The bartender looks up at him with their wet, hollow eyes. They place a glass bottle on the counter. "Smuggled from the streams of the Garnish Gardens. I hope you have enough love in your heart to appreciate it, Troll."
He stares at it with his solemn eyes before grabbing it with grubby fingers. The glass somehow manages to break through his beard and the alcohol flows down his mouth into who knows what deep lagoons. "Maybe this'll water what little I have and cause it to grow ready for harvest."
It's fresh and clean, just like pure water with a little bit of something extra. The bartender left to tend to other patrons, even before Troll finished speaking.
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
"Somebody had to, if it wasn't ya, then I don't trust it." He shifts his eyes around the place, "Somethin's up, and I ain't gonna let myself get caught off guard. Lydia better be ready too, nothing good comes from somethin' anonymous in the Filling District."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
A glass is placed into her hand. The bartender got to her before she even noticed them. It's their favorite cocktail, a vile mix of hostile ingredients that should dissolve concrete and kill any dogs who happen to be in the area. It's not allowed outside due to its volatility. Shake it up too much and it will catch fire.
This was a game of theirs. The bartender would try to give Lydia a drink without her noticing. If they won, the drink was free. If Lydia noticed, the bartender would give her their last tip.
She only notices the drink a second later, chuckling a bit to herself. "Heh, you win this round." She says, not sure if the bartender can hear them, before taking a small sip of the volatile concoction that quite frankly should be enough to kill a person- but as is usual, she's unaffected.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
"Apparently, from what I am hearing.." He sits down in a chair, leaning forward. "News of a small smuggling gang has popped up on the outskirts of the Filling district. Unexperienced folks, but have some good stuff that needs moving," he grins.
The bartender moves over to him, silent enough to give a mouse pause. Nigel hired them because of their stealth and subtle brutality, as well as the fact that not even he could discover their origins or motives. Not even their species is known, but Nigel's best guess is some sort of undead.
They place a whiskey glass of soda beside him. "Eyes sharp. And stay hydrated." They croak their words like an irritated mother.
"I know that all too well." He said, stubbing out his cigarette in a red glass ashtray "And I am hydrated, well enough at least.' he chuckles, baring a toothy grin.
"Says the man who pisses black on Mondays." They snatch up the cigarette, still hot. "I hope you choke on these things someday." They re-light it and take a drag.
the minuscule figure of Gretel sits on the edge of a table, watching folks pass by her with her fake eyes. Just barely two and a half feet tall, she’s shorter than some halflings, made to resemble a small child. With Skin made of fondant, hair made of bright red licorice, and with no heartbeat to speak of yet blood in the form syrup, she’s almost easy to mistake for a real human child from afar. On her neck, hidden for the most part by her hair, inscribed into her skin, is a saying in sylvan marking her as a creation of the famous Aunt Marjorie. She wears a simple red dress, with white detailings and shorter sleeves. She has a frown on her face, watching everyone walk by with a bored expression. She watches everyone who walks in, taking note of them.
Gretel comes by her often, she doesn’t ask questions if you don’t ask her any, which she appreciates, since she’s arrived more than once with blood on her hands. She watches Pimento and Nigel bicker about Pimento’s knife, chuckling to herself.
The bartender looks up at him with their wet, hollow eyes. They place a glass bottle on the counter. "Smuggled from the streams of the Garnish Gardens. I hope you have enough love in your heart to appreciate it, Troll."
He stares at it with his solemn eyes before grabbing it with grubby fingers. The glass somehow manages to break through his beard and the alcohol flows down his mouth into who knows what deep lagoons. "Maybe this'll water what little I have and cause it to grow ready for harvest."
It's fresh and clean, just like pure water with a little bit of something extra. The bartender left to tend to other patrons, even before Troll finished speaking.
Troll spins around on his barstool to face the rest of the room. He props his arms up on the bar behind him, letting his fingers dance on the counter. He stares at no one, rather he seems to be listening to everything.
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
"Somebody had to, if it wasn't ya, then I don't trust it." He shifts his eyes around the place, "Somethin's up, and I ain't gonna let myself get caught off guard. Lydia better be ready too, nothing good comes from somethin' anonymous in the Filling District."
"Right you are my friend. Lucky you that you got to keep your knife on you then." he chuckles.
The bartender moves over to him, silent enough to give a mouse pause. Nigel hired them because of their stealth and subtle brutality, as well as the fact that not even he could discover their origins or motives. Not even their species is known, but Nigel's best guess is some sort of undead.
They place a whiskey glass of soda beside him. "Eyes sharp. And stay hydrated." They croak their words like an irritated mother.
"I know that all too well." He said, stubbing out his cigarette in a red glass ashtray "And I am hydrated, well enough at least.' he chuckles, baring a toothy grin.
"Says the man who pisses black on Mondays." They snatch up the cigarette, still hot. "I hope you choke on these things someday." They re-light it and take a drag.
He snorts, a laugh following after, "I've been smoking them since I was in grade school. Pretty sure I have cancer of some kind at this point," he says and tilts his head, drinking the soda "Yet here I am, alive... Cruel joke huh?"
the minuscule figure of Gretel sits on the edge of a table, watching folks pass by her with her fake eyes. Just barely two and a half feet tall, she’s shorter than some halflings, made to resemble a small child. With Skin made of fondant, hair made of bright red licorice, and with no heartbeat to speak of yet blood in the form syrup, she’s almost easy to mistake for a real human child from afar. On her neck, hidden for the most part by her hair, inscribed into her skin, is a saying in sylvan marking her as a creation of the famous Aunt Marjorie. She wears a simple red dress, with white detailings and shorter sleeves. She has a frown on her face, watching everyone walk by with a bored expression. She watches everyone who walks in, taking note of them.
Gretel comes by her often, she doesn’t ask questions if you don’t ask her any, which she appreciates, since she’s arrived more than once with blood on her hands. She watches Pimento and Nigel bicker about Pimento’s knife, chuckling to herself.
The bartender's mask-like, expressionless face appears before her. They lean down from seemingly nowhere to land in her peripheral vision. "The animal is back again, I see."
They slowly retract. By Gretel, on the bar, is a mug of spiked hot chocolate.
(If she can't drink it for some reason, the bartender is making fun of her. The event remains the same.)
the minuscule figure of Gretel sits on the edge of a table, watching folks pass by her with her fake eyes. Just barely two and a half feet tall, she’s shorter than some halflings, made to resemble a small child. With Skin made of fondant, hair made of bright red licorice, and with no heartbeat to speak of yet blood in the form syrup, she’s almost easy to mistake for a real human child from afar. On her neck, hidden for the most part by her hair, inscribed into her skin, is a saying in sylvan marking her as a creation of the famous Aunt Marjorie. She wears a simple red dress, with white detailings and shorter sleeves. She has a frown on her face, watching everyone walk by with a bored expression. She watches everyone who walks in, taking note of them.
Gretel comes by her often, she doesn’t ask questions if you don’t ask her any, which she appreciates, since she’s arrived more than once with blood on her hands. She watches Pimento and Nigel bicker about Pimento’s knife, chuckling to herself.
Pimento turns his head to the table they are sitting at, leaning against his chair and locking eyes with them, before rolling his own eyes in annoyance "Looks who it is, the baked brat." He says, putting knife away and gesturing them over. He's kept that name for them ever since he saw them up close, though he doesn't understand how true that statement is.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
"Apparently, from what I am hearing.." He sits down in a chair, leaning forward. "News of a small smuggling gang has popped up on the outskirts of the Filling district. Unexperienced folks, but have some good stuff that needs moving," he grins.
She leans a bit forwards as well. "Sounds like a good opportunity- if one's careful, that is. Hypothetically of course." She muses, chuckling a bit.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
"Somebody had to, if it wasn't ya, then I don't trust it." He shifts his eyes around the place, "Somethin's up, and I ain't gonna let myself get caught off guard. Lydia better be ready too, nothing good comes from somethin' anonymous in the Filling District."
"Right you are my friend. Lucky you that you got to keep your knife on you then." he chuckles.
He drinks his cocktail, adding some of the extra things he gets from Lydia, making the thing lethal to most normal people "Well, we'll probably find out why we were called here soon, see if it's a fight or not."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
"Apparently, from what I am hearing.." He sits down in a chair, leaning forward. "News of a small smuggling gang has popped up on the outskirts of the Filling district. Unexperienced folks, but have some good stuff that needs moving," he grins.
She leans a bit forwards as well. "Sounds like a good opportunity- if one's careful, that is. Hypothetically of course." She muses, chuckling a bit.
"Could take them over as a boss. They could thrive, perhaps. Even bring in more money maybe?"
"Says the man who pisses black on Mondays." They snatch up the cigarette, still hot. "I hope you choke on these things someday." They re-light it and take a drag.
He snorts, a laugh following after, "I've been smoking them since I was in grade school. Pretty sure I have cancer of some kind at this point," he says and tilts his head, drinking the soda "Yet here I am, alive... Cruel joke huh?"
"Game's only over when you're rich, boss." They speak casually, almost dismissively.
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
"Apparently, from what I am hearing.." He sits down in a chair, leaning forward. "News of a small smuggling gang has popped up on the outskirts of the Filling district. Unexperienced folks, but have some good stuff that needs moving," he grins.
She leans a bit forwards as well. "Sounds like a good opportunity- if one's careful, that is. Hypothetically of course." She muses, chuckling a bit.
"Could take them over as a boss. They could thrive, perhaps. Even bring in more money maybe?"
"That does sound like a wonderful idea. Everyone could always use more money." She agrees- of course the mention of money would make her even more interested.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
"Somebody had to, if it wasn't ya, then I don't trust it." He shifts his eyes around the place, "Somethin's up, and I ain't gonna let myself get caught off guard. Lydia better be ready too, nothing good comes from somethin' anonymous in the Filling District."
"Right you are my friend. Lucky you that you got to keep your knife on you then." he chuckles.
He drinks his cocktail, adding some of the extra things he gets from Lydia, making the thing lethal to most normal people "Well, we'll probably find out why we were called here soon, see if it's a fight or not."
He nods and folds his arms over his broad chest "I suppose. I'll go get my guns then." he sighs and stands up.
the minuscule figure of Gretel sits on the edge of a table, watching folks pass by her with her fake eyes. Just barely two and a half feet tall, she’s shorter than some halflings, made to resemble a small child. With Skin made of fondant, hair made of bright red licorice, and with no heartbeat to speak of yet blood in the form syrup, she’s almost easy to mistake for a real human child from afar. On her neck, hidden for the most part by her hair, inscribed into her skin, is a saying in sylvan marking her as a creation of the famous Aunt Marjorie. She wears a simple red dress, with white detailings and shorter sleeves. She has a frown on her face, watching everyone walk by with a bored expression. She watches everyone who walks in, taking note of them.
Gretel comes by her often, she doesn’t ask questions if you don’t ask her any, which she appreciates, since she’s arrived more than once with blood on her hands. She watches Pimento and Nigel bicker about Pimento’s knife, chuckling to herself.
The bartender's mask-like, expressionless face appears before her. They lean down from seemingly nowhere to land in her peripheral vision. "The animal is back again, I see."
They slowly retract. By Gretel, on the bar, is a mug of spiked hot chocolate.
(If she can't drink it for some reason, the bartender is making fun of her. The event remains the same.)
*I’m deciding that Gretel can eat and drink, she just doesn’t have to.*
”Animal? Who are you callin’ an animal?” She rolls her eyes in annoyance, taking the hot chocolate in her hands.
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It's fresh and clean, just like pure water with a little bit of something extra. The bartender left to tend to other patrons, even before Troll finished speaking.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
"Somebody had to, if it wasn't ya, then I don't trust it." He shifts his eyes around the place, "Somethin's up, and I ain't gonna let myself get caught off guard. Lydia better be ready too, nothing good comes from somethin' anonymous in the Filling District."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
She only notices the drink a second later, chuckling a bit to herself. "Heh, you win this round." She says, not sure if the bartender can hear them, before taking a small sip of the volatile concoction that quite frankly should be enough to kill a person- but as is usual, she's unaffected.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Apparently, from what I am hearing.." He sits down in a chair, leaning forward. "News of a small smuggling gang has popped up on the outskirts of the Filling district. Unexperienced folks, but have some good stuff that needs moving," he grins.
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
"Says the man who pisses black on Mondays." They snatch up the cigarette, still hot. "I hope you choke on these things someday." They re-light it and take a drag.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
the minuscule figure of Gretel sits on the edge of a table, watching folks pass by her with her fake eyes. Just barely two and a half feet tall, she’s shorter than some halflings, made to resemble a small child. With Skin made of fondant, hair made of bright red licorice, and with no heartbeat to speak of yet blood in the form syrup, she’s almost easy to mistake for a real human child from afar. On her neck, hidden for the most part by her hair, inscribed into her skin, is a saying in sylvan marking her as a creation of the famous Aunt Marjorie. She wears a simple red dress, with white detailings and shorter sleeves. She has a frown on her face, watching everyone walk by with a bored expression. She watches everyone who walks in, taking note of them.
Gretel comes by her often, she doesn’t ask questions if you don’t ask her any, which she appreciates, since she’s arrived more than once with blood on her hands. She watches Pimento and Nigel bicker about Pimento’s knife, chuckling to herself.
Troll spins around on his barstool to face the rest of the room. He props his arms up on the bar behind him, letting his fingers dance on the counter. He stares at no one, rather he seems to be listening to everything.
*I have to go but I'm glad things are up!*
"Right you are my friend. Lucky you that you got to keep your knife on you then." he chuckles.
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
He snorts, a laugh following after, "I've been smoking them since I was in grade school. Pretty sure I have cancer of some kind at this point," he says and tilts his head, drinking the soda "Yet here I am, alive... Cruel joke huh?"
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
The bartender's mask-like, expressionless face appears before her. They lean down from seemingly nowhere to land in her peripheral vision. "The animal is back again, I see."
They slowly retract. By Gretel, on the bar, is a mug of spiked hot chocolate.
(If she can't drink it for some reason, the bartender is making fun of her. The event remains the same.)
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Pimento turns his head to the table they are sitting at, leaning against his chair and locking eyes with them, before rolling his own eyes in annoyance "Looks who it is, the baked brat." He says, putting knife away and gesturing them over. He's kept that name for them ever since he saw them up close, though he doesn't understand how true that statement is.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
She leans a bit forwards as well. "Sounds like a good opportunity- if one's careful, that is. Hypothetically of course." She muses, chuckling a bit.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
He drinks his cocktail, adding some of the extra things he gets from Lydia, making the thing lethal to most normal people "Well, we'll probably find out why we were called here soon, see if it's a fight or not."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
"Could take them over as a boss. They could thrive, perhaps. Even bring in more money maybe?"
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
"Game's only over when you're rich, boss." They speak casually, almost dismissively.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
*When Dark gets back, we can start the campaign proper. I love all the banter and chemistry going on, though!*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
*It's going great, love how you've come up with these little unique interactions with each of the characters, this is gonna be great.*
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
"That does sound like a wonderful idea. Everyone could always use more money." She agrees- of course the mention of money would make her even more interested.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
He nods and folds his arms over his broad chest "I suppose. I'll go get my guns then." he sighs and stands up.
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
*I’m deciding that Gretel can eat and drink, she just doesn’t have to.*
”Animal? Who are you callin’ an animal?” She rolls her eyes in annoyance, taking the hot chocolate in her hands.