hands to yourself, fool!

it's here...... after much deliberation and trial..... boy oh boy do i love this game and everyone and everything in it. <3

A rare night in Fonsa Myma glitters jewel-like, each arched home doorway illuminated in tones of orange and sepia, lined by trees that cast their own glow.

After a series of adventures in Leftheria, they'd doubled back quite a ways to pay a visit to a friend of Rex's, a playwright, on the grounds of an old promise. All were happy to grant his request-- even the ever-practical Dromarch agreed that a brief respite would do the group some good. Travel-weary and mostly eager for a change of clothes, they made a beeline for the inn, then for their quarters.

"I think I'll make my way back downstairs," says Brighid to Mòrag after a short time fixing her hair in the mirror. She matches their surroundings in her way, exuding her own radiance to rival that of the city. Mòrag admires her through half-shut eyes, unable to ply herself from in between the covers. "You really shouldn't get in the habit of wearing your uniform to bed, you know. Though this time at least I suppose it's clean."

"I'll follow you in a minute," Mòrag murmurs, filing the good-natured disapproval away for later.

"No need to rush, Lady Mòrag," replies her Blade, blowing a flame-gilded kiss before closing the door behind her without a sound.

Another few minutes pass before Mòrag can hear chatter filtering in from the lobby area. There's Rex's unmistakeable voice, then the sweetness of Pyra's, Zeke's deep dramatics.

It seems they're all down there without her, and that won't do.

With a world-weary sigh, she heaves her tired limbs up and out of bed, turning her neck this way and that to get rid of some residual stiffness. The sound of laughter swells and bursts forth as she pushes open the door, though she's still a bit too far away to make out what it is they're saying.

Folmarie Inn is a strikingly classy place, as befits a capital city, with all its dark varnished wood surfaces and lush embroidered curtains. Mòrag, thinking of the seediness of Jakolo's place in Alba Cavanich, is impressed. They'd put her and Brighid in a room on the second floor right by the stairs. Noisy, sure, but convenient for emergencies.

She descends the carpeted stairs. Little by little, the lobby's occupants come into view.

"...don't suppose you have any suggestions for places to eat?" Just as she'd thought, Rex is standing in the doorway with Pyra close by, then Zeke and Brighid, then Tora off to the side making conversation with the Nopon cleaning staff. Opposite Rex and beside her Blade is a tall man, hood slipping down to reveal a shock of brown hair. She can't see his face, but assumes him to be the playwright acquaintance.

"Look who decided to join us," says Zeke, cutting off the conversation with a congenial wave in Mòrag's direction.

"You must be the Special Inquisitor." The playwright has turned, revealing steely blue eyes and a scar blossoming over his left temple. "I've heard many a story."

Mòrag quirks an eyebrow. "I can't imagine the Urayans would be saying anything good. Your name?"

"Cole. I'm a pal of Rex's." He shifts, and so does his garment, fabric bulging slightly over what appears to be a Core Crystal, though it glows both blue and red.

"He's a great guy." Rex jumps in, excited as always to connect a friend to a friend.

"I used to be a great guy," comes Cole's playful correction. He smiles, baring a hint of teeth. "Now I just write plays."

Mòrag joins the circle, listens to their idle chatter. To her right, Brighid is ever the rapt and attentive listener, making orchestrated sympathetic noises along with Pyra in response to Rex and Cole's various tales of woe and pride.

"I have to say, I was over the moon to hear Rex would be visiting, but he didn't mention there would be so many eligible girls around." There's a mischievous glint in Cole's eye that Mòrag finds unpleasant. "Maybe I would've combed my hair. A spritz of cologne, even."

Pyra giggles. "Well, we're glad to have you either way."

"I mean, Brighid here is dressed to the nines, isn't she? After several days on the road, nonetheless," he comments, visibly impressed. "What sort of material is this, anyway?"

She doesn't quite catch Brighid's reply, as the sounds of the room are all starting to blend together. It must be the week-long journey catching up with her, and all the while there's a proper bed waiting upstairs... No, she must remain alert.

She turns toward Brighid again, trying to at least feign presence in the conversation. Watches her Blade laugh, say something brief, then nod. Watches Cole's hand alight on the small of Brighid's back, slide down and dig in...

Suddenly wide awake, Mòrag's hands fly immediately to grip their whipswords. "You dare to lay your filthy paws upon the Jewel of Mor Ardain? Unhand her at once!"

Cole backs up, grinning without an ounce of guilt, hands up in surrender. "My apologies, Special Inquisitor. I meant no offense."

"Try anything like that again," she growls, still bristling, "and I will personally ensure that you perish on the point of my blade."

"Lady Mòrag," says Brighid, expression belying a hint of amusement, "I beg your pardon, but I did give him permission to feel the fabric of my dress."

It's at that moment that Mòrag realizes everyone in the lobby is staring at her, angles of jaws and wideness of eyes at varying degrees of shock and mirth. She blinks once, opens her mouth to speak, closes it again.

"Careful your wandering hands don't get you into trouble with the wrong people, eh, buddy?" Zeke guffaws.

"Yes," Pyra chimes in, "best to tread with caution..."

It seems like it's Mòrag's turn to say something, so she clears her throat. "Brighid's safety is my utmost concern. In this instance, I... may not have paid enough attention to the context." Perhaps even a joke would be in order. "You may keep your hand for now."

Cole waggles his blissfully intact fingers in Mòrag's direction. "Tough lady you are, with a sense of humor to boot. No harm done, then?"

Mòrag looks over to Brighid to monitor for any residual signs of discomfort, but the taller woman is already looking back at her, lips curved up into a slight smile.

"...I suppose not," she replies begrudgingly.

"I'll make sure to ask for permission from both parties next time." A wink. Mórag grits her teeth. Fie! Even a joker must know his limits.

"There will be no next time," Mòrag shoots back, advancing once more on the enemy, guns blazing. Brighid, having kept her composure long enough, doubles over in an uncharacteristic fit of giggles.

Surely they could all get used to this.

thanks for reading!