// EXPERIMENTAL THREAD // - The Tavern

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// EXPERIMENTAL THREAD // - The Tavern

She gave him a wicked smile. "If you aren't used to filthy talk, you may not be cut out for a sailing life, not to mention seasickness. But I appreciate such an offer to join me on my terms. That being said, my ship is currently awaiting repairs, so I am more or less stuck on land for a month at least. But I wouldn't mind sticking around either of you two for the time being, however long that ends up turning out to be."

She takes another sip of her wine. A Clarion would have been better, perhaps, but the Auspex somehow tasted especially suitable for the general atmosphere.
 
West raised his bottle to Love, and took a long hard swig. He decided he liked Love a great deal. Whispers, he decided would be worth cultivating a non-hostile relationship with, so he opted not to correct his limited perspective of the world.

"Kairo is your deity then. Impressive. Chaos is cousin to many a god. I feel like you're family already."

The priest turned back to Whispers, "Have no fear, I will do what I can to intercede with Gan on your behalf... but it really is presumptuous of you assume that you known what I'm likely to do next. I never know what I'm going to do next myself. Why here in this next moment... I could play a tune on my pipes... or propose a game of chance... or have a go at resolving that dock worker's anger issues..." West kept talking until Whispers lifted his pint to take a drink and then "...or I might just decide to tickle your widdle tum tum." West went for it, attempting to land a playful tickle on the dark and serious man. He fully expected to find a knife at his throat for this insane violation of the other man's personal space... as long as the knife didn't end up in his throat it would be well worth it.
 
"Oh I'm used to filthy talk. I AM in this place, aren't I? I simply don't engage in it, unless undercover on an assignment where I need to take on a persona to stay inconspicuous." - Milos assured her.

He shook his head in amusement at West's statement that even he himself didn't know what he would do next. That statement alone, proved the young assassin's predictions and his evolving mental model of the man, as someone almost completely lacking in structured discipline. How such a person even managed to go through everyday life, was a minor miracle.

"Not knowing what you're going to do next, is a sign of a chaotic mind. At least you seem to be living in accordance with you faith--" - Milos started, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he reached to take a sip of his drink. The whole body-language of the man, screamed he was up to something, just to prove a point.

Which is why it came as no surprise to the young assassin, when West stated he would 'tickle his widdle tum tum', reaching out to bonk him on the shoulder, clearly timing the move against Milos's own reaching for his ale. What might have come as a surprise to West though, was the complete lack of response from Milos, as the bonk connected - to no visible reaction, not even interrupting his movement to take a drink, then setting the mug back down.

"Seriously... ?" - the young man gave him a 'you've got to be kidding me' look, and a smirk.

"The problem with trying so hard to sell that whole ' I'm unpredictable' air you try to put up, is that you turn out the exact opposite, friend. I saw that coming five seconds ago. Now, if you actually palmed a weapon, at any point, and had it ready to stab me, I'd have also seen it, and you would be dead now. Since you haven't..." - he smiled again, with the closest thing to warmth, that has yet come to his eyes when addressing West...

...he didn't finish the sentence, just suddenly reaching out his own arm, to bonk the priest in his own shoulder.
 
"You know..." the priest said, a touch annoyed. "If you're going to utilize a psychic ability to anticipate the moves of another... that is fair... but do not pretend that tickling you was a predictable thing for anyone to do to you. Especially me, who you previously predicted was a coward and likely to hide from any danger."

West had suspected the man of having an unnatural gift, when he had mistakenly equated chaos with luck... mirroring, though certainly misinterpreting, certain thoughts in West's head only moments before speaking about them aloud. West disliked psychics. They took all of the mystery and enjoyment out of life.

West stood up and offered a slight bow to the lady at the table. "It was my sincerest pleasure making your acquaintance, Love. I do hope I have an opportunity to get to know you better in the future, but as they say two is company and three's a crowd. So I'll leave you to get to know Mr. Whiskers better, and I'll do my best to catch up with you later." If she allowed such a thing West would kiss her hand before departing.

West certainly had no idea how his tickle-gambit would play out, or that it would result in his decision to depart the bar long before he'd even begun to drink, but he felt certain that Whiskers had also seen this move coming from a mile away.

All and all, the night hadn't been a complete waste. He left with two bottles of wine, had met an enchanting seafaring cleric with a delightful sense of humor, and had obtained a good deal of knowledge about the local cozener who called himself Whiskers.
 
"No psychic spells involved. Just observation combined with character assessment..." - Milos muttered under his breath with a shake of his head, shrugging, more to himself then the departing priest. What was it about tricksters, he wondered? The only thing they couldn't seem to handle, is someone seeing through them. There was a reason he didn't subscribe to the 'chaos theory' that the man was espousing. And this had just proven it. For all of West's protestations about 'going with the flow', the young man's steadfast refusal to be taken in by it, seemed to irritate him. So clearly he was not going 'with the flow'.

Then again, being too observant and smug in the process of it, was perhaps Milos's curse. This wasn't the first time he had succeeded in driving someone away. People in general, tended to cool off towards him, the more they got to know him. He had been called aloof, and arrogant. And perhaps he was. The kind of mental conditioning he had undergone, made that practically a character trait. But his aloofness, and confidence in his abilities was part of what made him so good at his job. That some people mistook it for arrogance, was their problem, not his. At least that was how he saw it. And he didn't mind. He was a loner, most of his life.

"Well..." - he addressed Love, taking a sip of his ale, "...I wish I could say I'm surprised. But that would be a lie. I saw that coming, too. Well, on the bright side, at least my rear end is now safe!" - he tried a smile.

"Aye. So is yer inability to make friends, lad." - the barkeep threw over his shoulder, with a smirk. At this, Milos just shrugged again.
 
"If I may be permitted to test your theory," said Love to Whisper, taking out a single silver coin from her pouch with a quick gesture, "I doubt you will be so proud in your convictions at having trounced a disciple of chaos with your 'readings', once you understand that mortal nature is rarely as simple as it seems. Even as our orders are distinct, I feel a sort of obligation to do my best to stand in defense of a fellow cleric's honor, even if the cleric in question has more than enough mettle on their own to match you, and even if my intervention is uncalled for."

She played with the silver disc, rotating it between the two distinct faces, smiling curiously. Wondering whether West would stay behind, or at least linger somewhat, to eavesdrop on her intriguing wager.

"What if I were to say that I will toss this coin, and if it lands on the mint's seal, I will kiss you, whereas if it lands on the obverse face, I will lay a right-good punch across your face," she poses, still playing with the coin. "You might simply parrot back that claim to me, accounting for the chaotic branching of futures within a black-box of predictable order. But even then, you would only be able to make such a decisive assessment if you took my proclamation at face-value. But for the point of this demonstration, I am not allowing you to hedge your bets. You have to tell me exactly what I will do, or admit that you cannot fully predict my behavior. And for the sake of simplicity, even if you can't take my word as gospel, I am fully intending on acting in exact accordance with my proclamation. Once the coin lands, fate, luck, gods, and the natural laws of the world will conspire to determine my actions, in a way you can't possibly claim to have foreknowledge of."
 
Milos sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he slid his mug of ale slightly out of the way. This was getting ridiculous. But he just nodded. He could back out of the wager, of course, citing the randomness of it. That would be what a true Sironite would have done. Not leave anything to chance, if possible. But looking into the lady's eyes, he could see the consequence of that particular decision, if he made it. He would look a coward, and she would lose any interest in him. And weighing the potential outcomes, a kiss from a Tiefling vixen, opposed to a punch to the face, which he had taken enough of, in his life... it was worth the gamble.

"Toss the coin, lady Love. I admit I cannot predict that outcome, however. For the simple reason it has no predictive component, for me. There are Sironite monks, living in seclusion, who had supposedly mastered the art to a degree that they could do that, just based on the pattern of the tossing hand, and the way it tumbles through the air - but I am not that advanced." - he smiled, "And the prospect of kissing you, is worth the gamble. As for the other outcome, well I've taken plenty of those in life. What is one more, eh?"

He gestured with his hand, for her to make the toss.
 
Love smiled and raised an eyebrow, and as she gave her forearm a flick in time with her thumb, the silver disc shot up into the rafters, clearing the height of the second floor landing and nearly hitting the ceiling, spinning rapidly but with perfect stability as it flipped end-over-end.

Outcomes of pure chance, though usually overlooked by many, were one of the few avenues by which the deities could exert their influence over reality without overstepping their bounds. So long as the ultimate outcome fell within the bounds of mortal expectation, changing the roll of a die, the toss of a coin, or other such purely probabilistic trials, required no mortal conduit to conduct, as well as requiring minimal exertion compared to the unfathomable potential of deities.

Even Love had no idea just how many, or which, gods or forces were overseeing, and perhaps influencing, the outcome of this particular gambit.

But if there was such a deity as Shenanigan, such a deity might either have been responsible, or at least greatly amused by the sheer coincidence, in what happened next.
 
"This is why I do not gamble..." - Milos commented, as the coin went up in the air.

"I have seen too many people lose their entire livelihoods, over a toss of a coin, or a roll of a dice, banking on something as unreliable as - luck - to favour them." - he continued, as the coin came down back on the table... landing on the obverse face. He just smirked.

"At least in my case, the price is manageable. Do try not to bruise your tender knuckles, dear... I am a hard-nosed one!" - he winked at the tiefling lady, gesturing in a 'go ahead' motion. After all, as he was trained - pain and pleasure were literally different sides of the same coin. He could appreciate the irony.
 
Without warning or explanation, and indeed without even Love intervening, nor Kairo, at least to her knowledge, something completely baffling occured.

Even after settling on the obverse face, stable as could be, the coin tilted itself back up against the table, and flipped itself to the mint's seal. It had clearly lost its momentum by that point, so such a happening was beyond the realm of mere subtle intervention. It was chaos in motion. And unlike the other gods, whose powers were more or less restricted to follow a hierarchy and division of duties, Chaos was defined by a consistent disregard for the metaphysical fences the myriad other deities had laid out. True, Chaos did not wield the same power in any one dimension as the dedicated god overseeing the same; but that was irrelevant. Flexibility and an ever-changing nature, inconsistency and adaptability, were precisely what constituted Chaos.

Or at least, that was the sort of post-hoc rationalization that Love's mind inevitably jumped to, whether or not it was strictly true, when the unthinkable happened.

She risked a glance in the direction of Uncle West, who had not made it out of the building, at least at the time she had tossed the coin.

Returning her eyes back to the now-inverted coin, she thought for a couple moments.

"Do you intend to count this as a fair toss, or are you dead-set on your original verdict?" she asks, cracking the knuckles of her right hand softly while slightly pursing her lips and wetting them with the barest tip of her tongue.
 
The young man's face darkened. What was this trickery?! He gazed hard at the coin for a long moment, then crossed his arms.

"Seems to me, that for some reason Chaos favours me, and gives me an unfair victory. I should be happy about it, but I am not. I have never needed fortune's favour in my endeavours, and I don't intend to start now. The coin landed on the obverse face. Period. This... is chaos at work. Which I do not subscribe to. Punch me. I have lost the bet." - voice determined, as he suddenly swept the coin off the table with one palm, in... controlled... anger. Was chaos literally humouring him?

"Ye tellin' me, yer not gonna take a given win? And the lass's kiss? Instead settlin' for a fist to the face?!" - the barkeep asked incredulously.

"That is exactly what I'm saying. The coin landed on the obverse face. What happened after was an aberration. And I don't accept aberrations." - the young assassin replied, with conviction.

"Punch me, or do not. Your call, lady Love. But I lost that bet. And I shall not accept the kiss I have not earned. Nor do I need favours from chaos." - he concluded, expression vacant, meeting her gaze.
 
West did linger to observe, and found himself every bit as puzzled over the odd outcome as Whiskers. Turning down a kiss from a beautiful woman however, just out of a stubborn sense of righteous indignation at the irrational turn of events, that was not puzzling at all, it was a sign of pure insanity.

"Clearly the forces beyond nature feel that a kiss is the best and proper outcome for the wager. It would be folly not to appease their demands. If you won't comply with will of the gods, I'd be happy to receive the blessing in your place," West raised an inquisitive and flirtatious eyebrow at Love, attempting to gauge her reaction. Whether she had a mind to give him a sisterly peck or a passionate snog, he'd be happy to reap the benefits of the other man's refusal.

To steal a kiss, and watch Whisper's get punched in the face by the lady would more than enough to counter balance the indignities of Whisper's insulting assessment of West's faith and bearing.
 
Love smiled. "Persistence can only go so far before it becomes inflexibility, Whisper, so if you are dead-set on a knuckle-based kiss, I should warn you I am perhaps stronger than you would normally assume I am, even more than you would assume having given such a warning. This may sting a little," she said, before rearing her arm back and leaning forward over the table, winding up, and flashing her fist forward in a lightning-quick straight. Had Whisper not been sitting on an already-rickety tavern-stool, the undampened force of the punch might have left him in a bit of a bind recovery-wise, but the stool took the edge off of the impact as it flipped onto its side, taking Whisper with it.

As the dust settled, Love peered over at Whisper, wondering whether she had perhaps overdone it.

But Whisper was certainly tough, so she didn't have to worry for very long before she turned her attention to Uncle West, who had crept over again in the intervening time.

"You sure that wasn't your doing, nor your patron's?" she asked, giving him a curious look. "He is a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, but not a bad-looking one at that. What do you think?" she asks, leaning in slightly, to a distinctly intimate proximity to Uncle West.
 
Whisper was certainly tougher then he looked. Then again, given his boyish face, in sharp contrast with his profession, he'd need to be. But as the old adage went - never judge by appearances. He kipped lightly back to his feet, uprighting the stool. Aside from a trail of blood from his left nostril, and a slightly reddish bruise next to it, he seemed none the worse for wear. He favoured lady Love with a wicked smile.

"I say! Not bad at all! Certainly more forceful then expected. But as I pointed out, I took plenty of those in my time. Besides... a punch is simply another form of kiss." - the smile turned into a chuckle, as he resumed his seat, and lifted a flagon to Love. If anything, he almost preferred a punch, over the kiss. He had his taste in... spirited... women!

"Cheers."

As the two workers across the tavern burst out laughing, throwing a few derogatory remarks on account of his manhood, he didn't pay them the slightest bit of attention, as he also turned his eyes to West...

"Your doing, I presume? A little spell to tempt me to side with chaos?" - he prompted, rolling his eyes, then added: "Not going to work. But I applaud the attempt's creativity, cleric."
 
West looked at Whispers in amazement, "You mean you don't know? You can't tell whether or not I interfered using your powerful skills of observation!?!" West chuckled and turned to Love. "I have the skill to interfere, but I did not." In demonstration West pointed at the coin and it stood up upon its edge. He flicked the air and the coin began spinning. Then with a flick of his wrist he summoned the coin to his hand. He offered it back to Love. Silent casting even for a cleric took practice and discipline, but West couldn't have moved the coin without using his hands, which were entirely exposed during the toss and its odd resolution.

"As for my patron. Only Shen in his aspect as "The Wise Fool" might have an inclination to such action, but frankly I just don't think he would bother. He also tends to be more subtle than that. We call Ani "The Compassionate Destroyer" and she is inclined to take arrogant men down a peg, but she wouldn't intercede on your behalf... begging your pardon, but you're too damned capable to warrant her intervention... nor would she be so subtle. She'd have been more likely to take out an offender's eye by using the coin as a projectile. Gan, "The Void of Creation" is right out. They don't intercede on the human level, certainly not over something as petty as a wager. I don't ask Shenanigan for small favors, or petty interventions. Doing so would be like asking a King to help you by trimming your nails. He'd be as likely to cut off your hand for insolence, as indulge your request. I serve the god, and if I do my job well, they humor me with their favor. If I forget myself by failing to act with humility in the eyes of the god, they won't hesitate to intercede and adjust my conduct as they see fit. There are gods of luck and fortune who can be persuaded to overturn a coin flip, but they are not mine and I am not theirs."

West scanned the faces in the bar. Minor telekinesis was a common enough spell, and many a mage could pass as the non-magical sort, "If I were to take a guess, I think it's likely there is another caster among us. One who could have pulled off a spell without drawing attention."
 
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"Alterio sceliera." - Milos spoke softy, gesturing with his hand, at the coin, applying his rudimentary knowledge of Alteration college of arcane magic, that he learned as part of his training. It certainly came in handy, playing havoc with his enemies' weapons, for example, assisting in applying bone-breaking maneuvres during hand-to-hand combat, bending blades out of shape, or altering the trajectory of arrows or bolts in flight. But it had other uses...

With a soft squeal of tortured metal, the coin suddenly changed shape, it's oblong flat shape compressing, rounding itself up, and reforming itself into a perfect silver sphere, the size of a marble.

The young man grinned at Love.

"The nice thing about spherical objects, is that they take chance out of the equation, when tossing them. And I feel after this little... event, I am entitled to some revenge! Plus, you can now use it as a sling bullet, against any werewolves, vampires, or other silver-retardant beasts that might attack you."

He shook his head at West.

"Doubtful there are other casters in this Tavern. I know for a fact our host here is not one..." - the barkeep nodded at that, crossing his arms, "...nor are any of his employees. And those two workers certainly don't have the mental focus to perform any arcane casting, given their level of inebriation by now. As for divine casting like yours... perhaps. It is not reliant on mental focus, if you yourself are any indication." - sarcastically.

Trading barbs with the cleric was it's own entertainment by now, he had to admit to himself, as he reached for his mug of ale, taking another sip.
 
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Love looked at the now-spherical silver pellet in her hands, tutting to herself, before looking up at Whisper.

"I would have preferred you ask me before turning my legal tender into a conventionally useless object. You don't have to be a cleric to know that casting such spells on other people or their possessions is poor manners." she said, giving him a slightly displeased look.

Without much warning, she turned to face Uncle West, and leaned in to kiss him on the lips, slowly enough to gauge the cleric's inclination towards the gesture well before the deed was done. She felt a sort of rebellious spirit towards Whisper's antics at this point, and had grown to appreciate the company of the priest of chaos a bit better in comparison. Certainly, Whisper had room to correct her first impression of him, but at least for now, she was feeling rather defiant and wanted to show the assassin up, at least in theory. No doubt he would attempt to spin her gesture as some sort of pathetic attempt to provoke him, which was merely a secondary aspect of her decision. Mostly she was just following the whims of the moment, even if that made her a pawn in some divine game or mortal calculation, she didn't much care as long as West was a good kisser.
 
The only visible reaction from Milos, was that he drained the rest of his ale, in one long swig. But his facial expression remained inscrutable, his eyes returning to his trademark cold, empty gaze. He didn't care. He was trained not to dwell on his flaws, and he was far too proud to give either of them the satisfaction of any kind of emotional response. He turned his cold gaze to the bartender, who was also suppressing a smirk of his own.

"Another 3 coins for the ale, correct? Here." - he reached into his belt satchel, and let out three more copper coins to clatter on the table.

"On the house, lad. I think ye lost enough here already." - the curpulent man smirked, waving his coins off. But he may as well have been talking to a wall, as the young assassin's expression didn't change, even by a shade. Leaving the three coins on the table, he got up to leave.

"Perhaps we'll meet again." - he spoke by way of goodbye, his tone remaining flat and dispassionate, not even looking at either of the two, as he headed towards the exit. One of the two drunken workers got up from his chair, as Milos passed by their table, getting in the way.

"Aww, ye got burned, boy? Mebbe yer not as big and bad as ye think. Methinks ye need to pay me, to get outta here!" - he drawled, swaying on his feet, rubbing his knuckles, even as one of the harlots tried to pull him down, shushing him. He simply shoved her away.

The barkeep's smirk vanished into a scowl. That man was either a fool, or suicidal. And he knew enough about Milos to know that there was a lot contained behind his cold facade, right now.

The young man didn't reply, simply stepping a half-step to the side, in an attempt to get around the drunkard, his eyes remaining cold. The worker reached out a hand to shove him backward...

"Did ye hear me, boy--AAGHH?!" - before Milos caught his hand by the wrist, twisting.

"Yes." - the young man's voice remained cold, as he pulled, his knee coming up into the drunkard's solar plexus. With a long exhale of suddenly-forced air, the worker collapsed on his knees, grabbing his chest, out of breath, gasping in pain. Without another word, Milos shoved him slightly aside, then stepped around him, and exited the Tavern.

The barkeep let out a sigh of relief. Thank the gods for the young assassin's self-discipline. He went over to help the worker back to his feet.

"Count yerself lucky." - he just growled, as the man collapsed onto his chair, still gasping.
 
West was considerably well inclined to kiss Love, and inclined his head in her direction to meet the kiss, lips parted slightly but not aggressive. West was an experienced kisser, and had at some time or another made out with individuals of every imaginable gender and species. The thing with the goat was a memorable but rather unpleasant experience... goats are not good kissers. He wasn't personally into that sort of thing, but had lost a bet with a Satyr... and learned a valuable lesson on the occasion. Never gamble with Satyrs.

West watched the cold young man leave the bar. He hadn't intended for things to go as poorly between them as they had, but pride was a tricky thing. West likely hadn't been that different in his youth, needing to prove himself at every instant, itching at each contradiction of his own inflated opinions about how the world worked. Humility had been carved deep into West's character by the cunning blades of chaos, who had for a time heaped humiliation upon humiliation on the young cleric until he learned to let go of pride, and righteousness. He had his moments. His ego might still flare from time to time, but rarely got out of hand. It was why he had made the decision to walk away, rather than further perpetuate the conflict. Having now, somehow decidedly won the conflict, more through Love's valiant challenge rather than any handiwork of his own, he felt no desire to gloat, but he thought he might stick around a bit longer.

"Could I purchase that from you?" West asked, pointing to the now spherical coin. "I'd say, one way or another that little thing has been touched by chaos. I might even consider it a potential relic of sorts." West pulled two clean silver coins out of one of many hidden pockets in his robes and offered them to Love. Looking at the coins however gave West another idea. "Say! Have you ever played cups and coins? More of a drinking game and a game of skill than a gamble."

[OOC: Basically proposing a game of Quarters].
 
Not far from the perch she'd taken to spend reading in the waning evening light just a little while ago, Liesl's fingers tugged her cloak closer around her shoulders as she stepped into the warm glow of the tavern. As she reached for the strap of her satchel to adjust across her chest, her eyes swept the room, taking in its patrons and staff as she kept her head dipped low beneath the hood of her cloak. She didn't often frequent taverns and crowded settings, but any number of drunken regulars and purring tavern girls seemed favorable to nightmares and the stone cold silence of her quarters tonight.

Lovely girls, she thought wryly as she passed a few by, and she slunk her way into a dimly lit corner, easing into a chair there. It was strange, to compare the softness of shapely, buxom women such as them, to her own lack of curves and still be considered womanly, someone to be desired, cherished - touched with gentleness. She nearly winced. The thought of being touched at all had a riot of revulsion screaming in her head, and her fingers twitched. She was fond of keeping to the shadows like this, kept warm from the cold outside and pulling sips from a flagon of tea, made from some nourishing herb or other. It afforded her a brief respite from assuming the role of an unworldly village girl, allowing her to drop her guard just a little, and it showed in the way her shoulders slumped just slightly, the way her gaze seemed to dim just a bit.

Liesl's fingers traced idly along the table, nails scratching lightly against the wood as she became fixated on the dancing shadows of bumbling patrons and the flames of candlelight. She was bound to be bothered at some point tonight - which she feared could be sooner rather than later - and she dreaded the thought of having to run someone off without the ability to tell them directly. She sighed out and her fingers curled against the table's surface, chest growing tight for just a moment before she leaned back in her seat.

Little Liesl, letting her mind wander again, she could hear Her voice, an echo, an empty, disembodied thing, familiar and rattling around her mind as it often did. Far more pleasant to daydream, Liesl might've countered, had she the means. No, really it was better to stop these thoughts now than to let them dredge up blurred memories of a cottage, a horse, and a lullaby. She pulled her hand away from the table, and it fell listlessly into her lap.
 
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