Point of view is the ample, midnight-tressed woman's.
At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, to you: "Anyway, how have you been?" "So, how have ye been? All bored 'n sad without me, I hope?" The ample, midnight-tressed woman blurts out a hearty chuckle, shaking her head. At your table, you say in sirihish: "Askin' the same question at the same time. 's funny." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, with a slight grin: "Oh aye, miserable. Drowning my sorrows in work I needed to catch up on." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "We're starting to think alike, perhaps." At your table, you say in sirihish, fluttering her dark lashes lightly as she reaches out for the goateed, orange-eyed man's hand: "Awww. Need some cheerin' up?" A slight crease forms between the slim, onyx-haired young man's dusky brows as he stares thoughtfully at his polished jasper scorpion pin. At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, taking your hand gently: "Its already been done." The black-braided little girl pauses to nibble upon a thin braid, her azure eyes shifting between the ample, midnight-tressed woman and the goateed, orange-eyed man. At your table, you say in sirihish, grinning amusedly as she looks at the black-braided little girl: "Neh, silly, he is neh goin' to marry me. Not ALL important people wearin' silk do that." The goateed, orange-eyed man chuckles. The black-braided little girl purses her lips poutfully at the ample, midnight-tressed woman, shooting a final glance to the goateed, orange-eyed man before she picks her charcoal stick back up. At your table, you say in sirihish, laughingly: "Now she is disappointed." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "You didn't tell her what I told you about that the other day?" At your table, you say in sirihish: "Yeh. She was thinkin' ye are some sort of house merchant person." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, with a slight smile: "Aye well, not quite." The ample, midnight-tressed woman guides her two index fingers together as she turns to the black-braided little girl. The slim, onyx-haired young man looks at you with a silent glance over some of the tavern's tables. At your table, you say in sirihish, to the black-braided little girl, wiggling both of her fingers: "Ye see, Siri, these are a noble and a merchant. 's a full finger because they are important, mmh?" The slim, onyx-haired young man pulls his black leather archery brace down at his wrist as he turns back to the bar, brows furrowed in thought. At your table, you say in sirihish, to the black-braided little girl: "Merchant gets married to merchant. Noble gets married to noble." The goateed, orange-eyed man nods. At your table, you say in sirihish, to the black-braided little girl, bending one of her fingers: "This half-finger is little people, like ye and me. Little people neh get married." The black-braided little girl looks down at the ample, midnight-tressed woman's fingers thoughtfully, nodding once. At your table, you say in sirihish, wiggling her fingers once more: "Even if merchant long-finger likes the small finger, no marryin'." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "Actually, that's not always true, but its not really a true marriage either." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "And of course, marriage usually has little to do with who said merchant likes." The black-braided little girl studies the ample, midnight-tressed woman's fingers, then gazes up at the goateed, orange-eyed man with sudden interest. At your table, you say in sirihish, curiously: "Oh? There is somethin' like half-marriage?" At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, nodding: "Aye. I've known some commoners who married into merchant houses, but I somewhat doubt there was any paper or coins involved." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, with a slight grin: "Really just lovers who were looking for an excuse to throw a party I think." At your table, you say in sirihish, lips twisting upwards: "Mmh. No one ever invited poor little me to a party." At your table, you say in sirihish, leaning sidewards to look at the black-braided little girl's sketch: "Lookin' good, sweetroll. But poor Tanos neh has such skinny arms." The goateed, orange-eyed man glances at the black-braided little girl, then lifts one of his arms to examine it. The black-braided little girl giggles, looking up at the ample, midnight-tressed woman, then the goateed, orange-eyed man's arm. The slim, onyx-haired young man lifts a hand to his face, scratching idly at an angular slash-mark running from cheek to chin with a calloused fingertip. At your table, you say in sirihish: "She says she is sorry. Goin' to make a better one." The goateed, orange-eyed man flexes his arm, though its form is lost in his loose silk sleeve. At your table, you say in sirihish, to the goateed, orange-eyed man, grinning: "Tryin' to impress me, thulda'yanni?" At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "Well its not like I'm some fat merchant who sits around eating cakes all day." At your table, you say in sirihish, smiling sweetly as she casually slips out of her boots to sneak a bare toe into the goateed, orange-eyed man's trouser leg: "I can neh have a good look with all that silk on ye." You stop using a pair of chalton leather boots. The slim, onyx-haired young man releases a faint sigh as he looks down between his elbows at the bartop, brows furrowed. The black-braided little girl unfurls some more of the scroll, flashing the ample, midnight-tressed woman a brief smile, then sets to work with a new sketch. The goateed, orange-eyed man rolls up his left sleeve revealing a strong-looking arm. Its skin is not as dark as that on his face, however, and a few scars from old cuts and punctures can be seen. A look of theatrical admiration overcomes the ample, midnight-tressed woman's visage as she gazes at the goateed, orange-eyed man's arm. At your table, you say in sirihish, lowering her dark lashes as she lifts a hand to her forehead: "Krath, thulda'yanni, makin' my poor old heart flutter." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, smirking: "Oh come now, I'm not some fancy Borsail-bred gladiator." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish, rolling his sleeve back down: "Just showing that I don't have skinny arms." At your table, you say in sirihish, exhaling a faint snort: "I neh like fancy gladiators, they are all scarred up 'n grunt in bed." At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting a tanned finger, a faint smirk on her lips: "'s neh like -I- would know. But one of my friends told me." At your table, you say in sirihish, pushing her bare toes a bit higher along the goateed, orange-eyed man's shin: "Ye know Silk is sweet 'n innocent." The goateed, orange-eyed man laughs lightly and wiggles his eyebrows. The slim, onyx-haired young man leans forward against the bar, laying one folded arm over it as he glances to a conversation a few stools away. The black-braided little girl glances up from her sketch, shaking her head to the ample, midnight-tressed woman, and sets back to work. At your table, you say in sirihish, to the black-braided little girl, a faint chuckle lacing her words: "Shush, Siri, or I am goin' to stuff ye into my pack." The black-braided little girl sticks her tongue out at the ample, midnight-tressed woman. At your table, you say in sirihish, turning back to the goateed, orange-eyed man with a faint sigh: "She's all spoiled, see? neh believes me anymore." At your table, the goateed, orange-eyed man says in sirihish: "Well what did you say?" At your table, you say in sirihish, waggling a finger to the black-braided little girl: "I hope ye neh do that to anyone other than yer poor mother, or that little tongue is goin' to get lost somewhere."