Script [Forest] (Hiatus)

[5] Warm

"Dascha!"

It means welcome, here in the mountains of Terigni. Or so I think. The word merrily spills from the wine and ale stained lips of the other inn inhabitants  each time the door opens. Then, the newest visitor gets a mug of their own to raise and fill with their desired nectar.

The cycle repeats.

At least fifteen new bodies have come to seek shelter since Chan and I entered twenty something minutes ago. By now the snow's numbing grip has relinquished me, unable to compete with a steady central fire, warm amber ale and Chan's cloak which he refuses to accept back. It's mine now, I suppose, not that I'm complaining.

"You want another one?"

The question strikes me as odd and misplaced until I realize I've been staring into an empty mug for the past few minutes. I shake my head. I don't need another one.

"The lady'll have another pour of your amber."

The heat in my stomach climbs up my throat, fills my head and rages in my eyes. My lips draw tight to complete the irritated look I'm fashioning but Chan doesn't budge. My behavior is rubbing him the wrong way and he doesn't hesitate to let me know.

"Drink." The order comes the very second the innkeeper ceases her pouring.

"Chan..."

Arms folded over his chest, he nods at my mug. He won't repeat himself. So, begrudgingly, I take a sip which turns into a swallow that then turns into another empty mug  because Chan knows me better than I give him credit for.

The drink quells me, trading the overwhelming heat of rage for a soft simmer of malt and caramel that eases away most of my troubles. Most, but not all. No, to fully relieve myself of my troubles, I'd need to be straightforward with Chan.

Across the table from me, Chan resembles more of a stranger than the best friend I grew up with. His brown skin is the same, though perhaps a little paler as a result of the northern climate. Short, chopped, irregular curls are replaced with luxurious dark brown coils that just barely skim his shoulders. Chan likes a neat face and never lets his facial hair grow out, though this time, he's permitted the growth of a trimmed up goatee. His eyes are the same shade of blue, as are most of the other inn visitors. It seems to be a shared traits amongst all Paquens, the native race in these parts. Lastly, he looks quite the part of a huntsman with three red claw-like markings on his right cheek.

He's certainly committed to his virtual life, I'll give him that. However, the look on his face suggests that he's not looking to compare our avatars. He wants answers.

"Julian was in my house."

My tankard is set before me once more, a brilliant trick if I've ever seen one considering I don't remember moving it. The absence of fragrance as I lift it to my lips draws my eyes next. It's water. I glance at Chan who nods, yet again, for me to drink. Even when he's frustrated, he looks out for me.

Water races down my throat and it's a dull comparison to the remaining taste of ale on my tongue. However, it does cool the warmth in my stomach just a touch and suddenly, the words I need to say don't seem so exhausting.

"He hates my haircut. He says if I don't do something about it, I can't go to the homecoming dance."

"Then I'll take you."

He says it with such a straight face that I almost want to believe him.

"He thinks I'm sleeping with you. He saw our picture on my dresser, the one from your birthday. He ripped it up."

"Fuck it. So we'll take a new one."

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth and this earns me a solemn sigh. "You're thinking about this way too hard. All of that that you just told me is an easy fix. You're afraid of him, I get that. The last thing I want is you picking a fight you aren't ready to-"