Featuring: Arrian, Celomenda, Cerberus, and Isora
Date: May 22, 2004
IC Date: December 10, 3929
Summary: A darkling Praetorian out on an errand meets others with wings as dark as his own, though reactions vary from darkling to darkling.
Mongrel Town - Parnassus
Like a dog resting at its master's feet, Mongrel Town is situated at the bottom of the bluff upon which the gleaming white walls of Parnassus reside. Sandwiched between the sheer wall of the bluff to the south and the salty tang of the estuary's waters to the north, the area has grown over the years to almost become a city within a city.Narrow but sturdy buildings made from the bricks of the earthy colored clay found near the river are packed closely with each other along a maze of twisting cobblestone streets that try to make the most of the limited room. Originally intended to house the Mongrel slaves that worked the docks or the fishing boats, the area has also become home to those that have earned their freedom, or even the occasional member of one of the 'pure' races. The further east one goes, the more the slip of land narrows and the poorer the buildings and residents become, until finally the one reaches the shanty town known commonly as 'The Bottoms'.
To the southwest, up along a high point of the hill before the bluff, the low wall of Castallia can be seen separated the magical enclave from the rest of the area. Directly to the west lies the warehouse district of the Navale while further down the hill to the northwest can be seen the bobbing masts of the ships moored in the dockyard.
Sitting on the low wall that surrounds the Castallia, Celomenda lets her feet dangle towards the ground while her dark wings are open to the late morning sunshine. It's still cold out, but the sun makes it feel warmer than it is. The halfbreed smiles with amusement as she watches a bunch of Mongrel children playing a game involving a ball-like sack of rags and a couple of busted up barrels. Absently, she has her hand held out with the palm up. A pair of sparrows dance and peck at some seed she has cupped for them.
Couldn't someone else have drawn 'keep the Optio happy' duty today? No? It seems like Arrian's had a run of duty for the past week. Or two. Or a month. But one doesn't question orders if one doesn't want things to get worse, right? So, the darkling lands in the street in mongrel town, folds dark wings behind himself, and tugs his lorica into place. And then, despite being sent out on a fool's errand, he catches sight of the children, and he grins a little bit. Settles in to watch and only belatedly notices Celomenda. Rest assured, when he has, he forgets the children.
Leaning back with one hand on the edge of the wall behind her, Celomenda keeps the other hand up and balanced for the birds that seem to be taking turns eating from her hand or flying down to pick up the crumbs that fall to the ground below her dangling feet. Laughing as one of the children gets in a good kick that lands the ball in the barrel, she calls out, "Good one, Keigan." Slowly, it filters into her awareness that she's being watched. Glancing over toward Arrian, her head tilts in a bird-like manner as she regards him back.
Arrian's gaze flicks, too late, toward the kids again and back,. Caught, then. He exhales, almost laughter, and nods a greeting before he steps toward the wall. "Your cousin, maybe?"
One dark eyebrow quirks up on Celomenda's brow as she glances at Arrian and then towards the little boy who's back playing the game. Bringing her gaze back, the halfbreed shakes her head, "No. Just a little boy I know. His mother brings Castallia eggs pretty often." The sparrows disappear as Arrian comes over, so she wipes her hand off on her pants and then raises it again to push back a strand of hair from her face. "You're a Praetorian."
Arrian's grin strengthens and he nods, giving her only half of a usual bow, though his fist does still tap his breastplate. "So I am. And you? Castallia. Then you're a mage?"
Perhaps the smile breaks her wariness. After all, it's only so long that a girl can be wary of a handsome young man speaking to her. Smiling back, Celomenda gives a little nod, "Ferine." That might explain the affinity with the normally skittish sparrows. After another pause she adds, "I'm Celomenda al'Mehta."
Arrian's eyebrows lift. "Ferine, ferine.. ah! Shapeshifter." And Varati. That would explain the coloring, yes. He adds, "Don't the Varati usually have longer names than that?" And he winks.
Feet swing a bit as her legs dangle. Hesitating a touch, she considers a moment before answering, "I'm not full Varati. al'Mehta is my adopted father's name, and it's not exactly right if I take his full name since I'm not exactly a proper Varati." Celomenda shrugs slender shoulders a touch before glancing back towards the children.
"Ah, well, you may not be exactly a proper Varati, but you may be exactly what *I* need." Arrian's wings shift as he draws himself up into a somewhat formal pose. "I'm looking for a man who sells spiced honey wine. It has to be.." He stops and frowns. "Or was it honeyed spice wine?"
Bringing her gaze back with a few owlish blinks of her eyes, Celomenda regards Arrian with a touch of confused uncertainty. As he finishes explaining a smile breaks out over her face, "Oh, you must mean old Algon. He's a Mongrel who lives down this way who makes a wine like that. He said some of the Praetorian officers fancy it, but I thought he was just puffing himself up."
Arrian snaps. "Algon! That was it. Aye, Algon the wine maker with the spice, or honey, or whatever it was." Satisfied, he grins. "So, you can tell me which door is his? I don't much fancy getting it wrong."
Giving a light laugh, Celomenda says, "I'll show you." Hopping down off the wall, she shows herself to be a little tall for an Empyrean woman, but a bit short and frail for a Varati one. The dark wings at her back are undersized and surely couldn't hold her aloft for the distances that most Empyreans can fly. "He lives down this way." Giving Arrian a sideways look, she asks, "Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Praetorian."
"More than my fair share," Arrian confesses. "Tritonides," he says then. "Arrian Tritonides is good enough. And I'm a Ceterion, if you're going to give me titles. Praetorian could be anyone, after all."
Shoulders lift in a shrug again, accompanied by a rustle of dark feathers, "I don't know too many Praetorians, so it's safe enough to call you that. But I'll call you Tritonides if you like. Or Arrian. Or 'Hey you'. That's what most people tend to think my name is." Flashing a brilliant grin, the girl heads off down the street past the children playing their game.
Arrian chuckles as he follows her. "Then that we have in common. The name, I mean. 'Hey you'. Arrian'll work as far as you're concerned, though." He musses the hair of a mongrel child as he passes, and turns to take a few backward steps to grin at the boy before he turns again. "So what is it about you that's not exactly Varati?"
Both eyebrows lift as she turns to regard Arrian with a bemused expression, "Most people pick it out fairly quickly. There's only one Varati that should have wings as far as most of them are concerned." Looking back forward, she steps out of the way to allow a donkey drawn cart to pass them by on the narrow street. "As far as I know, my mother was an Empyrean. No idea who she was, or who my father was, but here I am."
Arrian steps aside for the cart as well, then moves to catch up again. "Ask me," which she hasn't, "and I say if there's one Varati with wings, then it shouldn't be such a stretch that there are two."
Celomenda snorts and flashes a grin over, "You don't say that to Varati. Not even my da will listen to comments like that, and he's pretty easy going with others than most Varati I've met." Sidestepping a shaded spot that's still icy, she points ahead, "Old Algon lives in the gaudy blue house there, with the purple door."
Arrian grins at her back. "Aye, I know. You don't say a lot of things to the Varati." He steps up beside her and eyes the house she points out, then glances at her. "Is he friendly, this Old Algon?"
Glancing up at the sky to judge the time of day, Celomenda considers, "Depends on how much of his own wine he drank last night." Looking back to Arrian, she gives a conspiratorial grin, "He likes his wine just as much as the people who buy it. If he over drank last night, he'll be a bear this morning. Most times, though, he's fine."
"A bear," he echoes. "You don't mean that do you? Literally? I had a heavy breakfast this morning. I'd hate to be brought down because my wings were too weak."
Rolling her eyes, Celomenda grins, "I said he was a Mongrel. I meant it figuratively." Lifting both eyebrows, she asks in a teasing tone, "They do tell jokes up there in the Eyrie, don't they?"
Arrian grins back, and folds his arms across his chest. "Not often," he confesses, "though it's not for lack of trying. It's just that we Praetorians aren't very funny."
Laughing, Celomenda says with mock sympathy, "You have my condolences then." Reaching out, she raps sharply on the bright purple door and then takes a step back to let Arrian be the one in front.
Lucky Arrian who's twisted around to say, "Hey, where are you going," when the door opens and Old Algon gets a face full of dark feathers. The Praetorian turns back again as quickly as he can and says, "Er. It's, ah. Algon. Isn't it?"
The grizzled old Mongrel is a bit of a big man. Beefy and red cheeked as he gazes blearily out the door at the two young folk. "A'yup. Tha' me." He blinks a few more times at Arrian before the uniform sinks in. The big man straightens a bit and tries to get a bit more decorum, "What can I do y'for, young officer."
Celomenda stands back off to the side, grinning from ear to ear as she watches Arrian's reactions.
Arrian clears his throat. "It's, ah." And adjusts his wings again, as if by careful spreading of his feathers he might gain some size on the man. "I was sent by Optio Feodras. To fetch a bottle or a skin or ... well. Whatever you'll sell. Of your spiced, or honeyed, wine."
Old Algon regards Arrian for a bleary moment as if the words didn't quite sink through the first time. "Optio Feodras?" Blinking a few times, the old man scratches his beard, "Oh! The spiced honey wine. Gotcha young sir. Be jus' a second." Turning to go back inside, the man pauses, "Did the honored Optio think t'send coin this time?"
Arrian hehs and summons up that crooked grin again. "Aye, that he did." He pulls out a small pouch of coins and gives it a shake, so that the money within clinks together. "Specifically for your brew."
The old man's stupor seems to fade rather dramatically at the sight of the coin purse. Bobbing his head in a respectful nod, the old man lumbers into his house bellowing a command to some sleeping servants in the back.
Celomenda grins a bit as she leans against the wall on the opposite side of the narrow street, her arms crossed over her midsection. "Money tends to smooth his temper out too."
The set of Arrian's wings relaxes and he twists to grin back at Celomenda. "Good thing I reminded Feodras to cough it up then."
Celomenda's smile quirks up around a laugh as she says, "I'm sure Algon would have still given you some wine, but it probably wouldn't have been the better stuff. He doesn't like to anger the Praetorians too much. Most folks around here don't."
Around then, Algon comes back out with two corked bottles of wine, "Ah here we go, young officer sir. I gots two bottles that can go to Optio Feodros this time, spiced jus' the way he likes'm, yessir."
Arrian's brow furrows. "Why's that? They're not making tr--" Well, that thought's interrupted by the return of the big Mongrel. Arrian twists back again and nods. "Two bottles? With luck they'll last him an hour or two at least." He tosses the coin pouch and catches it again, the better to offer it over. "And that should be more than fair payment."
"I'm sure it is, young officer sir. I'm sure it is." Algon shows a speed that belies his age as he takes the coin bag from Arrian. Beaming a smile and an alertness he didn't show at the first opening of the door. The large old man gives a bow and heads back into his house with a gap toothed smile offered to the darkling.
Laughing, Celomenda pushes off the wall with a flutter of feathers, "I bet old Algon will be looking forward to seeing you again if you made sure to bring money." Stepping into the sunshine that angles down onto the street, she pushes a hand through her hair, "You think you can find your way here again on your own?"
Arrian backs away from the door before he turns away and heaves a sigh of something akin to relief. "With luck," he says, considering the bottles he holds, "Feodras will send someone else next time." He peers down the street then, glances sidelong at her, and allows, "I might be able to, aye. If I can't, I know who to ask for as a guide, don't I?"
Quirking a smile, Celomenda bbos her head in a nod, "Yup. Castallia's gates are always open. And most everyone inside knows who I am, 'cept maybe some of the newer folks." Sliding her hands into her jacket pockets to warm them, she bounces on her feet a bit.
Arrian chuckles. "If I run into someone new, I'll ask to be passed to someone old," he promises.
Flashing another grin, Celomenda nods, "Fair enough." Starting to walk back up the street from the direction they came, she says, "Though, I don't think I'd exactly be able to return the favor. They might know who you are, but I doubt they'd welcome me coming up to the Eyrie."
Threading their way through the narrow streets of Mongrel Town, Celomenda and Arrian move back towards the slightly more open area in front of Castallia. Reaching the nearer gate, the halfbreed girl pauses with a rustle of her undersized, dark wings. "It's a little confusing trying to find your way through the streets, but overhead you can spot old Algon's house easy. It's the only bright blue house on that street."
A knot of mongrels cry out in alarm as a cruel and wicked shape marches through them, breaking their loose ranks. Cerberus rides upon strides brutal and measured as he invades the depths of Mongrel town, leaning upon an ancient spear as if a cane. A veil of tired obsidian strands fall from his head's crown to disguise the features beneath, but nothing can conceal the horrible ruin of flesh. As if rent by some hideous weapon, the left half of the darkling's face is cloven in and the flesh upon it torn into a ghastly web of scars. Presiding over this damnable sight is a solitary eye of white. This baleful frosted gaze assails the mongrels obstructing his path, antagonizing them into removing themselves. For the stubborn a wounded and rasping voice unleashes an infamous tragedy of curses.
Arrian chuckles as he walks at Celomenda's side. "That's good to know, too. A better landmark, as a matter of fact, than navigating by statues. I didn't realize how every sculptor carved the same head, regardless of whether they were fashioning men or women." He probably doesn't mean that, but he doesn't correct himself. No, his attention's caught by the commotion the mongrels make.
In the wake of Cerberus's rather distinctive passage comes Isora. The woman might well appear to be trying to catch up with the man, but she is slowed by the weight of a large wooden case that hangs from a strap over one shoulder. Her pursuit is further ruined when a mongrel boy -- one of those so cruelly dispersed by the ravaged darkling -- moves to intercept her. He steps before her, she stops to avoid running him over, and the two converse for a moment. Concern shadows her brow, of a sudden, and she fumbles in the purse at her waist to press what could be coins into his dirty hand. He's away, then, and she takes up the chase once more. "Dominus Hyperion?"
Turning to face Arrian with a dancer's half spin on one foot, Celomenda turns to gift the Praetorian Ceterion with a brilliant smile, "You can't tell me that you truly don't see the difference between the statues of men and women?" Amused at this concept, she seems fully intent on teasing the young man when she sees the commotion. Smile faltering a touch, she watches the older, larger darkling man force his way through the narrow but crowded streets. A faint furrow forms between her eyebrows.
The malicious march of the tormented shape slows at the pleading cry of the purebred Empyrean. Leaning still upon the rusted and pitted weapon, Cerberus turns his baleful glare upon Isora. It swells with lascivious greed, gorging on the sight of the ripe figure approaching. Lips parched and crack slowly curdle into a sickening rictus, a grotesquely gleeful grin. A tongue eager with anticipation slithers from the hideous sight and wriggles in lewd invitation at the healer, the crude gesture chased by words of like construction, hissing, "Good day little Domina. Did you have second thoughts about my...." impossible does the mocking malevolent grin swell further, adding, "...offer?"
"Hm?" The Praetorian's distracted by the grotesque show going on over there. "Oh." Lopsided grin again. "I can tell the difference when I'm on a level, but from above? One head's like another."
"No..." Isora comes to a halt again, and actually takes a step backwards when Cerberus turns that look on her. Her eyes don't seem content to settle on him directly right now, gaze skittering away to dance over their immediate surroundings -- the other pair is noted, their wings and the shade of them taken in. Quickly, before that pale regard drops to the ground at Cerberus's feet and color stains her cheeks. "No," she repeats. "I wanted to offer an apology." Voice is pitched low, meant for his ears only -- but the chill air has an odd way of amplifying sound, doesn't it?
The halfbreed girl watches with a morbid fascination as the two older Empyreans interact in the street. Taking a half step closer to Arrian, she pulls her gaze back long enough to quirk a hint of the teasing grin she wore before, "Oh come now, Arrian. Just look at the hair style. It's not that hard. Even I can tell from above and I don't have the wings to really hover long." Celomenda's wings are a trifle undersized when compared to a full blooded Empyrean's.
The shadowy shape of Cerberus stalks after Isora in her retreat, black wings fluttering and threatening to swallow the delicate pale figure of the healer. He grins, a sickening sight, frosted eye dropping to feed on her swollen bodice. Abruptly does the tortured face draw nearer to it, nostrils flaring to capture that clean scent of a pure Empyrean woman's flesh. Intoxicated by its sweetness, the darkling groans lustfully and slowly pulls his attention upward. With a rasping whisper he feigns some intimacy, "How did you want to apologize, little Domina?"
Arrian cocks an eyebrow and jokes quietly, "When was the last time you visited Parnassus. I saw a man in the street the other day with hair in a braid that swung past his waist." He holds up a hand as if taking an oath, but amusment touches his eyes. "I swear it the truth."
Indignant, Celomenda glances to Arrian, "I fly over head all the time. It doesn't ruffle any feathers when I do it as a bird, so why not go exploring occasionally." Still, she's lost a bit of the bantering edge to her light tones as she glances back towards the two Empyreans. Brow furrowing a little further, she comments in a low voice, "He's treating her like a common three copper Cyprian and she's just taking it."
Arrian's attention is primarily on the healer and the scarred darkling, have no doubt, no matter the grin he wears. He lowers his voice as well and murmurs, "Aye, but if she chooses to stand and listen, there's little that can be done. Let him lay a finger on her, though.."
The case goes ignored as Cerberus again approaches the healer, his nearness oppressive. Already drunk on the scent of her, the darkling draws near her face, his breath a scorching zephyr that carries words ruinous in character, "I accept your apology if.." He grins, the expression a travesty of flesh, "...if you come by Doma Hyperion to tend to my...wounds." The last is offered with some malicious amusement, a thin veneer for some blacker intent. Again does he groan, his crude passion swelling simply from the nearness of the pale woman.
Isora retreats again, though this time without pausing. His behaviour has won a rout, and she'll flee before him. Murmuring some halfhearted response, she turns and hurries back the way she came. Down the street that mongrel boy who greeted her earlier awaits -- his dark eyes huge and fixed with open fear on Cerberus's face -- and she moves to meet him, resting a hand on his skinny shoulder to steer him away. They soon disappear down the alley formed by the placement of two weather-worn buildings, and are gone.
Crossing her arms across her midsection, Celomenda watches the Empyrean woman flee before turning her gaze slightly to watch Cerberus. Under her breath to Arrian she asks, "Do you think he'll follow her?" Absently, the fingers on one hand plays with the colorful sash tied around her waist.
"Not if he's got sense, he won't," is Arrian's answer. And whether the big darkling has sense at all is anyone's guess.
A haunting laugh chases the pale healer, the darkling lost to some malevolent amusement. Slowly does the insidious fit subside and the frosted eye rips away from Isora's retreating shape. It assails the denizens of mongrel town before stumbling recklessly upon Arrian and Celomenda, returning his stare. Baleful does the frosted gaze become, swelling with a depthless and mindless hate. The wounded voice hisses, ripping through the air towards the two Empyreans, "What are you gutter birds look at, eh?" Slowly does the obsidian shape approach, the long tunica writhing and lashing as if alive, antagonized by strides long and purposeful.
Probably speaking without really thinking it through, Celomenda replies with a sharp tongue and a toss of her head, dark hair resettling behind her shoulder, "If you wish to see a gutter bird you should probably just look in that puddle over there." For a halfbreed she's a bit more prideful than is probably smart. A bit of nervousness does show in her undersized wings though, as they flutter with an agitated rustle.
Arrian doesn't close his eyes, doesn't wince or flinch, for all that he might like to. He does cast the half-breed a wry look, then his attention turns back toward the bigger darkling and he takes two steps, one forward, one to the side, to stand somewhat in front of Celomenda. "You needn't worry about us."
Celomenda's impertinence only earns her the crude attention of the tormented shape. The solitary eye burns with a malicious greed, gorging on the slender form of Celomenda. Arrian's protective posture does little to distract from this lewd and naked inspection. Long does the darkling's gaze linger upon the woman's full bosom, as if a feast waiting to be devoured. He hisses excitedly, his voice a pitiful rasping of sound, "Your girl has a lively mouth there Preator. I can think of many good things for a woman's lively mouth to do. How much will you give me for use of your woman?"
Celomenda sputters. Yes, she actually sputters. Dark eyes widen and she stares at Cerberus with an astonished gaze that's incredulity is echoed in the fierce blush across her dark cheeks, "I.. am... Not!" There's not much more than that she gets out, which is probably for the best considering how tactful she has been up to this point. Again, those undersized black wings flutter with an agitation that's tinged this time with both nervousness and irritation.
Arrian's chin lifts and his shoulders square. "My," Celomenda can smack him for the boldness later, "woman is not for sale."
The ominous darkling lashes out with a fitful rage, castigating the young Preatorian, "Why not? What does a Preatorian need with a woman..." The ghastly pale eye rips away from Celomenda and siezes the youthful figure of Arrian. Nearer does Cerberus approach, brandishing his cruel semblance through a veil of obsidian locks. Brokenly does the jaw work, struggling to craft words coarse and crude, "It seems Praetorians prefer the company of boys to women, isn't that so...boy?" Parched and crack lips grin grotesquely, taunting the young soldier, "Do you miss rubbing oils into the limbs of your brothers, and then having those limbs wrap around you, eh? Give me some time with your girl. I'll have her moaning like a Cyprian before long." Now does the wasted and withering features of Cerberus turn upon Celomenda. His tongue slithers free to wriggle delightfully at her.
Expression twisting with disgust and embarrassment, Celomenda's brow furrows as she glares at Cerberus, "I'm my own person and I wouldn't let you touch me for anything." Dusky cheeks are a bright pink as she takes a bit of a half step backwards. She's not exactly trying to put Arrian between herself and Cerberus, but she does lessen the distance between herself and the gate into Castallia's courtyard.
If Arrian could motion Celomenda to silence without being seen, he might. As he can't, well. What's said is said. "Whoever has spoken to you of Praetorians spreads lies and half-truths, but I've told you plainly, she's not for you." He takes a step forward. "Now, be on your way."
The passing hate of earlier is nothing compared to the fitful fury that now consumes the darkling, goaded so by the Praetorian's condescension. Pale and calloused fingers tighten murderously around the makeshift cane as parched lips writhe in loathesome scorn. Aidoneous's imp uncoils from his stoop, swelling to an impressive height, and steps forward to match Arrian's determination. Breath hot and fetid, as if born from some hellish bellows, crashes against the other's fairer face, whispering venomous promises, "I should shove this spear up your back passage until it winks at me through your teeth, boy! Praetorians are nothing but whores for the Aegis, and you should know...darkling! Those servitors climb over one another to spread their legs for patricians to secure their advancement, spitting down upon the Velites along the way. You'll see it for yourself if you haven't already. Mark my words boy, Servitors will be raining piss down upon you soon enough." The insane fit subsides, the frozen eye melting into some softer semblance of crude amusement. His gaze turns upon Celomenda and he hisses in parting, "Have your girl then. I'm sure she'd be a lively stoat." The tattered hem of Cerberus's tunica explodes into a tempest of action as the darkling turns and begins to stalk away, the garment lashing and writhing in torture, antagonized by strides ferocious.
Squeaking a sound of fright as Cerberus gets into Arrian's face, Celomenda's wings flutter with an agitation that seems more birdlike than human. Hands start twisting together and she steps from feet to feet. Just as she's about to run for help, or -something-, the twisted husk of a man steps away and stalks off. Blinking dark eyes widely, she reaches out to hesitantly touch Arrian's shoulder, "He didn't hit you, did he?"
Arrian stands his ground, even in the face of fetid breath and furious words, lashes narrowed a little against any spittle that may fly. He doesn't defend himself or announce his own standing as one of the Servitors the bigger darkling so maligns. Instead, he keeps his peace, dark gaze following when the ruined man stalks away. Celomenda's touch prompts a sharp exhalation. Only then does Arrian relax his stance. "No. No, he didn't touch me. You? You're all right, aren't you?"
Letting her hand fall back down, Celomenda wraps her arms around herself and nods, "He made my skin crawl." Shoulders give a little shudder that's accompanied with a rustle of feathers. "Never had anyone treat me like that before."
Arrian turns to face her more properly, brow still furrowed. "I apologize. For him, domina." He's giving a mongrel a title? Interesting.
Arms across her middle, Celomenda shakes her head as she glances down at the flagstones between their feet, "You don't have to apologize for him. You don't even know him and he was the one saying those things." After a moment, she looks up again, "I should go inside. I think the cold is starting to get to me."
"No, I don't know him," Arrian agrees. "But it doesn't change the fact that you should never have heard them. And I do have to apologize, for my forwardness in, ah. Claiming you. I thought it better to let him think us attached. If he'd known you were alone, here..." He nods, then, glad to change the subject and summons a wan smile. "Yes, go back inside and warm yourself by a fire."
"Maybe..." Pausing for a second, Celomenda considers her words and then says, "Maybe I'll get to see you another time." Offering a hesitant smile, she says, "It was fun talking with you, and I know you were only trying to keep that man away, so I understand what you said." The halfbreed offers another little smile and then turns and heads towards the gate into Castallia.
Arrian's smile widens a little. "I look forward to it," he says, and
sketches another half-bow. "Preferably without the errand running." He
watches then, to make certain that she gets through the gate before he
takes to the sky with the bottles of wine.
