Interview: Mistress of Weasels

"...No, I don't think there'd be any weasels in /this/ weather, it's too cold. Besides, I think I've already hunted out all that are available at this point..." That rather odd half-a-conversation comes from Roselle, as she exits what appears to be the kitchen area of the Fernwood. The person she's addressing is behind those doors, so they could be anyone at all, but she's making her way towards the bar, wrapping her long, weaponised braid around her neck to keep it out of her way. "When it's warmer though!" she calls back.

Astaren has been quietly sitting at a table and looking over some parchments, scrolls, and a couple of books. He glance up and blinks, "Weasels?" tilting his head faintly confused, then grins in a bright fashion. "You know what." Standing up he walks over to Roselle and smiles, "I have been tempted, and that temptation has met its boiling point. You sound like you would be the most interesting person to interview. For the paper and all, if you are interested that is?"

There's a young lad coming out the kitchen, carrying a tray full of what seems to be various plates of food. As he passes along, he grins broadly as he catches the end part of Astaren's comment. "Ax Miz Rose 'bout 'er weasels an' all, yeh!" he chirrups sunnily, earning himself a jaundiced eyeing by the tall, grey-skinned half-Sil. "She's innerestin' an' she makes WEASEL PIE --oy a'right a'right Miz Rose don'tcha lookitme!" He flees, grinning like an imp of the perverse. Roselle, meanwhile, blinks at Astaren in genuine surprise. "...Interview? For...paper? The Tribune you mean? I...don't listen to young Toby there, he's a bratling, but yes, weasels, and...all right, if you want. I'm not...very interesting though."

Possibly entirely unrelated to weasels, Aya emerges on the upper, boarding level of the inn. She begins to make her way to the stairs, looking down at the patrons below.

Astaren grins even more, "Oh but you are, trust me on this." Moving over to the table he was sitting at. Reaching for a few blank parchments so he can write. Frown a moment then snaps his fingers as a quill appear, "All right. I am Astaren De'Centi, a mage from rune. Adventurer as well I suppose." Then starts to write, "So for the record, can I get your name and titles?"

Roselle cricks her neck, popping some vertebrae in what ought to be thoroughly unhealthy loudness. As she rotates her head, possibly to loosen some stiffness out of it, her gaze falls upon Aya as the Mul'niessa descends the staircase, in much more concrete fashion than Marcel Duchamp's deconstructed nude. Interest flares in her dark eyes and her mouth quirks faintly - it's an oddly friendly sort of expression despite the fact that an air of lurking maliciousness never seems to far from her sharp features. Her attention goes back to Astaren as he introduces himself, she blinks yet again at his question. "...Name? Ro'sellendriin en'Vrdhatru. Err. Titles?" She wrinkles her nose and leans against whatever nearest thing is at hand - probably Astaren's table, like as not. "...Mistress of Weasels?"

Something, or rather someone, catches Aya's interest; possibly the known Elu-run-ite. She vanishes from the walkway in wisps of dissipating shadows, only to reappear with a similar coalescing behind the mage. Her eyes are upon the apparent half-blood, one brow arched.

"That is an interesting title, how did you happen to-" Her inquiry is cut off suddenly and her eyes widen. Something is wrong.

It may have something to do with the sudden slight bulge within her wrappings. A mobile bulge that suddenly moves from her chest, following the wrap around to her back.

Astaren writes that down quickly, his hand moving with practiced speed. "Mistress of Weasels, there has to be a story behind that title. Care to share?" The man grinning over to Roselle as she leans against the table. A glance to Aya with a grin, "My question as well!"

It's Aya who has Roselle's attention - especially when she disappears, and then reappears again behind Astaren. Her head tilts, like an avidly curious sparrow as she observes the shadow-elf with every evidence of interest. "...Well now that's a neat ability, that," she murmurs with another faint smile, her voice a rough, sandpaper-honey rasp, before she turns her gaze back to Astaren. "Mistress of Weasels? It started out as a joke many years ago. An Oruch friend of mine started it, of course, and it's sort of continued down the years --"

And then there's that mobile bulge within Aya's wrappings that...suddenly starts moving. The half-Sil blinks, pauses in her sentence, and blinks some more. "Is something the matter m'lady?" she asks, finally.

"What in the name of..." Aya's semi-expletive is left unfinished as she whirls and attempts to reach behind herself in pursuit of ... whatever it is. Thus begins a rather acrobatic, if not very flattering, dance with an unseen partner. Her hands attempt to follow said partner's lead, moving from back to front, up and down across her clothing.

It looks like the problem is more acrobatic and agile than she.

Astaren glances up to Aya and smiles, "Hey there. Perhaps I could ask you a few questions as..." pausing as Aya attempts to start to capture whatever it is that is moving under her clothing. "So do not see that everyday." Entranced for a few moments while watching. Then shakes his head and looks back to Roselle grinning a moment and then peers back over to Roselle, "I am sure she is ok, really. So the title of Mistress of Weasels started out as a joke? Well I suppose titles and nicknames have to start somewhere. Though you were talking about weasels when you walked out of the kitchen. Is that related to your title, oh and weasel pie?"

Roselle's attention driiiiiifts to Aya, as she starts what seems to be interpretive dance movements for Solo Performer and Strange Bump. "...That's either a mouse," she says slowly, with a grimace. "Or a spider, or..." A sigh as she moves over to the Mul'niessa. "I can't quite help you, m'lady, but if it's up against your back I can trap it in place. And you get it out. With your permission of course, because I'm not going to turn you upside down and shake you. I'm not Jokul, for one, and for another, I'm nowhere near strong enough."

Not that she's forgotten Astaren either, because she does answer him, albeit slightly distracted by Aya's problem. "Aye, joke it was back in the day, because somehow, if there's a weasel in the vicinity I'll find it no matter what. Stick an arm down a rabbit hole and a weasel'll be hanging off it when I come back up --weasel pie? Yes, I make a fucking good weasel pie. Just ask Sandy."

Aya continues to spin, suddenly vanishing as she did before, reappearing atop the bar. She pauses briefly,and there is no movement. The corner of her mouth begins to lift into an expression of triumph...

It then drops into a scowl as her partner ends the lull in the dance. The whirling resumes, and she discorporates once more, now to appear on a table occupied by a pair of surly seafarers who begin to look less surly and more entertained at the display Aya never had intention to make.

When she realizes this, or possibly in another attempt to thwart the unexpected annoyance, she disappears and reappears back near Astaren and Roselle. Aya pauses again, tentatively, expectantly, and disheveledly. When nothing immediately moves, she adjusts her clothing to return comfort and ensure decency, but remains wary. She also finally responds to Roselle. "That ... won't be necessary."

Astaren glances up and watches Aya and her shadow dancing antics. "You know, from what you have said. I woudl not be surprised if there was a weasel under that clothing." His voice is calm, but there is clear mirth gleaming in his eyes. Then shakes his head slowly. "So is the making of weasel pies revenge for the weasels that have bitten you over the years? Are there any scars?"

"Glad to hear that m'lady," Roselle returns to Aya gravely. "Bloody fucking uncomfortable, Vardama's variegated tits and flaming hair. Um. I hope it's not a weasel --" That last part to Astaren firmly. "Because weasels are damn little bastards that bite. And..." Weasel pies as revenge? She's taken aback enough that she does a long, slow blink, and then she starts to /cackle/. It's like the running trill of a rivulet met an echo chamber, in terms of describing the sound - not unpleasant, but takes some getting used to. "P'raps it is," she allows, once the fit of mirth subsides. "But to be honest, it was just wantin' to make something nice to eat, that's all. Easier to stuff 'em into a pie and make 'em edible, than to do it any other way. Scars? Probably more than I can remember, fuckin' Aesirian hells."

Aya's wariness, gradually begins to fade as there are no further signs of stowaways, weasel or otherwise. "Annoying little vermin, and they should be avaoided or crushed, but why would anyone want to eat them?"

Astaren nods as he writes some more things down and pauses a moment. Then grins, "So, what has been the worst weasel encounter you remember?"

Roselle crosses her arms, leans against Astaren's table like a totally boneless caricature of 'upright vertebrate', and considers. "There were giant rabid weasels once, many years ago," she says thoughtfully. "Two Oruch friends and I had the nasty misfortune of dealing with 'em. And...well yes, they /are/ annoying little vermin, m'lady, but at the time, we didn't /have/ anything else to eat. So weasels it was." The last is, of course, to Aya.

Aya dips her chin to acknowledge that explanation. "Unpleasant. Obviously, you and your allies survived, and the vermin didn't, so all ended well." A brow lifts as she glances to Astaren. "Is this an event worthy of a historian, or do you have a specific interest in weasels?" The other brow lilfts as she gestures a hand to Roselle, "or in her?"

Astaren is confused for a moment, 'So wait, you ate the giant rapid weasels?" the confusion on his face clear as he quickly writes down the latest information. He pauses a moment and glances to Aya and grins, "Her title is Mistress of Weasels, and that is interesting. Writing an interview for the tribune, and I guess it will be about weasels."

From the look on Roselle's face, it's clear she's getting a little confused about exactly what weasels they were talking about. "...We didn't eat the giant rabid weasels, no, they were rabid. We burned 'em," she clarifies. "I'm just answering th'lady here, about why anyone'd want to eat weasels. At one point, weasels were all we /had/ during our travels, so..." There's something about Astaren's mention of titles that seems to amuse her, and not just because of the Mistress of Weasels either. "...well, that's at least a little less dire than what I could be officially known as, but don't use," she says matter-of-factly.

Astaren stops a moment, "Offically known as? So you do have another title then?" tilting his head as he peers at Roselle, "Sounds interesting, but one you keep quiet. Reminds me of a few inquisitors I met back in the Eluna temple in Rune." Grinning a moment and writing a few more things, "So aside from Dire Weasels, and weasels altogether aside. What do you hope to accomplish in life?"

For whatever reason, Astaren's mention of Eluna Inquisitors in Rune brings a quick flush of colour to the half-Sil's cheeks. She does not, however, pursue the matter, notably. "...accomplish in life. What a cosmic question," she says wryly with a crooked grin. "I'd love to find another dire wolf to ride, but that's hardly a life accomplishment." She pauses to consider just a bit more, and when she finally does answer, it's considered and very measured. "I suppose, if one's talking about /life/ accomplishments...Live. Stay alive long enough to do what matters. Life is...odd that way. You never know when the hands on your clock fall off and the whole thing stops ticking."

Astaren writes down as he talks, "Life goals unclear." mostly to himself and nods, "What has been your greatest accomplishment to date?"

That question takes even longer to get an answer. Roselle is silent for long enough one might think she'd not heard what Astaren was asking. But she finally does say, with an oddly twisted little half-grin, "Becoming an Inquisitor of Eluna."

Astaren pauses a moment at the answer, his writing hand having stopped. Then he writes again, 'Roselle, Mistress of Weasels and Inquisitor of Eluna.'. He then speaks, "I see. A proud achivement indeed, the mistress of the moon has been known to be selective in her inquisitors. In that line of work, what has been your greatest achievement as an inquisitor?"

Aya remained silent during the inquisition of Roselle. Astaren is full of questions and eager to ask them, so why not let him handle the inquiries. If Aya has any additional, she can always ask. A brow arches anew at the statement of accomplishment. "That is an unusual achievement..." She dips her chin in acknowledgement, but has little further comment.

"...I think Mistress of Weasels is good enough," Roselle notes. She seems oddly ill at ease with her official title, even though she obviously has put in some time and effort to achieve it. Aya's comment, however, brings another of those crooked grins. "It's not an achievement I would have chosen, if I'd had my way. But, Eluna works in even odder ways than I can dream up so..." A lift of a shoulder. "To date? Well...I can't quite talk about one or two of the things I've had to do that would probably count. I /was/ sworn to silence. But I suppose investigating the Mordezum tunnels would count as an on-going project." A faint gurgle of a chuckle. "And staying alive while doing so, of course."

Astaren nods slowly, "I understand." Scratching through the second title. Then nods, "I have heard of those, but not been down there myself. Something about a pit fiend sealed away or something, among other nasties." He offers and hmms a moment. "I think I only have one last question for you. Mind if I share the reciepe for weasel pie?"

Aya tsks softly. "How cruel that a goddess would force herself upon you and deny you that choice, though not terribly surprising in the context of lycanthropes and others other the moon's sway."

Roselle looks startled. "...Well of course you may," she says handsomely. "But there's not really much of a recipe to it beyond, 'Find a weasel - several, if you're lucky, skin, clean, and gut 'em and get 'em cut into pieces, season with lots of salt and pepper, and add anything else you want to it to bulk up th'thing. Uhh...root vegetables, other bits of meat, anything really long as you like it? Let it sit, make a basic pie dough, roll out, toss into pie plate, add filling, cover with pastry, bake in oven." As to Aya's comment though, she turns her gaze thoughtfully towards the Mul'niessa, head tilted. "There was no force involved, you're wrong there, m'lady. I said it wasn't something I /would/ have chosen if I had my way. But I didn't have my way, after all. And I chose what would allow me to live the way I /wanted/ to live eventually, rather than another choice that would have sent me down another path I would have regretted later."

Astaren writes that down, along with a question, "Taste like chicken?" Then rolls up his parchment and drops it into his satchel, "Thank you for your time." Then glances to Aya and offers a soft smile, "If she had truly not wanted it, Eluna would never have forced it on her. At least that is what I beileve, though I have never heard of anybody actually declining."

Aya ahs softly and lifts a shoulder. "You said only that it wasn't what you would've chosen. My misunderstanding." After a moment, she adds, "Though everyone always has choice; it's just a matter of one being strong enough to choose."

Roselle's lips quirk into an odd smile. "Yes. So I chose." She doesn't elaborate on her cryptic answer to Aya, but shakes her head at Astaren. "Tastes like weasel," she asserts firmly. "It's not really a chicken sort of taste. More...gamey, I suppose? Don't ask me, ask Sandy. She's eaten enough of 'em to know how to describe the taste - and she's better at words than I'll ever be --" A pause as something catches her attention at the Fernwood's door. It's a half-grown young kitten - a sleek grey thing with a thin black collar around its neck - and the sight of it makes the half-Sil groan. "...Oh no, Pissant's out again --Astaren, it was a pleasure meeting you but I've got to go catch Pissant - I mean, Gin - before she winds up trying to investigate the ale again. And...m'lady, it was a pleasure meeting you too. I hope you didn't get a weasel earlier." That said, she moves very purposefully towards the kitten, skirting a stealthy route past the various patrons and tables, and grabs it by the scruff of its neck before it can run off. "No Pissa...Gin! BACK TO SANDY. NOW."