Someone had been bringing him food.
The most perplexing thing, to Cyrus, was that heâd noticed this. He normally didnât pay mind to anyone coming by when he was busy with his researchâin the past, it had been only servants or slaves slipping in and out with the meals Cassius had ordered them to bring to him. He ignored those delivering the food in the same way he ignored the food itself. It was kinder that way, but it also just came naturally to him. Problems had been more interesting to him than people had for most of his life, and eventually he hadnât needed to exert any effort to not acknowledge them anymore; it had simply become automatic.
So he was quite nonplussed to learn that he had, in fact, noticed that someone was bringing him things to eat. Probably at regular intervals, though his concept of time tended to fade as he focused as well, so it was difficult to say. It wasnât Estella; he would have actually been drawn from his internal world if it had been her. He knew no one else who would bother.
He stared for a moment at the plate as though it had offended him. It was still faintly warm, from the steam rising off the potatoes, which meant it had been brought recently. No others remained beside it, his mysterious courier perhaps having cleared away the untouched priors when the new ones were left. He tried to decide when this had started, but found he had no idea how many days heâd been up here to begin with. He took a mental inventory and found himself to be still functional, so less than a fortnight for certain, but when he finally registered the gnawing in his own stomach, he cringed. Definitely more than a few days, then. Heâd never required sustenance at the same rate as others, but it was still a necessity.
His eyes narrowed, and he considered the innocent-looking platter before him. The smell was enticing, given his present state, but he resented the idea that someone thought he needed looking after. He was perfectly capable of remembering these things in his own time, and if he hadnât died from malnutrition yet, he was unlikely to.
âWhat do you think, Pia?â A short mewl answered him from the worktable he stood at, the still-very-small cat recognizing the name heâd given it. His eyes fell to her, curled atop an open book and regarding him with extremely large green eyes. He frowned. âYes, I rather thought so, too.â Electing to ignore the plate on the far table, he moved across his workshop, contemplating his cloak for a moment before he decided against it. It was full summerâeven in Skyhold, that meant such things could be foregone. âWatch the atelier for me, would you?â Another meow.
Cyrus descended his tower mostly unnoticed. Aside from being dressed better than most, he supposed he didnât really look that different from anyone else around here. Or rather, the Inquisitionâs people were diverse enough to begin with that he wouldnât stand out. Besides that, he wasnât about nearly often enough to be immediately recognizable as some of the others were, a marked change from how things had once been. He found he liked itâno one knowing or caring about who he was left him free to do much the same, and pursue whatever interested him with the vast majority of his time.
It was dark outside, which didnât surprise him as such; heâd had no expectations for what time of day it was, and hadnât bothered to check out the curtains of his tower windows to find out. The kitchens would probably be closed this late, which left the tavern as far as potential eating locations were concerned. He glided in with little fuss, taking a spot at the near-empty bar and ordering himself something to eat and drink, folding his arms on the counter and leaning against them while he waited.
Near-empty, save for the Riptide's captain slipping into the seat to Cyrus's left. From how quick she'd inhabited the space, it was evident that she had already been in the Herald's Rest. Perhaps, in one of the corners, or traipsing down the stairs leading up to the rooftops. Difficult to say with the dark-skinned woman. As loud as she seemed to be in everyone's company, her footsteps were feather-light and innocuous. Aside from the now-apparent sounds of shifting leathers, easily noted by her close proximity, and slender fingers drumming against the bar top, Zahra seemed comfortable in the silence stretching between them. Wearing a mixture of loose clothes, set low to bare her shoulders, leather trousers, and knee-high boots, she looked as if she might step out and set sail at any moment. Or step into a brothel.
The Herald's Rest was unusually empty, omitting the remnants of her crew strewn about the chairs in the furthest corner of the establishment. Hunched together, tankards full, playing a heated round of Wicked Grace. Bartender, bard, and stragglers remained. Deft fingers plucked at strings, piecing together a mellow tune that filled the reticent spaces. A few moments passed before there was movement beside him. Dusky eyes slid towards Cyrus and appeared to study his face, full-faced and unabashed. She leaned her elbow on the bar top and leaned her cheek against her fist. âTo rest, recoup, and persevere,â she lamented and nodded towards the doorway he'd walked in through. Her lips settled into an imploring smile, âwhich is it that's brought you all the way here?â
Cyrus slid his eyes to the side, cutting a glance at Zahra from the corner of his vision, and his mouth turned up at the corner. The barkeep brought by his tankard, and he hooked a finger over the bottom curve of the handle, dragging it closer towards him over the surface of the polished wood bar. The room smelled like warm spice and alcohol; they probably had some kind of mulled wine going in the back. âPerhaps all three.â He didnât see the point in giving the bland, factual answerâhe didnât really think it a question asked in spirit of getting one. âPerhaps only a change of scenery.â
He lifted the tankard to his mouth and took a long draught, setting it back down on the bar with a soft clink of tin on wood. âAnd yourself? Itâs a little stereotypical, isnât it? A privateer in a tavern?â
Another tankard slid in front of the leering Rivaini. It was accompanied by an exasperated grumble and a waggling finger pointing towards the corner of the tavern where her crewmen were growing rowdy, tossing their heads in laughter and shedding garments. A shirt or two, at least. She glanced sidelong and shrugged her shoulders, toothy grin flashing across her features. No one was quite naked. Not entirely. She seemed far too comfortable with the circumstance for it to have been the first time. Her nonchalance did little to pacify the frazzled barkeep. Vigorous scrubbing ensued, though the polished wood had naught a speck of dust or spilled ale on it. Zahra turned her attention back on Cyrus and regarded him with lidded eyes, reaching out with her free hand to drag her tankard closer. She pursed her lips and nodded.
âHaven't you seen the bright-eyed lasses in the Inquisition? They all have a thirst once in awhile,â she sighed and took a long swig of her own ale, setting it back where it had been resting before. A snorting laugh sounded as she straightened her shoulders and slunk a little lower in her chair, draping her arms over the back of it. Like a feline rearranging itself. Languid curves and a devil-may-care expression dancing on her face. There might have been a flicker of disappointment, barely perceptible, âFor a place so large, it's certainly bland. Plenty of pretty faces. But, filled with a less adventurous sort. If you take my meaning. What is a privateer to do.â
Cyrus laughed, a rolling chuckle that shook his shoulders more than it projected any sound. His eyes sparked with mirth, and he turned his head to better meet her eyes, a half-smile on his face, a brow angled upwards. âWhy captain. When fun cannot be found, it must be made.â His smile spread until it was a bright grin, capricious and fey, with a wolfish slant to it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers dancing absently across the smooth handle of his tankard. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued.
âAnd I speak from experience when I say that sometimes, the staid and 'bland' women are much more than they seem. Just because she wonât approach you, or drape herself all over you in public, doesnât mean thereâs nothing interesting there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little subtlety to find it. Iâll wager thatâs true even here.â He could say with great confidence that people were much more intriguing when they were genuinely more than they seemed. When he had any cause to interact with them at all, he preferred thatâtalking to, or in this case, bedding, those who had a bit of complexity to them. Coyness wasnât required, just nuance.
âThough I suppose that depends on how much time youâre looking to sink into your⊠endeavors.â Perhaps he was assuming something untrue, but Zahra seemed quite straightforward in this one respect, and more likely to choose her partners for, as she put it, their evident adventurousness. It was all a matter of taste, really; he wasnât criticizing anyone, though he supposed it might sound like he was.
Zahra's grin widened slightly, queried with a flagged eyebrow, âNow, where have you been my whole life. I'd swear that I was surrounded by sourpusses. Sticks in the mud.â She straightened up in her chair and crossed a leg over her knee, fingers weaving around her tankard. Her golden-flecked eyes almost glowed in the soft lamplights swaying overhead. It was difficult to tell if she was a nefarious pirate beguiled by furtive banter or simply a vixen-of-a-woman prattling about the Inquisition's latest gossip. It appeared as if she walked a fine line between predatory appetites, and girlish delights. As soon as she Cyrus leaned in, she followed suit: clearly rapt.
She rolled her eyes skyward as if she were chewing on his words, âYou've a point.â Then Zahra laughed again. Far less harsh this time. She pushed wavy hair away from her eyes, dragged slender fingers across her crown and down the nape of her neck. Her lips curved back up into that grin of hers that's half-grin, half-smirk. All amusement. It appeared as if he'd piqued her interest at least. Leaning back into her seat, Zahra polished off her drink with a sigh and settled the tankard back across the table, turning to face Cyrus properly. âTime?â Her eyes danced. âI prefer quick and easy. Messy in all the right ways. You've someone in mind?â
âQuick, is it? I hope thatâs not your attitude during the act, dear captain, else Iâve discovered the root of your problem.â His grin was positively salacious by that point, and he supposed this scene would look like something quite different than it was from the outsideâas though he were propositioning Zahra herself, perhaps. He wouldnât have minded in the least, but heâd picked up from cues in her words that she preferred her diversions much more feminine than Cyrus could ever be. Pity.
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed, raking errant strands of thick, dark hair behind her studded ears, looking every bit entertained. One might've been offended even if they'd walked straight into that, but it appeared as if she took everything in jest. âSeems whorehouses have spoiled me,â she reflected with a shrug of her shoulders, rubbing at her chin. Her chuckle was low and intimate, inviting him to share the joke with her. There was story there, hidden between her words. Perched on her lips. Perhaps not. Her inflections were disarmingly candid. Explicit windows into whatever adventures, and conquests, she'd experienced on the open seas. In any case, it appeared as if she was in no mood to share.
He huffed, clearly amused, though not inclined to pursue the thought. âBut⊠letâs see.â He turned around on the bar stool, Leaning back against the counter with his forearms and elbows, crossing an ankle over a knee and considering the other patrons with sharp eyes. âIâm going to assume you prefer to keep such things outside the crew, for the sake of simplicity.â Likely, if sheâd wanted to be sleeping with any of them and they were willing, it would be occurring already, so he felt it a safe assumption.
She, too, swiveled around in her chair and mimicked his posture: elbows and forearms leaning against the counter. Despite being a woman of such diminutive stature, masculine mannerisms suited her. Zahra's smile was almost cat-like in its ferocity, scanning the outlying crowd as one might seek a mouse. A pretty mouse. She jiggled her foot across her knee, obviously relishing in whatever game Cyrus was playing. The Captain's expression was open and guileless, clever and cunning. Clearly, easily enticed into mischief. While her words might have slipped out like silken promises, sultry demands and immediate inclinations, she looked like she was having fun.
He lifted his tankard to his mouth and drew down another swallow of ale. This was a popular party trick of his, with the right audience, and he did so love an audience. âThat leaves us with five women, three possibilities.â One of the five was with friends, and her body language made it evident to him that she wanted it to stay that way, meaning that approaches would be unwelcome. He might be a bit of a rake on his own time, but Cyrus did have boundaries. Another was already with a lover, quite obviously, narrowing the field.
He observed the others for a minute, then shrugged. âThe little blondeâs your best bet. The brunette wouldnât sleep with a woman and the elfâs too much of a romantic to enjoy anything casual.â He didnât explain how he knew any of that, but he stated it as though it were fact nevertheless.
She nodded and glanced towards the furthest corner of the Herald's Rest. An exasperated sigh followed suit, âAlas, some fruit aren't meant to be eaten. It's a rule. Pity that.â Zahra looked back at Cyrus and followed his gaze towards various corners. Her smile might have posed as an effective compass for specific interests, though it never faded. Often quirked into a wolfish grin that rivaled his own and tempered itself into a smirk. Lidded eyes wandering across shoulders, faces, and mouths.
For a moment she seemed silent as she regarded the little blonde across the way. She clicked her tongue and turned towards him, âI think you've got a gift, love. Supposing it works.â She inspected her fingernails, turned her hand around and flagged her eyebrows, âand the approach? In my experience, women in these parts aren't partial to aggressive pursuits.â
He considered the question. She might be a bit out of her element, with soldiers instead of port-dwellers, but he could say the same, to an extent. Not as muchâmartial types did mingle with nobility to some extent, of course, and so heâd some experience in the matter, but still, he was yet a long way from Minrathous, and the culture was different. âNot aggressive, no. And one must inevitably warm up to directness, though one can reach it eventually. Start light, I should think. Funny. Clever. Sweet, even, if you like. I doubt sheâd turn down a free drink, either. She likes darker beers, if you cared to know.â He also didnât justify how he knew that. Explaining the ways in which all of this was just careful observation took the fun out of it. The magic, so to speak.
He polished off his tankard and set it down behind him, fixing his eyes on nothing in particular as usual. âI have always found that the application of a little charm goes a long way. Aggression might save time, but itâs still a waste if it doesnât work, donât you think?â
Zahra seemed the sort who would have normally scoffed at anyone's advice when it came to wooing potential ladies. Instead, she hummed her accord. Captains, sailors, men and women of the sea chased unbridled furies and tended to dance far too close to the flames just to see if they would burn. Hungry lips, feverish touches, desperate kisses. A lack of control that felt a lot like sailing. Freedom from the tedious task of cooing soft lullabies into necklines and whispering sweet words like a songbird. Those were efforts reserved for those who remained buried in sheets. Promised a future they could not give. Woman or no, she behaved every part a pirate. But Cyrus had a different approach in mind. Things she might not have never considered. A small smile curled on her lips, drew up dimples.
She slipped from her stool and leaned towards him. Stopping so that she was looking up into Cyrus' face, albeit at shoulder height. Slender hands, bedecked in rings, drew up to cup his cheek and drag him closer. She swept the pad of her thumb down his jawline and grinned, âI like you, Cyrus. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.â He, not quite used to uninvited touch, blinked but did not flinch back. Zahra dropped her hand away, sidestepped in the empty space beside him and drew herself up on her tiptoes, tapping the counter top. âOne dark beer, pleaseâand stop that scowling, it'll ruin your pretty face.â
With tankard in hand, Zahra turned on her heels and wove through the growing crowd. Tempering her approach as much as she could manage, to look less like a stalking predator licking her chops. Planting a hand against the brickwork and flagging an inquiring eyebrow towards the bard strumming by the fireplace, she spoke just softly enough that the woman had to lean closer to hear. The conversation went fairly well. And the bright-eyed lass gave a surprised smile when she pushed the tankard into her hands, how did she know that that was her favorite drink? She laid out her charm. Smoldered. Offered witty banter and reached out to tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear, laughing. For a few moments, it appeared as if they were talking intensively. Loose gestures, giggling. Then Zahra offered her arm as any good gentleman would and inclined her head towards the door. For all her talk of bluntness and aggression, she did the other sort of wooing quite masterfully. He chuckled to himself.
The blonde settled her tankard down and took up Zahra's extended elbow. Perhaps, instinctively. It was only when they reached the door that Zahra looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin flashing teeth back towards Cyrus. He nodded with mock solemnity, then ruined the effect by winking. A loud laugh carried the women from the tavern and into the night.
Cyrus snorted softly through his nose and turned his stool back to face the bar, where his dinner had just arrived. It was with half a smile still lingering on his face that he picked up his utensils and tucked in.
The most perplexing thing, to Cyrus, was that heâd noticed this. He normally didnât pay mind to anyone coming by when he was busy with his researchâin the past, it had been only servants or slaves slipping in and out with the meals Cassius had ordered them to bring to him. He ignored those delivering the food in the same way he ignored the food itself. It was kinder that way, but it also just came naturally to him. Problems had been more interesting to him than people had for most of his life, and eventually he hadnât needed to exert any effort to not acknowledge them anymore; it had simply become automatic.
So he was quite nonplussed to learn that he had, in fact, noticed that someone was bringing him things to eat. Probably at regular intervals, though his concept of time tended to fade as he focused as well, so it was difficult to say. It wasnât Estella; he would have actually been drawn from his internal world if it had been her. He knew no one else who would bother.
He stared for a moment at the plate as though it had offended him. It was still faintly warm, from the steam rising off the potatoes, which meant it had been brought recently. No others remained beside it, his mysterious courier perhaps having cleared away the untouched priors when the new ones were left. He tried to decide when this had started, but found he had no idea how many days heâd been up here to begin with. He took a mental inventory and found himself to be still functional, so less than a fortnight for certain, but when he finally registered the gnawing in his own stomach, he cringed. Definitely more than a few days, then. Heâd never required sustenance at the same rate as others, but it was still a necessity.
His eyes narrowed, and he considered the innocent-looking platter before him. The smell was enticing, given his present state, but he resented the idea that someone thought he needed looking after. He was perfectly capable of remembering these things in his own time, and if he hadnât died from malnutrition yet, he was unlikely to.
âWhat do you think, Pia?â A short mewl answered him from the worktable he stood at, the still-very-small cat recognizing the name heâd given it. His eyes fell to her, curled atop an open book and regarding him with extremely large green eyes. He frowned. âYes, I rather thought so, too.â Electing to ignore the plate on the far table, he moved across his workshop, contemplating his cloak for a moment before he decided against it. It was full summerâeven in Skyhold, that meant such things could be foregone. âWatch the atelier for me, would you?â Another meow.
Cyrus descended his tower mostly unnoticed. Aside from being dressed better than most, he supposed he didnât really look that different from anyone else around here. Or rather, the Inquisitionâs people were diverse enough to begin with that he wouldnât stand out. Besides that, he wasnât about nearly often enough to be immediately recognizable as some of the others were, a marked change from how things had once been. He found he liked itâno one knowing or caring about who he was left him free to do much the same, and pursue whatever interested him with the vast majority of his time.
It was dark outside, which didnât surprise him as such; heâd had no expectations for what time of day it was, and hadnât bothered to check out the curtains of his tower windows to find out. The kitchens would probably be closed this late, which left the tavern as far as potential eating locations were concerned. He glided in with little fuss, taking a spot at the near-empty bar and ordering himself something to eat and drink, folding his arms on the counter and leaning against them while he waited.
Near-empty, save for the Riptide's captain slipping into the seat to Cyrus's left. From how quick she'd inhabited the space, it was evident that she had already been in the Herald's Rest. Perhaps, in one of the corners, or traipsing down the stairs leading up to the rooftops. Difficult to say with the dark-skinned woman. As loud as she seemed to be in everyone's company, her footsteps were feather-light and innocuous. Aside from the now-apparent sounds of shifting leathers, easily noted by her close proximity, and slender fingers drumming against the bar top, Zahra seemed comfortable in the silence stretching between them. Wearing a mixture of loose clothes, set low to bare her shoulders, leather trousers, and knee-high boots, she looked as if she might step out and set sail at any moment. Or step into a brothel.
The Herald's Rest was unusually empty, omitting the remnants of her crew strewn about the chairs in the furthest corner of the establishment. Hunched together, tankards full, playing a heated round of Wicked Grace. Bartender, bard, and stragglers remained. Deft fingers plucked at strings, piecing together a mellow tune that filled the reticent spaces. A few moments passed before there was movement beside him. Dusky eyes slid towards Cyrus and appeared to study his face, full-faced and unabashed. She leaned her elbow on the bar top and leaned her cheek against her fist. âTo rest, recoup, and persevere,â she lamented and nodded towards the doorway he'd walked in through. Her lips settled into an imploring smile, âwhich is it that's brought you all the way here?â
Cyrus slid his eyes to the side, cutting a glance at Zahra from the corner of his vision, and his mouth turned up at the corner. The barkeep brought by his tankard, and he hooked a finger over the bottom curve of the handle, dragging it closer towards him over the surface of the polished wood bar. The room smelled like warm spice and alcohol; they probably had some kind of mulled wine going in the back. âPerhaps all three.â He didnât see the point in giving the bland, factual answerâhe didnât really think it a question asked in spirit of getting one. âPerhaps only a change of scenery.â
He lifted the tankard to his mouth and took a long draught, setting it back down on the bar with a soft clink of tin on wood. âAnd yourself? Itâs a little stereotypical, isnât it? A privateer in a tavern?â
Another tankard slid in front of the leering Rivaini. It was accompanied by an exasperated grumble and a waggling finger pointing towards the corner of the tavern where her crewmen were growing rowdy, tossing their heads in laughter and shedding garments. A shirt or two, at least. She glanced sidelong and shrugged her shoulders, toothy grin flashing across her features. No one was quite naked. Not entirely. She seemed far too comfortable with the circumstance for it to have been the first time. Her nonchalance did little to pacify the frazzled barkeep. Vigorous scrubbing ensued, though the polished wood had naught a speck of dust or spilled ale on it. Zahra turned her attention back on Cyrus and regarded him with lidded eyes, reaching out with her free hand to drag her tankard closer. She pursed her lips and nodded.
âHaven't you seen the bright-eyed lasses in the Inquisition? They all have a thirst once in awhile,â she sighed and took a long swig of her own ale, setting it back where it had been resting before. A snorting laugh sounded as she straightened her shoulders and slunk a little lower in her chair, draping her arms over the back of it. Like a feline rearranging itself. Languid curves and a devil-may-care expression dancing on her face. There might have been a flicker of disappointment, barely perceptible, âFor a place so large, it's certainly bland. Plenty of pretty faces. But, filled with a less adventurous sort. If you take my meaning. What is a privateer to do.â
Cyrus laughed, a rolling chuckle that shook his shoulders more than it projected any sound. His eyes sparked with mirth, and he turned his head to better meet her eyes, a half-smile on his face, a brow angled upwards. âWhy captain. When fun cannot be found, it must be made.â His smile spread until it was a bright grin, capricious and fey, with a wolfish slant to it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers dancing absently across the smooth handle of his tankard. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued.
âAnd I speak from experience when I say that sometimes, the staid and 'bland' women are much more than they seem. Just because she wonât approach you, or drape herself all over you in public, doesnât mean thereâs nothing interesting there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little subtlety to find it. Iâll wager thatâs true even here.â He could say with great confidence that people were much more intriguing when they were genuinely more than they seemed. When he had any cause to interact with them at all, he preferred thatâtalking to, or in this case, bedding, those who had a bit of complexity to them. Coyness wasnât required, just nuance.
âThough I suppose that depends on how much time youâre looking to sink into your⊠endeavors.â Perhaps he was assuming something untrue, but Zahra seemed quite straightforward in this one respect, and more likely to choose her partners for, as she put it, their evident adventurousness. It was all a matter of taste, really; he wasnât criticizing anyone, though he supposed it might sound like he was.
Zahra's grin widened slightly, queried with a flagged eyebrow, âNow, where have you been my whole life. I'd swear that I was surrounded by sourpusses. Sticks in the mud.â She straightened up in her chair and crossed a leg over her knee, fingers weaving around her tankard. Her golden-flecked eyes almost glowed in the soft lamplights swaying overhead. It was difficult to tell if she was a nefarious pirate beguiled by furtive banter or simply a vixen-of-a-woman prattling about the Inquisition's latest gossip. It appeared as if she walked a fine line between predatory appetites, and girlish delights. As soon as she Cyrus leaned in, she followed suit: clearly rapt.
She rolled her eyes skyward as if she were chewing on his words, âYou've a point.â Then Zahra laughed again. Far less harsh this time. She pushed wavy hair away from her eyes, dragged slender fingers across her crown and down the nape of her neck. Her lips curved back up into that grin of hers that's half-grin, half-smirk. All amusement. It appeared as if he'd piqued her interest at least. Leaning back into her seat, Zahra polished off her drink with a sigh and settled the tankard back across the table, turning to face Cyrus properly. âTime?â Her eyes danced. âI prefer quick and easy. Messy in all the right ways. You've someone in mind?â
âQuick, is it? I hope thatâs not your attitude during the act, dear captain, else Iâve discovered the root of your problem.â His grin was positively salacious by that point, and he supposed this scene would look like something quite different than it was from the outsideâas though he were propositioning Zahra herself, perhaps. He wouldnât have minded in the least, but heâd picked up from cues in her words that she preferred her diversions much more feminine than Cyrus could ever be. Pity.
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed, raking errant strands of thick, dark hair behind her studded ears, looking every bit entertained. One might've been offended even if they'd walked straight into that, but it appeared as if she took everything in jest. âSeems whorehouses have spoiled me,â she reflected with a shrug of her shoulders, rubbing at her chin. Her chuckle was low and intimate, inviting him to share the joke with her. There was story there, hidden between her words. Perched on her lips. Perhaps not. Her inflections were disarmingly candid. Explicit windows into whatever adventures, and conquests, she'd experienced on the open seas. In any case, it appeared as if she was in no mood to share.
He huffed, clearly amused, though not inclined to pursue the thought. âBut⊠letâs see.â He turned around on the bar stool, Leaning back against the counter with his forearms and elbows, crossing an ankle over a knee and considering the other patrons with sharp eyes. âIâm going to assume you prefer to keep such things outside the crew, for the sake of simplicity.â Likely, if sheâd wanted to be sleeping with any of them and they were willing, it would be occurring already, so he felt it a safe assumption.
She, too, swiveled around in her chair and mimicked his posture: elbows and forearms leaning against the counter. Despite being a woman of such diminutive stature, masculine mannerisms suited her. Zahra's smile was almost cat-like in its ferocity, scanning the outlying crowd as one might seek a mouse. A pretty mouse. She jiggled her foot across her knee, obviously relishing in whatever game Cyrus was playing. The Captain's expression was open and guileless, clever and cunning. Clearly, easily enticed into mischief. While her words might have slipped out like silken promises, sultry demands and immediate inclinations, she looked like she was having fun.
He lifted his tankard to his mouth and drew down another swallow of ale. This was a popular party trick of his, with the right audience, and he did so love an audience. âThat leaves us with five women, three possibilities.â One of the five was with friends, and her body language made it evident to him that she wanted it to stay that way, meaning that approaches would be unwelcome. He might be a bit of a rake on his own time, but Cyrus did have boundaries. Another was already with a lover, quite obviously, narrowing the field.
He observed the others for a minute, then shrugged. âThe little blondeâs your best bet. The brunette wouldnât sleep with a woman and the elfâs too much of a romantic to enjoy anything casual.â He didnât explain how he knew any of that, but he stated it as though it were fact nevertheless.
She nodded and glanced towards the furthest corner of the Herald's Rest. An exasperated sigh followed suit, âAlas, some fruit aren't meant to be eaten. It's a rule. Pity that.â Zahra looked back at Cyrus and followed his gaze towards various corners. Her smile might have posed as an effective compass for specific interests, though it never faded. Often quirked into a wolfish grin that rivaled his own and tempered itself into a smirk. Lidded eyes wandering across shoulders, faces, and mouths.
For a moment she seemed silent as she regarded the little blonde across the way. She clicked her tongue and turned towards him, âI think you've got a gift, love. Supposing it works.â She inspected her fingernails, turned her hand around and flagged her eyebrows, âand the approach? In my experience, women in these parts aren't partial to aggressive pursuits.â
He considered the question. She might be a bit out of her element, with soldiers instead of port-dwellers, but he could say the same, to an extent. Not as muchâmartial types did mingle with nobility to some extent, of course, and so heâd some experience in the matter, but still, he was yet a long way from Minrathous, and the culture was different. âNot aggressive, no. And one must inevitably warm up to directness, though one can reach it eventually. Start light, I should think. Funny. Clever. Sweet, even, if you like. I doubt sheâd turn down a free drink, either. She likes darker beers, if you cared to know.â He also didnât justify how he knew that. Explaining the ways in which all of this was just careful observation took the fun out of it. The magic, so to speak.
He polished off his tankard and set it down behind him, fixing his eyes on nothing in particular as usual. âI have always found that the application of a little charm goes a long way. Aggression might save time, but itâs still a waste if it doesnât work, donât you think?â
Zahra seemed the sort who would have normally scoffed at anyone's advice when it came to wooing potential ladies. Instead, she hummed her accord. Captains, sailors, men and women of the sea chased unbridled furies and tended to dance far too close to the flames just to see if they would burn. Hungry lips, feverish touches, desperate kisses. A lack of control that felt a lot like sailing. Freedom from the tedious task of cooing soft lullabies into necklines and whispering sweet words like a songbird. Those were efforts reserved for those who remained buried in sheets. Promised a future they could not give. Woman or no, she behaved every part a pirate. But Cyrus had a different approach in mind. Things she might not have never considered. A small smile curled on her lips, drew up dimples.
She slipped from her stool and leaned towards him. Stopping so that she was looking up into Cyrus' face, albeit at shoulder height. Slender hands, bedecked in rings, drew up to cup his cheek and drag him closer. She swept the pad of her thumb down his jawline and grinned, âI like you, Cyrus. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.â He, not quite used to uninvited touch, blinked but did not flinch back. Zahra dropped her hand away, sidestepped in the empty space beside him and drew herself up on her tiptoes, tapping the counter top. âOne dark beer, pleaseâand stop that scowling, it'll ruin your pretty face.â
With tankard in hand, Zahra turned on her heels and wove through the growing crowd. Tempering her approach as much as she could manage, to look less like a stalking predator licking her chops. Planting a hand against the brickwork and flagging an inquiring eyebrow towards the bard strumming by the fireplace, she spoke just softly enough that the woman had to lean closer to hear. The conversation went fairly well. And the bright-eyed lass gave a surprised smile when she pushed the tankard into her hands, how did she know that that was her favorite drink? She laid out her charm. Smoldered. Offered witty banter and reached out to tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear, laughing. For a few moments, it appeared as if they were talking intensively. Loose gestures, giggling. Then Zahra offered her arm as any good gentleman would and inclined her head towards the door. For all her talk of bluntness and aggression, she did the other sort of wooing quite masterfully. He chuckled to himself.
The blonde settled her tankard down and took up Zahra's extended elbow. Perhaps, instinctively. It was only when they reached the door that Zahra looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin flashing teeth back towards Cyrus. He nodded with mock solemnity, then ruined the effect by winking. A loud laugh carried the women from the tavern and into the night.
Cyrus snorted softly through his nose and turned his stool back to face the bar, where his dinner had just arrived. It was with half a smile still lingering on his face that he picked up his utensils and tucked in.