[ It is in that moment that Sabine victoriously tugs free the liquor bottle, a modest prize, wide and flat, half full with some kind of brandy of rich amber. The slosh of liquid within probably gives her away, followed by a quick, wide-eyed look of guilt tossed to Alistair. (The hand in the cookie jar kind of guilt, not the conscience pangs kind of guilt.)
Ah, well. She gestures with it a little, rather than trying to reverse the moment. ]
The tavern and I, we're even now. You can--
[ Suddenly, the door is open, the tavern owner immediately cross at what seems like it might be a rallying. ] Do we have a problem here? [ he says. Orlesianly. 'Ere.
Sabine doesn't respond; she's gone almost like magic, turning on a heel to disappear off around the corner with a kick of snow under her heel. Which puts Alistair in the man's field of vision, more wary defense than aggression with troublesome elf on her way.
no subject
Ah, well. She gestures with it a little, rather than trying to reverse the moment. ]
The tavern and I, we're even now. You can--
[ Suddenly, the door is open, the tavern owner immediately cross at what seems like it might be a rallying. ] Do we have a problem here? [ he says. Orlesianly. 'Ere.
Sabine doesn't respond; she's gone almost like magic, turning on a heel to disappear off around the corner with a kick of snow under her heel. Which puts Alistair in the man's field of vision, more wary defense than aggression with troublesome elf on her way.
Out of sight, Sabine pauses to listen. ]