After important business near the docks is finished, the female Viking casually makes her way back into town, eventually to head toward the drinking establishment she purchased and completely refurbished approximately seven years ago; a clever, inexpensive business transaction now turning a nice profit. The large, muscular Nordic man she employs as Barkeep and Bouncer needs a couple of hours to tend to some "personal issues", as he so aptly put it earlier in the morning. Shylah is more than willing to relieve him of his responsibilities for a little while. He is a trusted and valued employee.

As she strolls along the cobblestones, a pause is made every now and then to take in some unusual sights. And there are *plenty* of rare happenings on a daily basis in RhyDin, as most know. A pause for 'window shopping', too. After all, the Seafaring Warrior never knows what bargains she shall come across; some 'free-for-the-taking' item(s) that catches her fancy, mayhap. If it had not been for the appearance of the stressed out mother pulling two bedraggled children along behind her in a hurry, complaining that she did not have enough time in a day to accomplish everything on her list, Shy could very well have spent another thirty minutes (at least) lingering in front of shoppes ....especially the Chocolatier's and the Candlemaker's and the Baker's.

However, time is of the essence, and she did have a promise to keep!

Without further ado, hastily beats a path to her Pub. Enters, setting the small brass bell above the door to jangling. "George," quickly calls out, "I be here na!" The tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with the beginnings of a paunch appears from the supply room, ready to take a break from his duties. "Just in time!" he brightly exclaims.

Those three little words have Shylah merrily laughing as she closes the front door behind her. Graceful, long-legged strides are taken toward the polished Mahogany bar. Continues around to tender's side where a hip-lean is taken against the back counter. "You be such a sweet mann!" Sincere in the compliment to her loyal friend. "Don't let that get out to anyone," he immediately retorts. Raising of hand in departure, along with a smile, George makes his way out, preferring to use the back door.

Now having made plans to meet the old ranch hand at her cozy drinking-house, quietly says, "I wonder how long it shall be before Eel-eye-ja arrives." Giving voice to her thought.

The old ranch hand locked up the shop and started for the Pub. He pulled the brim of the stetson down low over his eyes and dusted the sawdust off his shirt and jeans. It had been a busy and productive day for Elijah. He had finished a desk and a chest of drawers. Come morning, those pieces would be ready to be delivered. But that was for tomorrow. This night, he had other plans. And he was running late. So Elijah picked up the pace of his stride to a run. He wove in and around folks milling around the street, careful not to knock into anyone. The old ranch hand slowed down and removed the stetson off his head as the Seafarer's Pub came into view, tucking it under an arm. Elijah pushed the door open, sending the brass bell ringing and walked into the Pub, stopped mid-stride for a second when he saw the large orange holding a crate. He looked around and saw Shylah standing behind the bar, so he finished closing the door and headed to the bar. He tipped his head politely to the courier in passing on his way to the bar. The Seafarer was greeted with a kiss to the cheek when the old ranch hand stepped up behind the bar. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Odd sights in RhyDin are commonplace, and when one has been in the land as long as Shylah, it is not so easy to surprise the Seafaring Warrior. However ....when that walking, talking, crate-carrying orange wearing a cap, scarf and sneakers enters the Pub, comments about the state of the weather, then proceeds to ask for her, Shy's eyebrows raise and her light blue eyes widen.

"By the gods in Valhal !"

Before another word can be uttered, the old ranch hand makes his entrance. It appears the night is going to be much more interesting than Shylah first anticipated. Especially since she does not particularly care to fetch drinks for customers; not when she can be on the other side of the counter imbibing in relative peace and comfort in front of the hearth.

Cheek-kiss appreciated, as well as the fact that Elijah never said her name aloud. Glad she is for it, too, since she has no idea what the citrus courier means by 'a real dandy of a delivery.' Mister Orange is being given the NorseEye by the female Viking as he climbs up on the barstool and inquires about hot chocolate.

"Hva be your navn?" warmly asks the fruity messenger, though her gaze seems a bit more on the cold side.

One might think that would not have been her first question.

Oh! How clever the fruity messenger believes himself to be with a re-arranging of her question. Although she is not particularly interested in viewing his puckered area, the Seafaring Warrior did catch a glimpse of it before he donned the cap again. Smirky grin of Nevel's is met with a sly one of her own. Shylah's light blue eyes suddenly hold a feral look while he is busy yammering on about the weather, a couple of ungrateful prunes, and other deliveries yet to be made. By the time Nevel explains the reason for his hot chocolate request and asks about marshmallows, Shy has plucked up a fresh orange from the bowl of fruit which sits on the back counter.

Quick as a wink, Rune-marked dagger is drawn from leather sheath, and with a speedy flick of the sharp blade, the peeling commences of hand-held orange. Ever-so-slowly is the citrus' outer covering removed in one long, curly piece, revealing the sweet edible pulp beneath. Scented mist is sent airborne, to mix with Nevel's own. The Wildness never leaves her gaze, nor does the wolf-like smile vanish from her lips; Shy continues to stare at the rambling courier, all the while proceeding to strip the fruit of its skin.

"Tis unwise for you to use the phrase 'hunting down' when speaking of locating Miss Shylah or Eel-eye-ja Torp. Tis not uncommon for the hunter to bekomm the hunted in these parts." Friendly warning, but shall the messenger heed her words"

"I have the authority to accept any deliveries in Shylah's navn. Howe'er, I shall not do so unless I know 'the Who' and 'the Hva' ....which means 'the What' in the common tongue ....pertaining to the package."

Peeling completed. A section is separated from its companions, to be offered to the old ranch hand standing next to her. "Slice of sweetness, old mann?" quietly asks as some orange juice slowly drips off her fingers onto the floor.

Blue eyes do not linger long upon Elijah, but return to settle upon Nevel. "Methinks a better drikke to varm your insides be Vodka." And proceeds to pour a shot glass of the colourless liquor for the messenger. Slides it toward him. "This shall drive the kald away!"

Extremely pleased with the results her skinning of the orange accomplishes, as well as the fruity messenger's quick downing of the Vodka, and especially with the sudden stuttering to correct his 'trap' comment. Shylah's wolfish smile widens, revealing her dimples. Feral gaze continues to rest upon Nevel as he nervously explains he does not know the answers to the 'Who' or the 'What'. In her opinion, the citrus courier is lying. After all, he almost slipped up earlier while uttering a litany of complaints when he said, "Cause that poor g- er, person that ordered these special items delivered is gonna be mighty torn up when I deliver my report."

Oh ja, he knows all right. So when Nevel's beady dark eyes roll back, shortly before he succumbs to unconsciousness, and tumbles off the bar chair, the Seafaring Warrior softly chortles; the chuckle quite wicked in her satisfaction. And just mayhap he saw her lick her lips and fingertips right before the fall.

"He be screwed." Remarks matter-of-factly to Elijah.

And as far as Shy is concerned, the rotund courier's dignity suffered twice: First when his peach-coloured cap shot up into the air exposing his puckered spot, and secondly when he hit the floor. A thought about the citrus laying in his own juice is pushed aside. Poor Nevel, but it could be much worse; such as being netted, like a fish, and hanged over the fireplace, much like a trophy.

At any rate, now is the time, while the delivery-fruit is passed out (for who knows how long a sentient orange remains unconscious?), to act upon the favorable juncture of circumstances.

On the polished Mahogany counter sits the messenger's scarf, the crate of parcels, the list of names and items, and the gold-wrapped package tied with silver ribbon. Shylah is in the process of cautiously unwrapping the 'gift' as the ranch hand remains by her side, curiously looking on.

"We needs to retrieve yours from the wooden box, as well, old mann."

George returns, via back door, just in time to watch Shylah carefully lift the fancy dark green dress from its gold wrapping, and to hear a disembodied voice proclaim, "I hate my job."

"Did I return too early or too late, Shy?" the large bartender/bouncer asks with a chuckle as he pauses near her at the end of Mahogany counter.

Now is that not the way things seem to go in life" Just when you do not want anyone to say your name, someone comes along and inadvertently blurts it out. A slide of light blues, off from the gown, fall upon George.

"Neither. You have returned in the best of times!" The fact that George reveals her name does not seem to upset the Seafaring Warrior. Mayhap it is because she can forgive the slip, especially since he is unaware there was one to be made.

"Smells like you've been making orange juice. Any left over for me?"

The question brings about Shylah's sly grin once again. A quick indication for her loyal friend and employee to look on patron's side of counter; finger pointed toward the floorboards. A small lean in that direction reveals Nevel and his predicament. "He calls me a thief, George, and I do not think he be in any position to speak such words. Truly, tis a foolish thing to say, ja?"

"A thief?"Said more as a statement than a question, as the large Nordic man moves toward the downed citrus. Stops mere millimeters away from Nevel, to loom over the courier."Want me to put the squeeze on him?"

"Uff da! Have you and Guido been quaffing a few mead's this natt?" George need not respond to her question, and he knows it by her humorous tone of voice. A return of wicked chortle as she ponders just exactly what to do about the fruity messenger. Pretty dress refolded, to be haphazardly rewrapped in the yellowish paper; silver ribbon claimed and placed beneath the bar counter, to top shelf. After grabbing the list, and scripting something on it, her 'gift' is returned to the crate. Parchment with names and items follows suit.

"George, be you not surprised to see a walking (now laying), talking orange?"

"Nei. I've seen other fruit running around town. Those raisins, for instance, the ones from Kalifornia that used to hang on a street corner in the West End singing and dancing. They moved elsewhere after the fires started. Makes me wonder if they had anything to do with it."

"Ja, I had forgotten!" Indeed, she had. "I last saw them down near the docks, but that was so very long ago."

Moving out from behind the counter, Shylah pauses beside the drink-slinging bouncer. She, too, stares down at Nevel. The feral look shines in her gaze, and Oh! that wolfish smile is there for all to see! "He thinks me to be hostile. Na do you think I be that way, George?"

The chilling laughter that follows her question could very well send a shiver to the core of the helpless courier.

Nevel's remarks about the dress not fitting her and for whom it is designed, are ignored. The truth is, she finds them to be most amusing. However, if the fruity courier thinks what already took place is not amiable, he is about to find out just how unpleasant things can become with his daring ways. Shylah especially enjoys seeing the messenger's maniacal smile as he waves to George, then speaks about the singing and dancing sun-dried grapes.

For the Norse, nought is better than a good challenge, like the one just presented by Nevel with his brave words as he exclaims, "Well, So, Miss Shylah, as I am surmising you be her, I hope you like that there dress. Mighty fine piece for a mighty fine piece o- uh. I mean, you will look right fine it that slu- er. It's a pretty dress."

Candlelight glints off the Seafaring Warrior's well-honed weapon as it is drawn for the second time. Hilt gripped tight in right hand, tip pointing toward the floor as her arm raises, and then arcs downward seemingly toward the sentient citrus. Nevel is spared since he is not the intended target (for now). Instead, she stabs that peachy cap still laying on the floor near the delivery-orange's sneakers. With an easy flick of wrist, skewered cap releases from blade-point; the navel-cover is flipped up high into the air, turning end-over-end as it moves toward the ceiling.

Should Nevel just happen to watch his airborne cap instead of the female Viking or the Bartender/Bouncer, or take his beady little eyes off from the drawing, he will miss the uncoiling of her whip with left hand. The crack of the long leather cord is unmistakable as she lashes out at the head covering. Once again Shylah's aim is accurate. Once again the cap is sent end-over-end, this time soaring toward the wall high above the fireplace's mantel where it is firmly pinned by Rune-marked dagger, tossed with great speed and agility. This all took place in less than a passing of one minute.

Shy's fierce blue eyes re-settle upon Nevel, wolfish smile remains as she asks with a deadly calm, "A mighty fint piece for a mighty fint piece of hva?" Before the courier can respond, should he be so unwise to choose that path, the drawing is snatched from his white-gloved hand and studied. A couple of moments later, her gaze drifts back to the brightly shaded fruit.

Beware the orange skinner.

George, in the meantime, is having a bit of difficulty repressing some of his anger after hearing the courier's comment's to his long-time friend. After Shy claims the sketch, the burly male turns his back on the messenger; the sound of popping bones can be heard. Not such a good sign coming from the large Nordic man.

Beware the ulv.

Poor, poor Nevel.

Run, Nevel, Run!

After Nevel waddles his rotund citrus self out the Pub door, exposing his puckered spot to anyone who just mayhap be sauntering by, Shylah turns her mirth-filled gaze upon the two men inside. "Well na, I wonder if he shall return anytime soon?" Barely gets the question verbalized before bursting into hearty laughter.

George curiously asks, "Hva did you script on that piece of paper after you placed the dress back into his crate?"

"I just wrote 'Unaccepted - Return item to sender!' and signed my navn. I do not willingly receive such gifts, especially from an unknown source! Oh! and George, 'twas very funny of you to crack your knuckles e'en though you know it grates on my nerves." Amuses herself with the usage of that word.

George is not surprised by Shylah's statement, and when she mentions his old habit he simply chuckles and nods. The fruity courier's pinkish cap is retrieved by the bartender/bouncer, to be brought over to the bar and set atop the Mahogany wood. "And hva about this?"

"Why, George, I fully intend on hiring a messenger and having it delivered to Nevel's place of business!"

While the Nordic male's robust laughter fills the cozy drinking establishment, Shy contemplates what is to be done about the badly produced representation of herself in a skimpy swimsuit. Until then, the sketch is folded in half and shoved beneath counter; same place where the silver ribbon is stashed.