[ P ] Oh, but I know you'll cause me grief

Meissa bacchus

Nomads are said to know their way

Sometimes, she didn't know why she did it.

It seemed like the same old routine every day. Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, make her way from her quarters to the full barracks, where she was informed of morning patrols and duties. Usually they were the same: Ensure the Lieutenants below here were doing their jobs and report anything amiss to her stiff lipped Major. She'd also check in on the soldiers to make sure they weren't doing anything obviously out of line.

After all, if one of her subordinates became an issue, it would fall back upon her and she really did not want to have to deal with that sort of shit, especially not on a Monday morning when there were probably a handful of soldiers with hangovers getting their hackles up about this or that. It really was a lot and she did not want to deal with it.

Thankfully, today had been fairly uneventful. She went home for a bit but even the stuffiness of her own quarters was a bit too much, so out she went. Uncertain of her destination, she just walked, passively observing the world around her as she walked with the burned-in demeanor of a soldier but the vacant eyes of someone not on Imperial business.

The sea sent ripples of salty breeze across her coat; the sun was already drifting low and casting deep shadows across the rock and her own face. The cliff wall rubbed against he side as she moved and eventually she was drawn from her mind by the lull of voices ahead. It took her a moment, paws still moving, to realize where she was approaching. Once she did, she froze and thought for a moment... Eh. She shook herself off, trying to loosen her muscles and take on a less attention-drawing attitude.

Right now, she just wanted a drink.

She made her way inside with her eyes low, trying to avoid attention. Her paws hit the bar top quietly and she flagged down the bartender to request a drink.

by an exact spot in the sky

  in life, in death

we'll be together  

Wretched, this tavern is, but that is its allure — its untamed representation of wolf's basest nature. The drinks are subpar and the air stinks of must and the patrons are far from the type of company she'd like to keep but they are so fascinating to watch. It does entertain her so to witness some man with too much muscle and too little brains get his ego bruised over a gamble turning out of his favor. They get so violent over so little, emboldened by the liquor flowing through their veins, giving her a show to quench her bloodthirst.

There is a reason she feels so connected to him — Dionysos the raving god of night whose lips are strained red with blood and wine. He too would revel in such a scene. It's a shame that it's over so soon, with hardly any blood spilled in the end. The troublemakers are kicked out and the scuffle is quickly forgotten. Ah, but something else will happen. It's not a matter of if, but when, and she awaits the next spectacle of the evening.

Silver eyes search the crowd, soon settling on a woman who looks terribly out of place, both because of the striking pattern and coloration of her fur and the way in which she carries herself. A smirk plays at dark lips. Why not? So Nyx leaves her corner, pushing past nameless strangers as she makes her way towards the bar top. The prince takes the seat beside the lone woman as she's flagging down the bartender for a drink. "Let me buy this one for you," she offers, voice deep and accented. "Do you prefer beer or wine?"

@Meissa

the moon will swallow me whole

The noises roared on as if she were a mere fly on the wall, though she had worried that her sudden appearance would have stirred some the wrong way. As it was, she found herself alone at the bar for not too long until a shadow shifted over her, a silver eyed woman who appeared right at home in the revelry.

Meissa appraised her quickly, noting at once the spectral inversion of her own markings. The stranger appeared to be one with the night and the captain tried to hold back the training that whispered for her hackles to raise, her eyes to roam for vulnerabilities or dangers.

She was not on the clock.

Still, she was in the belly of the beast, as it were, and one could not be too careful.

Ah, thank you, she said with a small chuckle - a glimpse at the nerves that coiled within her. I prefer wine. She had never truly been in here before so the logistics of the place were still foreign to her. Meissa. At first she had considered a pseudonym, uncertain of the rules of the Drunken Seagull, but then she supposed simply the first name would do.