Stein apparently sleeps on the front desk. This I realize when I notice him sitting at a stool, arms crossed and his head resting in it. Also he switched his mint green apron to a peach pink.
I stand in front of the desk and jab him with the handle of my sword. He starts to stir, murmuring and blinking his eyes, and staring me in the face. “My, what a lovely site to see in the morning.” He says, eyes still half-way closed. “Cute. So, why do you pass out on a front desk every night?”
He stretches out his arms. “Waiting for other cute and easy girls. Or anyone who’s actually willing to pay for their room.” I frown. “So, who else has offered to help you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Exactly. So, any people I should beat the information out of?” I put my sword back in its sheath as menacingly as possible.
“Well… Start slow…” He props himself on his elbows, obviously not used to thinking so much after he’s just woken up. “There is one guy that could probably cough out a lot of information. Lamia fellow. Something that has an F.”
Lamias. I always felt that their existence was the sorriest. No legs, just a snakey tail, but their scales part enough around the hips to reveal naughtier bits. Forever cursed to have their thighs rubbing together. Which, as any girl who’s had to wear a pair of ill-fitting stockings can note, is the worst thing ever conceived. Apparently I’m spacing out again, as Stein snaps his fingers and tries to get my attention. “Ellis, listen. Far as I know, he’s a bit of an informant. Tells the higher-ups what he knows.”
“And you’re sure about this? It drags us nowhere if this is just heresy, my good man.” He nods. “Positive. He’s a snake.”
“I should punch you for that pun.”
“I should punch me for that pun. Anyway…” He scratches the back of his head. “Easy to spot. Strawberry-blond, real long and tangly. Scars everywhere. Usually bruises. Yellow eyes.”
“… We sure we’re not talking about an angry cat boy?” Lamias are very conscious about their appearance. Anything considered unusual and they’re almost always rejected from other lamias. It’s sad, really.
But Stein nods and says “Positive. Dresses nice, though, I’ll admit.” He looks up at the wooden boards of the ceiling. “Affron. That’s it.”
Lamias are also known for terrible names. “Soo, where do I find the living contradiction?”
Stein looks back down at me. “There’s a tavern around here, called Fromm’s. Usually goes there and drinks himself half to death.” He pauses. “Not like I’ve ever spent that much time around there.” I roll my eyes.
“But the place doesn’t open for another good…” He glances over to the grandfather clock next to the door, then back to me. “8 hours or so.” I sigh.
“So, what is there to do around here for eight hours?”
He raises an eyebrow and smirks.
“I’m going back to bed.” I turn around and head for the stairs.
“I’ve got the skeleton key for this place, you know~” Stein says in a sing-songy voice.
“And I’ve got a sword~” I reply in a different rhythm, starting to walk up the stairs and back to my room.
---
My dad wasn’t one of those psychos who raised their daughter as a son. Nor was he the guy who forced his kid to become a warrior like him. He just wanted a kid, and if she wanted to grow up to be a warrior, that was awesome. Now, being a warrior takes discipline, and I had a lot of… Quirks. For the short version:
1.I get distracted easily, as you’ve seen.
2.Everything has a place to go in, and if it doesn’t go there, I freak right the hell out. If you ever see my dad, ask him about the book series incident.
3.I’m fidgety and touch everything. I’ve torn clothes to shreds when they start to fray at the end.
See, my dad managed to get me to ignore these quirks. But, as soon as I traveled on my own, I had no one to provide discipline, and I was back to ripping my skirts up. What I’m trying to get at is that I was sitting at filthy tavern, trying to organize a bowl of mix nuts on my napkin and nursing a gin and tonic that I bought with some money I shook out of Stein, next to a lamia fellow who had on the silkiest set of robes that I had ever seen. And starting a conversation with “Hi, can I feel your clothes?” seems like a really bad idea.
But this guy. Holy fuck, this guy. Fluffy head of hair pulled back with a red ribbon, showing off a scar-decorated face a livid purple bruise on his left cheek. Xs and straight lines that extended down his expression and continued down his neck, disappearing under his robes. Blue robes wrapped around an obviously frail frame, hiding probably even more scars, but at least it looked nice. His tail was probably the manliest thing about him, blood red scales and a yellow underbelly.
I thought maybe he was just trying to look deceiving. Then he opened his mouth to try and get a refill, and out came the shakiest I had ever heard. Any expectations were immediately shattered, as I realized I could bench press this guy. I felt an amazing amount of pity on him as the bar tender passed him up, going straight to the harpy guy who looked like he could rip everyone in the bar to shreds. Since he was brandishing his claws, it was easy to see he was contemplating it.
But I had to focus on the wimpy fellow next to me. “I want in.” I finally said, and like a good snitch, he replied with an “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Look, you know damn well what I’m talking about.