Morganne listened as Ronnie spoke of the lead that had brought them all together. It was little more than a ramshackle of a theory, in her opinion, but it was something and that was more than she had by herself. The Duende’s confidence in themselves amused her, or maybe it was the mead, but she baffled at the little contract Andy handed her and smiled broadly at it as she skimmed the ragged handwriting.
She had questions she wanted to ask them, but the siblings were gone with quick goodbyes at the end of their presentation. Lazarus followed suit and dismissed himself, which she watched with vague interest. Morganne then adjusted slightly and directed her attention toward the two left sitting at the table, the Achon and his beastie, but raised her voice just enough to be heard by those milling around the Turf and Feather.
“So, who knows how to play Tiger, Chicken, Worm, Board?” The witch raised her eyebrows expectantly at the proposition of the drinking game, a mischievous little look in her eye.
No amount of well-meaning potion would help her hangover, she mused. Not that she had the energy to make one, anyhow. Dwarves had set to mining in her frontal lobe and the light that streamed through the curtains of her wagon was blinding; she gave a disapproving groan and rolled over, further tangling her bedding around her legs. After a few moments, she gave a jerk upright and set to getting out of bed, suddenly spurred by the recollection of the meeting at the docks.
The witch dressed and dug around for a while until finding the most wide-brimmed, floppiest hat she could find and pulling it on over her riotous red waves. It was amply decorated with feathers and woven bands, but more importantly, the brim sagged and protected her eyes from the sun. It wasn’t too long before she’d made the wagon ready for travel to the docks and had gotten Moriarty fed and hitched up.
“To the docks,” she said with little gusto, as her banging hangover wouldn’t allow her to manage much.