I am not usually one who takes bets, or dares, or does anything to increase her odds of coming out anywhere but on top. If someone is of a mind to boast of their deeds, it does me no harm to let them. Why make it a contest? So, when someone approaches me in a bar and tells me they can make a bottle sing or a coin dance, I try not to take the bait. I know that if they make such claims that my betting against it makes me some sort of rube. They will either win the bet by guile or magic, or their loosing the wager may serve some purpose to which I need not be party.
There are more than a few individuals sporting creative scars that will attest that should I ever become the object of such a wager, it is best not to let me know. Talk about me all that you like, but do not reduce me to a benchmark or prize.
I began this encounter blessedly oblivious as the bartender brought me a bottle from a man across the tavern. After looking at him long enough to decide that he did indeed have the normal complement of facial features, I accepted it. Soon he arrived at my table for an introduction, and I decided those features were in fact pleasingly placed. Uncommon for these parts, his nose was smallish and unbroken, and his eyes were the same shade as his dark mead hair. He was tall but not lanky, towering over me by more than a head. Still, there was something about how he held his frame that managed to put me at ease.
"I hope that wine is to your liking?" he said, indicating the bottle he had sent. "I can't abide those syrup wines myself."
"A good choice," I replied, raising my challis of eldarflower wine and taking a sip. "Some think it is an acquired taste. I think no one needs acquire a taste for sweetness, but they can loose their appetite for it in place of their own pride."
"So you suggest that I am too proud to be seen drinking a fey wine?" he smirked.
"That remains to be seen," I taunted. "But all who sit at my table tend to partake." Then I pushed a cup toward him and indicated the bottle.
Nonplussed, he filled the drinking vessel and sat while sipping. A brief look of resolve crossed his face as the thickly sweet liquid washed down his throat. There were other expressions beneath this, but they remained hidden beneath his calm demeanor.
"Do I pass the test?" he asked.
"The first one", I teased.
Our small talk continued for some time, and I heard much more of his tale than I had anticipated. As long as my cup remained full, I lent him my ear, and nodded appropriately, but eventually the bottle ran dry as did my attention, and he could see that I was distracted.
"Have I bored you?" he inquired.
"Not entirely," I replied. Seeing the quizzical look cross his face, I continued. "Did you really spend good coin for an understanding ear, or was there some other underlying reason behind your generous gift to a stranger? Although, by now I know so much about you that the word 'stranger' hardly applies."
This sort of straightforward tactic has been known to put men in a foul mood. They may feel their honor besmirched that I call their bluff. But really, what man buys a woman a drink and then just sits and tells her his life story? He must know that he need not keep laying out cheese for a mouse willing to be caught. I, however, employed this sort of direct approach to gauge his reaction. If he takes offense and storms off, he is not ready to put in the necessary work that I require, so it is best for both of us if we part company now.
"Perhaps I have been less than direct," he acquiesced. "But, would you have accepted me if I were to ask you to share my bed when I first saw you?"
"I dare say, not," was my answer. "But, perhaps we have passed the point of simple familiarity some time ago and it is now time to move on to your intentions or say 'good evening' and retire our separate ways. I am merely calling the vote." I raised my empty cup in salute, to punctuate my words.
"So you would play by some sort of rules of order?" he jested. "I would not have expected a lady such as yourself to be so..."
"The hour is late, " I cut him off. "When the evening is this old, It interests me less to know how you got here than if you intend on making this a night that I may actually remember."
He sat silently for a moment, weighing his options. Then he quietly and deliberately stood and took my hand. With a gentle pull, he guided me to my feet and led me out past the bar and up the stairs to his room. Along the way I saw him place another large sum upon the counter top and pull a bottle of my favorite rinberry wine from the rack near the end of the bar.
We said nothing as we walked up the old wooden stairs, and entered his chamber. I had lit a candle and he had thrown the latch before he even dared clear his throat. The well worn floor boards attested that this old room had seen many travelers pass through. Simply appointed, there were two chairs, a writing table, a window overlooking the street below, and a bed, of course. The one oddity present was a large wooden and ironmongery wash basin, filled with water. In the candle light, I could not see if the water was clean, but I assumed it was still there from an earlier bath that he may have enjoyed after a long day on the road.
"Observations?" he asked, as he saw me taking in these surroundings.
