Lyra leaned over Brent's shoulder, looking at the illustration opposite the page he was reading. "No woman warrior has ever dressed like that," she noted with a grin.
"It's just a story," he mumbled, hunching down over the book.
"That bikini doesn't qualify as armor either. I figure it's a race between her being gutted, or catching pneumonia."
"Could you let me finish this, please?"
"Finish? You've been reading that same page for the last ten minutes."
"I know that!" Brent snapped.
"LYRA!" Orrig growled from across the common room.
"Let Brent read book. Qvietly."
The elf turned from the orc bred male and stormed off towards the bar, muttering as she passed Thistle, "I bet you've got better taste in reading."
The mage's blue eyes looked up at Lyra from behind her ever present hood, making her pause. It wasn't Thistle's usual expression of quiet deference, or worry. It reminded Lyra more of the first time they'd met, when she'd ang