As we step inside, I'm immediately assaulted by the smells of stale beer, sweat, and something that reeks suspiciously like week-old fish. The common room is dimly lit and smoky, with a long wooden bar running along one wall and a smattering of tables and chairs filling the rest of the space. The clientele looks like a who's who of the pirate world, with rough-looking men and women in various states of inebriation and undress lounging about, eyeing us with curiosity and suspicion.
But what really catches my eye is the woman behind the bar—a buxom redhead with a face full of freckles and a smile that could charm the gold right out of a pirate's pocket. She's wearing a tight-fitting corset that looks like it's about to burst at the seams and a short skirt that barely qualifies as a suggestion.
"Aye, here." Gideon flips a bag of coins to Rhyland. Rhyland snags it midair. "This ought to cover the room and board."
"Thanks," Rhyland mutters.
"Clean yerselves up and meet me at the Salty Siren Tavern. There's a boutique around the corner where ye can find some fresh clothes to change into."
I catch Erik scanning the area with his usual stoic intensity, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of our surroundings. But even he can't disguise the hint of sordid disgust that flickers across his face as he takes in the dilapidated building and its colorful clientele.
"Little One," his voice as stoic and formal as ever, even in the face of such squalor. "Please tell me I am not expected to dress up like a pirate to blend in with this... colorful crowd."
I snort at his words, a grin spreading across my face as I imagine the ever-serious Erik decked out in full pirate regalia, complete with an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder.
"When in Rome, big guy," I quip. "Or, in this case, when in Aquaria, do as the pirates do."
Erik's eyes narrow, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he tries to devise a way to avoid playing dress-up.
As we approach the bar to check in, I see the woman's eyes light up with interest at the sight of Rhyland and Erik. She leans forward, her cleavage practically spilling out of her top like a pair of overripe melons, and purrs, "Well, hello there, handsomes. What can I do for you,finegentlemen, today?"
She addresses them like I'm not even here.
I watch with a mixture of morbid fascination and gag-inducing revulsion as the redheaded barmaid throws herself at Rhyland; her attempts at seduction are about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. I've seen more restrained performances from a drunken tavern wench on Dollar Draft night.
I'm seething inside right now at this thirsty skank brazenly hurling herself at my man right in front of my face. I can practically taste her desperation, and it's making me gag.
Girl, please.
Before I can unleash my verbal smackdown, Rhyland steps forward, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. "We need two rooms for the night. And I would appreciate it if you kept your eyes and flirting to yourself, sweetheart."
The barmaid pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a petulant child. "Aw, don't be like that, sugar," she simpers, batting her eyelashes so hard I'm surprised they don't fly right the fuck off her face. "I was just being friendly."
I can't help but let out a derisive snort. "Friendly? Is that what you call throwing yourself at taken men these days?" I ask, "Where I come from, we have a different word for it. It's calleddesperate."
The barmaid's eyes narrow to slits, and for a moment, I think she might try to go for my jugular. But apparently, even she has some sense of self-preservation because instead, she tosses two keys onto the bar with a huff.
"Rooms 3 and 4, up the stairs and to the left," she sneers, her voice colder than a frost giant's ballsack. "Enjoy your stay—if you can."
I flash her a sweet smile, swiping the keys off the bar."Oh, we will, sweetie. And thanks for the warm welcome. It's alwayssolovely to know the staff here is so... accommodating."
With that, I turn on my heel and sashay up the stairs, putting a little extra sway in my hips just to drive home the point. Rhyland follows close behind, his presence a solid wall of muscle and agitation.
As we make our way down the narrow hallway to our rooms, I hear Erik's amused chuckle echoing behind us as he heads off to his accommodations.
"You know, Little Huntress," he calls out, amused, "one of these days, that sharp tongue of yours will land you in hot water."
I shrug, a wicked grin spreading across my face. "What can I say, Erik? It's a gift. And besides, someone's got to keep these thirsty wenches in line. Lord knows Rhyland's too much of a gentleman to do it himself."
Rhyland shakes his head. "What?" utterly confused.
I ignore him and head for the door to our room.
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "You're going to be the death of me, woman," his voice low and rough with affection. "I put that bar wench in her place, didn't I?"
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, calling her 'sweetheart' really drove home the point, Casanova," I huff.
Erik laughs, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'll leave you to handle this one, brother. I feel you'll need all the luck you can get."
