a cup of TEA ;; |Air|

[VIVIAN JOSEPHINE BENVIOLET.]

It was chilly, for summer, and a day so dreary she wondered if the sky wished to cry, raining down thick droplets of water as if they were God’s own tears. She could imagine it quite easily, if she attempted to do so, but she refrained. She was not overly fond of the rain which plagued the country, of the fog that rolled in each morning, of the mists which hung heavily around the branches of the trees of the Black Forest. It was a sad landscape begging her to desert it, but with a hidden, wild beauty that kept her there.

Vivian brushed a strand of her hair out of her face, pulled her cloak a tad closer around herself, and pushed open the door to the inn. A gust of cold wind followed her into the otherwise warm interior, made so by the multiple stone fireplaces around the walls. The distinct scent of roasting meat greeted her sensitive nostrils—it was all she could do to breathe her mouth and not grimace. She found it impossible to identify the stench, but she felt it would not be a good idea to try, either. Instead, the small woman made her way to the bar and slid into one of the stools at the end. It wasn’t a common practice for a woman to do so, she supposed, but it was easier to speak with the bartender than with the ever busy maids.

Tonight, she wanted nothing more than a nice cup of tea to warm her chilled insides, and a nice round of chatter with the man behind the bar, handing out wine and such to the customers. She waited patiently for him to notice her, and asked only for the chamomile she had come for—rather than the enticing bottles of wine, green glass winking from the shelves, she knew contained such delicious varieties. She had not the funds for a glass of wine, and she knew from experience she would draw the eye of the other sparse occupants of the dining room if she requested a glass. It would not do, in the end.

Wiping aside a second displaced strand of hair, the witch brought her cloak closer once more, considering if she shouldn’t sit closer to the fire instead. If she had reason, she might, but perhaps she should attempt a use of the magic she controlled but practiced so very infrequently?

[NATHANIEL JAMES BRYON.]

N A T H A N I E L – B R Y O N

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Abby looked up at him from her seat on the rug near the door as he pulled his black frock on and put on his typical hat over his finger combed hair. He knelt before her and rubbed behind her ears and got a lick on the cheek in response. Standing Nathaniel lifted his hat and inclined his head to the dog. “I shall return soon madam so fret not”, he was inclined to inform the Labrador that was his sole companion. She tilted her head and barked tail sweeping the rug before she settled and watched him close the door with a soft click leaving her to guard the house in his absence. There was no further sounds from the canine within. He smiled pleased and resettled his hat before he stepped off his porch and took his walk looking for the Inn to see who he might meet there this night, something he did often enough to not be strange, finding company of human heritage was something he did once or twice a month. Just to break the dull routine of a life alone. It was something Abigail did not care for but he spent his every waking hour and slumbering hour with her right at his feet for the most part, it was good for them to be alone from time to time and he was a man not a fellow dog. A little drink once or a while never hurt anyone anyway. So he set his sights for his destination and was off.

Nathaniel slowed his easy going pace when he reached the Inn and looked at the door stepping aside as someone left. Taking the door he slipped in before letting it close behind him cutting off the chilly nights breeze from its continued journey in the room. He looked over the span of the room before he moved over to one of the fires without a table but rather comfortable chairs set there for such reasons as he was to use them, to relax by the fire and drink by the fire. The brunette male took off his frock to leave him in his charcoal vest with a white shirt, black trousers and a tie to match everything. He sat with a mute sigh and smiled warmly to the barmaid who came forth. He asked for a glass of wine, not in the mood for something less classy like ale. It did not take long before she returned and he traded her a glass of the wine for the money it required.

The book keeper relaxed and took a sip of the wine brown gaze falling on the dancing flames without much else to do while present, the chair across from him was open for anyone who would wish to join him seeking company as he too did. His stare was without distraction and the pondering light reflected by the fires motions lessened the intensity of his gaze for once. He took another sip of the wine and lowered the glass a little as he turned his gaze towards it giving it a little swirl watching the ripples of the dark liquor.

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Post Count// 528
Character Mood// Lonely, Relaxed
Authors Notes// Hope its not to bad[/size][/color][/center]

[VIVIAN JOSEPHINE BENVIOLET.]

New, unpleasant wind as the door creaked open chased a chill down her spine—a chill she was lost to prevent, a chill even the tea had no chance to warm. She shivered, drawing the heavy fabric closer about her shoulders and cupping the tea cup with both hands as if the ceramic might warm them, might purge them of the chill outside. The thought disappeared—replaced by a new intent. She nodded to the bartender, and proceeded to pick up her tea to approach the man who’d entered moments ago. He’d removed his outer layer, revealing more detail about his physique, detail the frock would have hidden had she paid attention to him before.

The table was large enough to accommodate them both—or so she hoped. Although Vivian liked to think herself an accurate judge of people, she was unsure occasionally, regarding their private thoughts and lives. Perhaps it was easier to say she was adept at reading the people she happened to “bump” into—be they werewolf, vampires, humans, or other magically gifted ones such as herself. She had even developed the ability to—with moderate success—predict her sister’s comings and goings, although long absences worried beyond anything else she would imagine. Despite the racial rift between her and her siblings, Vivian sought to keep them close, especially the two who seemed to hate one another so.

With a deep breath to calm her frazzled sense—due to said absence of her sister as well as the chill from before—the witch pulled a chair away from the table for herself, but hesitated to sit down. Yes, it was opposite him, placing her back to the fire but not in the way of his gaze, and yet she felt she would be invading his personal space. Why not simply ask? So she did, still holding her teacup and saucer with the one hand, the other holding her cloak at her throat, “Excuse me, sir, but perhaps I might join you by the fire? It is rather chilly elsewhere in the room.” her voice, admittedly, was nearly as quiet as the crackle and snap of the flames licking the wood behind her, but she was sure he heard. If he did not respond, she’d simply ask again.

What reason was there to stop her? Certainly not a lack in manners—save for the interruption of his thoughts itself, she had been perfectly polite, reasonable. In the relatively moderately sized town, it shouldn’t be out of sorts for a lady to ask permission to seat herself near a gentleman. If it was, she would be surprised. In a way, she supposed the initial hesitation had been the lack of manners in having sat down without his permission. So she had down it correctly. Why, then, the sense of dread, as if he would refuse her request and send her, so to speak, packing? She could go to a different fireplace she supposed, but this had been nearest to her seat. She had seen no reason to move elsewhere due to the size of the table.

Vivian sighed, attempting to make the sound and the deflation of her chest, the fall of her shoulders, imperceptible. She could not control her face, she could not lie: that was true. But she could, with work and effort, attempt to hide either reactions. Her success rate varied.

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