Nathaniel watched the spectacle unfold with mirth. Certainly strange, to see plants and vines acting on behalf of the innkeeper herself, but hey, what could he say, truly? He was a race from beyond these realms. He shouldn’t be here, but here he was.
“Noble Haven, huh,” the plasmoid said, mostly to himself, as she turned and returned to the inner workings of her inn. He caught a glimpse of those within before the door swung shut—most seemed to gorge themselves silly on food, though some peered curiously to the mouth where the troublemakers were unceremoniously cast from.
Nathaniel approached the board, the one she’d gestured to.
“Don’t start a fight,” he mutely echoed, gaze trailing over the first, boldly scribed rule upon tamed, smooth wood. He turned, peering back at the individuals which laid, sprawled and shamed, in an ungainly heap upon the ground before the establishment. Amusement lilted his words. “Well, didn’t heed that one, did you, buds?”
In he went. He was sure to let his expression, which had been woollen and otherwise undefined, warp and morph into something more pleasant—a small smile, slight plumpness to his violet cheeks.
Funny, to be in a society so intent on facial features, when his own race was naught but a blob. The very notion of the face, and by extension facial expressions, was foreign to his people. He’d gotten quite good at it, yes, but still didn’t wield it with the same fluency as the mortals who trekked these lands, born and raised.
The Noble Haven was quite a pleasant looking place. Its shell wore something alien but mystical, and the inside echoed the same sentiment. Many of the tables were occupied, word travelling much like a wildfire tearing through dry forestry, and the wafting aroma of food was heavenly. Certainly better than what his cooks whipped up in his own establishment, Mystique’s.
Though, to be fair, people rarely to came his club with the intention of getting good grub.
“Nice,” he chirped, beelining towards one of the few vacant tables.
