Drinks at Dixie's

[Toaster]

"No, not long at all, Prower" Olivia replied. The glasses of ale were still cold. The mercenary smiled up at her guest, and though it was strained by weariness and a general disdain for her surroundings, it was sincere. She gestured towards the glass before the seated admiral, indicating that she should go ahead and drink.

"I'm fine," the mercenary replied to Prower's inquiry, leaning back on her bench. Absently, she ran a finger along the bridge of her nose, tracing the length of the scar that ran across it and down the other side. While she looked young for her age, in no small part thanks to the almost complete replacement of her skin some seven years prior, the scars she had collected since betrayed a life of hardship, one of a lifelong mercenary. Of course, she would not want it any other way. The marks on her body were proof of the life she had lived and a reminder of the lives she had taken. She considered it only to be right not to conceal them.

"You haven't changed at all," Olivia commented, giving the woman across from her a once over. "Beauty products or genetics?" It was a simple joke, meant to put the admiral at ease. The mercenary knew Prower could be awkward in private settings; knew that she had a hard time stepping away from her duties as a high-ranking navy officer. Which was why she was grateful Prower had agreed to meet with a lowly gun for hire at all.

"I hope the location's to your liking," the mercenary continued without waiting for a response. "It's not exactly the prettiest pub I've ever been to, but it's one of the few I actually know on Manhattan. Besides," she raised her glass as a toast, "the booze is cheap." She took a long sip of the ale, trying hard not to betray her disgust for the stale, watered down flavor it was infamous for. Nothing like a proper Bretonian pint.

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Olivia Sable
On hiatus