#wnrobbie

A second mug of ale was set in front of Victor before he'd even realized that he'd finished his first. It seemed only moments ago that he'd sat himself down at the table, asking the first barmaid he saw to bring him a drink. He'd just finished with a customer, and he needed the taste of the loathsome man out of his mouth.

He had succeeded in that endeavor, at least, the bitter taste of alcohol now settled comfortably upon his tongue. Had he really finished another mug? Goodness, he really needed to slow down.

A third was placed in front of him, but he did not argue its sudden appearance. He simply took it in hand and raised it to his lips without a second thought.

He had only finished a quarter of his third drink, when he noticed the fellow who had suddenly appeared in front of him. Or had he been there all along, and Victor had simply not paid him any attention? He cleared his throat a bit, forcing a smile onto his face when he caught the man's attention.

"You have the face of a man who is in need of a drink," he said with a bit of a chuckle. "What are you having? I grow weary of drinking by myself."

Maeve woke with a start. Her back was sore, and her neck hurt. It took a moment for her to figure out what was going on. She was on the floor, looking up at the little loft that held her hay mattress, and His Majesty sleeping soundly.

Greer had perched herself on Maeve's lap, and watched her expectantly now, as if to say, Where's breakfast? Maeve sat up, petting the chicken's red head as she looked around her home. Nothing was out of pace, nothing was wrong, and she hadn't fainted. Everything was too neat for that.

And then...

And then.

And then she was on her feet, laughing and kissing a frantic Greer, all but weeping at the thought of it all. She was alive. She was alive, she was alive, she was alive.  It was the twenty-second day of September, and she was twenty-one years old. And she was alive.

She had to celebrate. She had to do something. She was alive, and she had to show it. Maeve stopped in her tracks, already out of breath and unable to piece a single coherent thought together. What did people do on their birth-days? What did anyone do?

I've always been a fan of Caneles...

That's right. That's right! Robbie liked Caneles. And she was alive. And she could make those.

Off to the market she raced, hardly bothering to make sure it was warm enough to go out without a cloak (not that she had one anyway). Within minutes, she had the ingredients needed, and before an hour was up, she was away at work in the bakery kitchen.

It took another hour to finish them, and again she was off, still high on life and the fact that she was still a part of it. His Majesty was safely at home with Greer, and the door had been locked. Mister Piest was manning the bakery that day, and so she had all the time in the world. And she knew exactly what she'd do with it.

"Robbie!" she called in, nearing the bakery. "Robbie, good morning! Are you in?"

Leave all your love and your longing behind

Dante smiled down at the letter in his hands, a hint of both annoyance and intrigue. Of all the masks he had made no one had yet asked for one made of metal rods. The little drawing on the letter would help somewhat but this was a medium he had yet to use and was going to require a bit of help to start and most likely a bit of help to finish. And the only person who could help him Was the smith Robbie.

With another smile Dante folded up the letter and placed it inside of his pocket, before striding out of the far back of his workshop. With instructions to keep the shop in good order to Dorian, Dante left his workshop and entered the cool mid morning air of the marketplace and began his walk to the Smith's place of business.