This was unexpected to say the least. There’s a Lafeyette at her door looking all in a tizzy. Myra drags her in quickly, looking left, looking right, checking to see if anyone followed her before quickly shutting it and latching the lock.
“Lafey wot th’crikey fuck? Wot trouble’ve y’got inna? An’ why me’ve all people t’help?” she starts, more worried than anything in her tone. However something catches her suspicion and she leans back, narrowing her gaze over the Keeper.
“…Y’pisst off Marcy ain’ ye an’ y’wan’ me t’talk with ‘im on yer b’half ain’ ye?”
“Didn’t know that was allowed.” Lafeyette mumbled as Numei shook out her hand and then proceeded to scrape her boot on the floor. The pair of them had been drinking, enjoying themselves that night in their company when as per her usual order of things, Mei had begun to mock a rather large Highlander. A bet was placed: Mei was stronger than he and she would prove it through who could pin down the other fastest. If she won, she’d take his gil purse. If he won, he could grab both her’s and Lafey’s asses.
The battle started with grabbing hands, shoving and pushing to see who would fall. It started fair: at first. The Highlander had leaned in, mocked her height, laughed as he did and Mei had exploded, naturally. Letting the Highlander get a bit of a push down, her head went rising upwards and fast, slamming into the man’s jaw with enough force to begin to tip him. She reared back, flung her fist and down the man went. For good measure, she had slammed her boot down on his groin and snatched the gil purse from his belt.
“The only rule was one of us had to fall first.” Numei stated, juggling the coin purse before grabbing Lafey’s hand and hurriedly rushing out the door. “Though I think it’s time for a new bar.”
“What do you wish in return?” and/or "Find me the good in this"
She’s not sure how she ended up on the floor, but the floor is where she is. Fingers press and press and press down on a squeaking floorboard. When she shifts to the side she’s got to pull a splinter out from her skirt.
There’s Myra, sitting cross-legged with one pant leg torn and the other haphazardly stitched with a thick, loose strand of yarn. Dingy gold of her eyes narrow and try to find cracks in her facepaint. Lafey’s face is all screwed up as she processes the question.
“I’ve not done what I’ve done for something in return.” She mutters. Sunlight pours through the translucent green of an ale bottle. She’s reaching for it till she remembers it’s empty.
There’s a poignant silence as Lafeyette drags herself to plant her cheek to carpet. She only barely slurs out her words when she says, “Play me a song on your guitar.”
Truth be told, Lafeyette hadn’t given the dwarf sunflowers much thought.
It wasn’t that they were a thoughtless gift. Far from it, in fact. But moons had come and past and so she simply didn’t think to think on them. It’s not till she’s busying herself around Conor’s apartment–a spare cup here, a dust bunny there. He’s impressively tidy–that she sees them.
Bright and blooming, yellow and happy. They sit small in their potted plant. She’d bought them small so that they could live comfortably indoors. A soft gasp is what gets Conor’s attention. He’s trundling over from the couch to rest his head atop hers. Lafey feels warm. Not the embarrassed sort of warm, but the kind of warmth one feels when they sprawl out in a sunbeam.