When The Petal Fell

2-2

After leaving Rifnarus, she returned to the Court to change clothes. Wearing bulky clothing, her hair tied in a bun and a scarf upon her head, tied at the nape of her neck, Cierene passed with ease through the crowds navigating the precarious rope bridges and walkways of the Underside. Without her obligatory make-up, she appeared as unrecognisable as any other of the denizens that called this place, dangling below the city, home. The only thing that caused second glances would be her height, but, as her Court tutors had shown her, a slight bend of the back, a slump of the shoulders and her height became less of an issue.

This was not her first visit to the Underside, nor would it be her last. Part of the Court's training included visits to this world in order to observe the many varied facets of humanoid nature. One could not put forward the face of the best of people without knowing, understanding and immersing oneself in the worst, as her tutor had put it. Not that the people in the Underside were the worst. Far from it. They were people, no greater or lesser than others.

"Nice try!" She hissed at the dumpy Thought Mage outside one establishment.

The Underside had more than its fair share of illicit practises, not least of which were the use of Thought Mages to 'urge' people to visit certain businesses. Similar to Senders, the Adherents of Grava Kha, the Patron of Thoughts, Thought Mages channeled the essence of the dead gods to enter the minds of others. They couldn't control people, but could 'nudge' them in the required direction. Unlike Senders, whose powers were not magical, but gifts from their Patron, there were no rules that forbade the practice.

Cierene, however, was a Thought magic 'sensitive'. Unable to channel the essence herself, she did have certain attributes of a Thought Mage. She found, from a young age, that she could sense, at a very low level, people's emotions and could block a Thought Mage from reading her thoughts or from their attempts at persuasion. As Senders had their rules, she did not know if it worked with the Adherents of Grava Kha. Her ability to sense emotions became quite helpful upon joining the Court.

Stepping off the rope bridge, she found herself outside the tavern she came here to visit. Inside, 'The Oily Fish' was not the worst drinking establishment she had ever visited, but it was not a pretty one. The wooden walls, blackened by layers of soot from the open fires. The floor covered by old, dirty straw, barely hiding the gaps between the floorboards and the sight of the sheer drop below the building. Tables and chairs of eclectic styles and various stages of repair, held patrons of all kinds.

Nobles 'slumming' it. Grifters, warriors, adventurers, wanderers, The Oily Fish turned no-one away. In the far corner, furthest from the door and the bar, Cierene saw who she had come to the Underside to find, slumped over a table, a mug grasped in the hand, on its side, the ale, or mead, or Naspa creating a puddle on the table top.

"Well, look who it isn't." The woman, short, but muscular, wearing a mismatch set of clothes from faded, once expensive breeches, to a cheap cotton shirt, kept her head laid upon the table, her short, blonde hair soaking in the puddle of liquid. "And here's me thinking this had been a good day."

"Sora." Cierene sat in the chair opposite, picking up the mug and setting it upright. She turned to the bar, holding up two fingers and pointing at the mug. "You can stop pretending. I know you aren't drunk."

"I could be. You don't know." Sora's head remained flat upon the table top as the tavern keeper dropped two mugs onto the surface, ale slopping over the sides. Cierene made a drama out of counting several small denomination coins into the man's hand. Seeing the large amount of small coins, he growled before walking away.

"If you were truly drunk, there would be several people suffering injuries and the tavern keeper would be throwing you out." Cierene dipped her head to look into Sora's eyes and noticed they were clear and bright. "Who's the mark?"