1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of ... (#6)

Pardys Isles

The little dog is whimpering, not even making its usual sound that's closer to a scream than a bark, and his owner isn't in a position to comfort him. Wight is petting him while Brineli helps Iluka, who runs this inn, juggle guests hastily seeking sanctuary or exit.

"You signed a contract to stay a month! If you want to leave early and not owe me for time you're not here, sign that amendment!"

Exasperation is turning to anger in the small Iluka, even though her shoulders are still tight with anxiety. Beside her, Brineli smiles with teeth bared—a warning, and most here are wise enough to heed it.

Most, that is, until a uniformed person show up at the door, and everyone scatters.

The smallness of the dark-skinned Iluka and tanned Brineli just makes the broader, softer Wight stand out more, even though the lighting in here isn't right to draw attention to the underlying red of her skin and hair.

The person in uniform has shorn hair but clean face, as if a youth, but the crow's feet by the eyes declare them too old for that. They wait out the flurry of exiting persons, then help themselves to a chair and one of the cookies on the platter. "You said you had witnesses to the event on the docks?"

Wight startles. The tone is friendly, and Iluka is settling, and the presumption that the two foreigners were witnesses is unlike anything she's heard of the Emperor's Batallion.

"There was black powder, a destroyed warehouse, and people fighting over it," Brineli says in mountaineer.

The uniformed person—a man, she thinks, but Wight's wary of assuming—stares blankly and glances at Iluka, who shrugs (even though she had been understanding mountaineer earlier). "Right," they said. "What language is that, Sallesan mountaineer? I'll summon a translator."