his table cheers and wolf-whistles. He ignores them and watches Loravelle over the edge of his stein, waiting for her to reciprocate the friendly, albeit forward toast.

Loravelle realizes who she has bumped and blinks. An orc? All the way up here? Of course, crossing paths with them in Gualon was common. To her surprise, seeing a face that could potentially be familiar reduced her anxiety. Just a little. He seems...friendly enough. He's smiling at least, and perceptive enough to read her overly skittish nature. When he gets a hair too close, she takes a half step back, head turning to heed his request to read the room. This is a normal thing that people do. Drink, enjoy themselves. For Miss Lora however, she resigned herself to be a fly on the wall. Gorehilt's welcoming gesture surely cannot be ignored however (though she tries to ignore his companions' wolf whistling and cheers), and she...does nothing. Having no drink of her own to join his toast, she scrambles. Drargon slides a glass of water her way in enough time to make the scene slightly less awkward. She raises the glass, offers a timid smile to Gorehilt, and takes a drink.

Gorehilt points at Lora the instant Drargon arrives with the water. "My tab. I bumped into her." The barkeep indulges him with a nod and a smile. Yes, I'll put the complementary water on your tab, idiot, please tip me well. Gorehilt glows, assured. His glass clicks hers. They drink. Already, the table across the bar is losing interest and giving up Gorehilt as lost. "You're here for the tournament," Gorehilt guesses as soon as he swallowed. "Me too," a hint of color enters his cheeks, "fought and lost already." He laughs and scratches the back of his head, his tusked smile wide enough to press his eyes nearly shut. "There's always next year." He sighs, takes another deeper drink, then points at Loravelle. "Mm. I saw you in the ring, right? Went twelve rounds before the judges called it for unnecessary brutality. That's how your face got all messed up." He gestures at his own facial scars, the points at her again with a wink, then taps his own jaw. "A born fighter, right? You'd clock me on the chin right now, if you had half a mind."

Loravelle 's free hand waves quickly, dismissively. He didn't have to buy her water! It's okay, she didn't have anything to repay him with, and surely he had better things to spend his money on. Before she can begin to try mustering up the courage to speak, he's guessing why she's here. The tournament. She nods. Everyone seems to be. It was a logistical nightmare getting the family she worked for enough rooms for themselves and their handful of attendants with half of the inns being booked ahead of time. So they're scattered about Frostmaw, with her caring for the head of the household, a kindly but very old man who snored upstairs. But they made it, to her relief. Fought and lost? He was one of the entrants? They must have missed his match, having arrived to Frostmaw later than anticipated. Her expression turns apologetic, then quickly to confusion. Her head quickly shakes. Loravelle? In a ring? That's laughable. Her cheeks turn rosy upon realizing that Gorehilt is probably very drunk, and she averts her gaze for a beat. He seems a friendly drunk, so she (cautiously) tries to be friendly back. A playful jab at his upper arm, light enough to not be noticed. Maybe in another life she could have been a fighter.

Gorehilt feigns a wince and a grimace. "Ow!" He rubs his arm where she jabs it. "Alright, I'll lay off, you don't have to warn me twice." Gorehilt hisses in mock pain before grinning again. "Boy you don't talk much." Keen observation, Gorehilt. "It's fine, though, I feel like I'm carrying the conversation for both of us. It's like carrying a piano, right? You're a piano mover in your off time?" He nods as if she's affirmed this. "I knew it. You have the build," Gorehilt gestures vaguely at her figure, "piano mover through the week, prize fighter on weekends." He takes another long sip, mostly to keep himself from breaking his straight-faced act. Has he cracked her yet? Is she laughing? "Gods and hells, I wish I had half the bearing that you did. How do you put up with me?" His fingers splay indicatively over his chest. "*I* couldn't put up with me. Just listen to how I talk."

Loravelle knows that he's feigning injury, but can't help her worrisome expression from reappearing. What if he hurt that arm in the tournament? She didn't touch it too much, did she? Setting the glass down, she takes a step forward, hand extended to look at his arm if there really was a problem. But then Gorehilt continues! And she feels very silly. She misunderstands his question about moving a piano and thinks he meant to ask, does she play? Her head shakes, and she pantomimes strumming pipa, a sort of lute that could probably be mistaken for a guitar. A laugh does leave her lips, to her surprise. Hopefully it isn't terribly audible – perhaps the half-orc didn't hear it at all? Brows knit at his questions, and she shrugs. If he believes her to be a piano carrying (or playing) fighter, perhaps he is drunk enough that he won't remember if she talks. As much as Loravelle detested speaking, she replies, but looks down. Her face is turning red. “It is my job,” her voice is soft, gentle. What one might expect from a caregiver. “To listen.”

Gorehilt tips an ear the moment she speaks, obviously paying keen attention. Her job, yes, go on. "Ah!" Gorehilt gives himself a "duh, of course" slap on the forehead. "No wonder you're so good at it. And here I was thinking you did all the easy, wussy stuff like moving pianos and knocking out loudmouths like me." He straightens up again and focuses on some imaginary, distant object. He drinks. "You listen." How does listening pay? That's the obvious enigma here, but there's no way in hell that Gorehilt can ask for the answer in plain terms. That's not how the game works. "Was that your first choice? Or did you," his fingers wiggle vaguely, "stumble your way into your listening gig? I wouldn't know how to get my foot in the door." The most believable thing you've said all night. "It must pay well, because look at you." To Gorehilt's credit, she does stand out as the most, ah, ornamental personality in the room. Most folks here are due for a good scrub and brushing, to say the very least.

Loravelle – “N-no, it's um..it's- ...heh.” This guy doesn't stop, does he? It's incredibly entertaining. More nervous laughter. Is she having a conversation correctly? This is how it works, right? He seems so excited about a listening job too, it's saddening to let him down. How to clarify without letting him down too much? “I'm a maid,” she explains. It isn't glamorous, but the pay is good if you find someone who will pay you well. She's fortunate in that regard. “In Gualon.” She peers down at her attire. Is it the leather jacket that Gorehilt refers to? She shakes her head. It isn't hers. The frog-clasped gown and pants beneath it however, are. They're plain, dyed in earth tones, but she likes them. His compliment makes her flash a genuine smile.

Gorehilt cocks and ear and leans closer to listen again, making sure he can pick out her soft voice from the general roar of the tavern. "Oh right," of course she's a maid, what else would she be? "Oh right!" His face lights up like a roman candle. "From Gualon!" Of course she is, where else would she be from?! Positively beaming now, Gorehilt regards this listener-maid lady with a fresh perspective. "Me too," he points at himself, the tusks, his overall orcish appearance, half-breed though he may be. There's a decent chance they've passed one another on a street before. "Who would have guessed, we're both housemaids, here, to fight in the Frostmaw tournament. It's too uncanny."

Loravelle fails to suppress another laugh. He's a maid too? She doesn't believe it. Didn't he say he was a fighter not too long ago? She slides her hardly touched glass of water toward him. He might need that to help sober up a bit. Her smile grows. At least there was at least one person from home around. She imagines, if she were less shy and skittish, spending more time with Gorehilt and complaining about how frigid it is here. But this is enough for now. It's odd missing the swamp and the city further south, but Lora does feel a bit homesick. The thought makes her think to check on the old man she's in charge of. She had been away for a bit too long. Startled at the realization, she waves at Gorehilt to bid him farewell, then moves to scurry up the stairs to one of the rooms.

Gorehilt is left hanging, much to the renewed amusement of his erstwhile companions. It's plainly their opinion that he should go after her. Instead, he's happy enough to wave after her. And then? Well, he kills his glass, kills her glass, and hollers for more. "Drargon. Drargon!"