| "Curous one, isn't she?" he murmers, almost too quietly for you to hear, pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. "Don't remember how she got here and damned if she's ever left." He shrugs. "Well, she don't bother no one and her silver slips are as real as anyone else's, so I don't complain." Over his shoulder you notice new movement. From between two ovens someone emerges, possibly from a door there, but you can't see from where you're standing. The short slender figure has the shape of a small boy, but by the way he carries himself, you can tell that his size belies his age. He wears a light cloak with the hood pulled up over his hair. He glances your way and catches you staring, quickly turning away to the fat cook, speaking lowly to the man. Even then, you catch a glimpse of fire-red hair, a sure sign of the not-quite-human race of the Slysk. Draven glances over his shoudler and his expression sobers. "Excuse me," he says, more from habit than out of politeness sakes, and closes the kitchen door almost in your face. Had you seen something - or someone? - you weren't supposed to see? Quite possibly... |