“The Slave of Duty, huh? Yeah, I've heard the reviews of that, but I don't think the Pfenning's played it since I hired on. Supposed to be really good, right?" Imogen chewed on that thought for a moment, made somewhat introspective and also kind of slow-thinking by wine. And beer. And Gin. And whatever the absolute fuck that green stuff in the tiny goblet had been, had the bartender said that was made from herbs? Imogen scratched lightly at the skin around one of her opalescent patches of scaling on the neck.
"Probably not a life-changing experience," she said, incorrectly, "but yeah, I'd love to go.”
Imogen examined her cup thoughtfully, albeit, at a lower thought capacity than this usually implies. She wondered, vaguely, and not for the first time, if she had been assigned to go with Carina simply because of her convenient placement at the Theater, or if this was somehow another push by her mother to try to get her to leave Zaichaer. Send her away to take in the sights, get enamored by the place, maybe fall in with some strapping young Orkhan? It would be just like her; she'd grown more and more convinced in the past few years that Zaichaer was only going to grow less safe, and Euvettia Ward had always been inclined to do what she thought was best for other people.
Eh, probably not. Too many moving pieces for the job to be nothing but a distraction.
“Oh, save me Ys- ugh, Aurin, please do not turn her on to any new drugs. Carina, at this rate you're going to end up accidentally brewing some kind of elixir in your own arteries and explode."
