Both Amos and Mr. Nobles leaned towards Risa when she flaunted her battle-scars. The owl mustered a whistle and a “<b><span style="color: Gray">Ohohohoooh..</span></b>” when seeing the clear emblems of teeth scarring a preciously thin area of skin across her wrists.<br/>Finnigan himself was dumbfounded for a variety of reasons: Not only did she effectively communicate that she often laughed in the face of death and danger, but did so willingly against a proper payment.<br/><br/>Amos peered up at her – and against his own wisdom, there was this… odd lapse in his anxiety replaced with a resolved, searching, deep glance demanding, craving, needing answers.  It might be at this point where Risa noticed some uncannily blue eyes. Byproduct of the arcane?<br/><br/>And then it was gone. Amos became fidgety again, clearing his throat, hiding behind his mug of orange juice.<br/><br/>“<b><span style="color: Gray">By the Spire, you’ve seen your share of combat, QUITE evident! By my Former beard, that one wound across your collar-bone looks positively –vicious-.</span></b>” Mr. Nobles almost applauded.<br/><br/>Amos was still turning the freshly baked information in his head. Adventurers were an odd lot, he attempted. Some scholars in the depths of libraries, studies and laboratories argued that treasure-hunters simply by mindset were irrevocably lured not to the promise of gold, fame or influence, but to the thrill of the hunt, the close kiss of death and other assorted dramatic analogies covering for potentially lethal circumstances.<br/>It was fascinating, really. The best warriors could settle for trainers, the best priests could enter the halls of the Cathedrals with little issue, the best mages could revolutionize modern arcane craft and yet still… still they just kept searching for the next big potential catastrophe.<br/><br/>Mr. Nobles, a man who prided himself to be culturally aware (which incidentally gave him better abilities at being condescending as well) concentrated his animalistic eyes on the sorrowful song of the Forsaken. He, for once, shut up in spirit of his concentration.<br/><br/>The young tyke barely noticed the song, so imbedded into deep thought he was. He jumped slightly on his seat when addressed directly and before he mustered to think anything through, he said:<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">W-well, I s-sort of c-can’t help it. You’re very beautiful. Eyes get attracted to-.. urhm.. a tempting face and-.. yyyeahh..</span>”. The resolve of his reply faltered as his conscious mind caught up with him.<br/><br/>Did he just say “tempting”? Had he completely gone bonkers?<br/><br/>He made a deathly-scared “<span style="color: RoyalBlue">Eheehh.</span>” through a crooked, panicky smile before his hand sped to fetch his mug of orange juice, taking a long gulp (of the already empty mug).<br/>Quickly, a plan! Ask her about something, her hair, her boots, her..<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">W-wh-whats the s-story behind your w-wrists..?</span>” he managed to splutter forth.<br/><br/>Mr. Nobles chirped a “Much obliged!” when offered a spot on her arm – with some careful, wide-clawed steps he transported himself onto her sleek, muscular arm. His gyrating head took measure of his new situation and with some half-hearted feather ruffling, it was evident on his face he enjoyed his new position.<br/><br/><b><span style="color: Gray">“You should try this, Amos! It feels so delightful to curl claws around an –arm- for a change. Ohh, yes, sweet leggy respite.</span></b>” The owl chuckled, savouring what seems to many a mundane thing for a bird.<br/><br/>Baqir found some respite in a dusty forsaken singing his heart out – for him, it was tattered tunes and voices like this that really communicated character. A small smile danced on his chissled maw in between the occasional sips of a sweet-smelling peacebloom tea.<br/>Concentrated eyes studied the outcome of the womanly ménage a trois: While quite convinced the warlock wasn’t a type to give up (they rarely were, really), he figured he might as well indulge his curiosity.<br/>The large mountain of a man slowly rose. Not a soul in the bar wouldn’t notice this boulder move. Subtlety and him didn’t get along well, but his expression suggested he was quite at ease with that.<br/><br/>The walking fortress sashayed towards the last vacant space at the depository of booze, Amos with his back turned to his left and the worgen, warlock and succubus on his right.<br/><br/>A large, plate-clad finger rose followed by a deep, rich voice born in the spirit of complacancy and patience added a tinge of mischeviousness:<br/><br/>“<b><span style="color: SandyBrown">A large mug of Honey Mead, bartender.</span></b>”<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>