45

You turn. In huntsman's garb stands a figure of middle height, muscled like a jaguar, with shocks of snow-blonde hair protruding from the edges of the hood.

"A touch," you say, taking the speaker's measure. The brown eyes that look down on you are brilliant as burnished copper and full of life.

"To your health," you offer. You bite back on the "Mademoiselle" or "Monsieur" you considered appending to the toast, since if perception serves aright they are not precisely either.

You smack your lips as the liquor travels down your throat. "A curious beverage, this, and quite my opposite," you say, trotting out your recent bit. "It has no odor and a fiery taste, whilst—"

"—you smell of burning dung and are renowned for tastelessness?"

You blink. "My reputation precedes me."

"Your wit precedes itself; I heard you holding court mere minutes ago, before you claimed my stool. No, no," they wave you back down as you begin to stand, "keep it, citizen—I'm to make egress afore long. And if you intend to speak only in snatches of your past conversations, I'll bid you good e'en straightaway."

"I believe I can muster up some novel verbiage for thee," you offer by way of apology.

Their copper eyes crinkle around the edges. "Magnanimous soul thou art. Perhaps I can stay, then, at least 'til this cup drains itself…."

Onward