“And what is your name dear?”
The old man at the door was settled down deep into a chair. He was looking up over a book, but the quill that had been dancing across his loose pages now flittered up to a logbook and paused for her name. He was welcoming without question, looking right past her, ready to begin writing again. She smiled wide and shifted her stance in a smooth motion, drawing in a deep breath to best emphasis her shape. She would leave him with something to write a description about. A red blush of rising blood crossed his face connecting both of the pointed tips of his ears. Tilt leaned forward, slowly tracing her fingertips across the table in circles above where his book lay open.
“What do you think is a fitting name for me mister?” She teased. The man was shifting in the chair now, beginning to look around in embarrassment to see if anyone else was taking notice of his predicament. If this was the greeter Tilt would have a joyous time here. She gave the squirming elf, maybe half-elf as she had trouble telling, a bit of relief by breaking away her attention and looked around at the room. It was not as busy as she had hoped. It might do her well to speak with individuals instead of entertaining a crowd. She saw a barkeeper behind his counter. He stood rather still with a very attentive focus on her. A perfect way to start, keeping the staff enthralled. She slid a few steps into the room before looking back at the greeter.
“Name is Tilt today, feel free to name me yourself tomorrow.”
She turned back with a deeply curled smirk on her face, not waiting to see what effect that comment had, though she thought she heard a struggled response. The barkeep still watched her with unbroken focus. She widened out the smirk into a smile.
“What all do you serve here barkeep?” she asked, take a seat at the counter. He remained silent, watching her. She wondered if she had overdone her enchantments for this crowd, overwhelmed their poor loveless lives with more than they could imagine. It would be entertaining for her all the same, stunned fools would be a nice break from the standard losers who were stirred to action. She waited, resting her chin lightly on bridged fingers. The barkeep was simply dressed. He wore matching slacks and vest, a white shirt underneath. His parted hair was perfectly placed, his face smooth…
Tilt sat up, a bit angry she hadn’t noticed sooner.
“Fluffy waste of time…” She paused. She raised a hand towards her lips.
“Fluff.” The word came out with distorted sound, forced from her throat.
She looked up, her face twitching with a subtle rage.
“What kind of shiny trick is this? She hissed.
The barkeep barely moved as he answered, still watching her in his designated pose.
“An enchantment of influence to redirect undesirable language while within my establishment. No ill will towards relying upon it to create amiable conversation.”
Tilt pursed her lips in a forced smile, her eyes flashing wide with furrowed brows which betrayed withheld emotion.
“Sure thing.” She turned away from the counter, looking out at what other warm bodies could be entertained besides the ancient writer at the door. There was a couple sharing lunch at a table, and while the boy’s eye might dart, he was charmed by a truer love at his side. Tilt’s stomach knotted at the sight. Such things seemed like a bigger bundle of imaginary ideas than what she wove around herself. At least she was creating a presentation to be seen, not just wishful thinking. She spotted another man in the back corner. Not much bigger than the barkeep, he was clearly in a position to be overlooked. She also could tell that he hid a much more trained body under his plain clothes, perhaps a mercenary between jobs. Mercenaries loved to keep themselves free of commitments and understood the concept of payment. Tilt slowly walked up to his table.
“You seem to be a bit out of place here sir. I would think you should be leading expeditions or adventures.”
He looked up from his current project in his lap, Tilt now could see to her confusion that he was knitting with yarn. He regarded her presence and to her dismay gave absolutely no reaction. She was about to stamp out of this useless location when he released a yarn needle briefly enough to extend a hand to a chair at his table offering her to sit. Tilt wondered what good it would be to speak with him, but the older soul at the door might keel over if she tried very hard. She sat down, lightly flipping her hair off of her left shoulder, keeping her bare neck and shoulder exposed to the room, never too miss a good first impression of any potential man who might stride into the room.
“So what would be your story, I don’t often see someone as honed as you…knitting.” She couldn’t help but sound a bit confused at his current hobby. Now that she was closer she could see that he a good number of years beyond her, but had held off aging well, though his prime years were far gone. He manipulated the needles, frowning as they caught and the yarn threatened to tangle. He set the bundle in front of him, finally regarding her with a solid glance. She waited for her magic to intrigue him, but he didn’t soften. He leaned back and folded his arms.
“Why cover yourself in false identities?” He said in a flat question. Tilt hadn’t expected such a direct accusatio. The planned small talk and leading phrases shattered, leaving her speechless. Even those who knew she was using magic had never cared until she left. She looked up at him unsure of what he was wanting her to admit. He looked at her. It was then that she felt her old insecurities climbing back from where she had shoved them deep inside. This man was looking at the real her, the one she herself hated to see without glamour in effect. All of her attention to detail to the illusion of what she wanted to be seen as was all but ignored by this man. She had not let anyone see that far for years, not even herself. She started to rise but the man swept forward with a sudden lunge, grabbing her seat by its legs and trapping her.
She struggled to remember the words to her defensive spells, images of her own reflection interrupting her concentration. She wanted away from him.
“It does one no good to step away from yourself for too long.”
No sooner than he finished speaking he released the chair and leaned back again, collecting his bundle of yarn once more. He flicked the heavy steel needles between his hands, the sharp points guiding the chaotic mound of wool in organized patterns to hold together in what looked to be becoming a scarf. Tilt didn’t know what to do. No one had shared an honest word to her in such a long time. The last man who had seen her for who she was had been beyond cruel. Her tutor still demanded her to ever be maintaining her illusions in his presence.
This man now flashed a sign in a quick motion towards the barkeep. She wondered if the small keeper would be the one to ask her to leave or the old half-elf. She waited with her head low, listening to the metallic click of the needles. The sound of gentle stirring came before any request for her dismissal. She looked up onto the table. Two fragile teacups were placed before both her and the man in the corner, he stirred the steaming liquid. He regarded Tilt and nodded towards the tea.
Tilt didn’t understand what this place offered, but it was something truly different than everywhere else she had been. She drew the cup forward and lifted it to her lips.
She sputtered and choked on the scalding liquid.
“Flying son of a bumble that stings.” She muttered.