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Estahir's Purse
Lossė's quiet sobs finally calmed down, and she began to look around her once again. There were few people here in the common room of the Inn, especially with the sounds of merriment still drifting in from outdoors. Firmly, Lossė cast thoughts of the party (or just of Farael?) out of her mind, her fingers tingling with a familiar itch.
A tall man sat comfortably sprawled at a nearby booth. On silent feet, Lossė rose and carefully glided towards him. The sound of a soft, relaxed snore brought a smirk to the girl's pretty face. This was a strong and powerful man, to be sure. He reminded her of nothing so much as the glimpses she'd caught of Elessar and Prince Imrahil over the years in Minas Tirith...but he was asleep, and therefore completely vulnerable to her. She slid silently into the seat beside him, unaware that her youth and bloodlines made her look almost a daughter to the sleeping man, and gently looked inside his cloak. Ah. There.
She slipped a thin supple hand carefully around the man's waist, careful not to touch his body. His purse was tied to his belt just around the curve of his back with loose knots, easily undone. As she eased back, however, the man murmured and shifted in his sleep--onto Lossė's arm. She froze, staring up at his face, willing him to stay asleep.
This was not turning out to be a lucky day.
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