“Good, because I’m not paying for all these second-hand quips.”
Her wings buzzed, bringing her to hover over the delicate rim of her glass. She placed her hands on the rim, chewing her lip. Perhaps she could scoop up handfuls of it. No, that wouldn’t work.
After a moment of being unable to figure it out, she simply folded her legs under her, sitting down on the rim of her wine glass like some kind of elaborate garnish. It was a precarious balance, but her wings continued to flutter slowly, adjusting as needed.
The orc was watching her closely, she realized when she looked back up at him, probably just as curious as she was on what the best method was for a fey to drink out of full sized stemware.
Not for the first time that night, she felt out of place.
Nettle fumbled for words at first, staring up at the grizzled orc. She had thought the hard part would be getting his attention or convincing him to take on her job over others.
“...There’s an underground gauntlet nearby, only the elders of my Fey Court know its secrets. I’ve been there before, I’ve seen the treasure that it holds,” she said, finding it much easier to divulge Fey secrets than what she needed him to do. “I’ve made it through the passage safely before, but the final stone door is… well, I’m supposed to, well, you see— it’s um, it’s too heavy for me to move.”
“And what makes you so sure I’ll be able to move it?”
She did not answer out loud, rather glanced over the top of her drink. He followed her gaze, temple furrowing, to his tensed bicep, his arm braced on the bar. It was, perhaps, more muscle than she had in her entire body.
He straightened in his seat, meeting her eyes again, looking slightly perturbed that she would so blatantly objectify him.
Nettlewisp gave her head a prim little shake. “Perhaps for you, it is simply a regular door. But it manages to keep all little, winged things like myself out.”
At least, now it did. Once upon a time, she’d been able to open the door without any help at all.
He seemed to take the hint from her sour tone. He took another long draw from his flagon, and then set it down with an empty-sounding thunk. “And how do you propose to pay me? It doesn’t look like you carry coin.”
Nettle shook her head and waved a hand. “You’re a treasure hunter, there’s plenty of treasure in the gauntlet’s end. You can have what you can carry. There’s only one thing I want from it.”
Silver raised a brow at that, but made no comment towards it. “When do you need this done?”
“As soon as possible. I’ll show you where the gauntlet starts tonight.”
He grimaced at that, taking another draught from his stein. “You’d have me working the holiday.”
“Is that a problem?”
He grunted. “Guess I’ve got nothing better to do.”
A noise almost like a chicken clucking started from the sack Silver had left further down the bar, drawing the attention of several people. Nettle frowned at the noise, brow creasing as she watched. Whatever had been in the bag wasn’t dead after all.
The tavern keeper pulled back the fabric, obviously trying not to touch it too much as he dealt with it.
There was barely a heartbeat between the burlap falling away to reveal the creature and it lurching down the counter, flinging drops of inky black ichor with every slapping footfall. Everyone within reach of it recoiled, wiping the splatter from their cheeks. The creature squawked and flapped its wings, turning this way and that, the spines along its neck raising up. A toadbird, she realized. She had only glimpsed them from afar before.
The instant Nettle realized its yellow eyes were on her was the same second her balance slipped.
For the first time that night she tasted the burn of alcohol, a completely unpleasant sensation up her nose. All the fruity and floral flavors were rather unwelcome.
Nettle sat up in the glass, the wine coming up to her shoulders while she gasped for air and coughed a mouthful of wine out. She had not swallowed too much, but as she looked up again, Nettle realized she had bigger problems.
The toadbird had flapped its way down the counter, leaving an oily path behind it. A couple of patrons tried to grab it with their hands, only for it to slip out, one after another.
Nettle threw out a hand, reaching for her magic, what little of it she had left, but even in her veins it stayed dull and brittle. The pull of magic felt dim within her hands.
The toadbird crouched, readying to pounce. Its teeth-lined gullet open for her, as the creature leapt towards her– only for a handax to slam down on it. Its middle was pinned to the bar, the blade buried deep in its iridescent feathers.
The toadbird croaked, life oozing out of it.
Nettle gasped, and nearly slipped back under the wine again. She looked up at the bounty hunter again. She’d been so concerned with her impending doom that she hadn’t seen him move at all. His barstool was knocked back against the ground in his leap to stand, his fist still curled around the handle. A thrum of need pulsed through her body.
