[Quiet Man Cometh]

Leaving his party clothes in a balled up heap on the bed in his room, Syrgei takes a minute to stretch his muscles out and patch up his latest collection of scratches, electrical burns and, in this case, bullet wounds.

“I think I get to call in a favour from the seraph for this one” he mutters, putting on some regular clothes and pulling out the pony-tail on the top of his head.

If anyone decides to be unruly downstairs, they can wait until I've had a drink.

In spite of his 'wandering adventurer, sometimes seraph agent' status, Syrgei kept up his room at his friend's tavern, occasionally serving as informal bouncer. The folding of the guild hadn't affected his daily life all that much, save that he spent less time experiencing 'daily life' and more time being farther away and in conflict with things he couldn't always name.

A voice calls up to him as he comes down the stairs.

“Either cut your hair or put it back up, you look soft with it hanging that long.”

Petra stands behind the bar, leaning on the counter.

“It's about time you came back anyway. What mess did you have to sort out this time?”

Syrgei takes a seat and leans on one elbow.

“I'd rather not talk about it save that our good minster will have one hell of a repair bill, and no, it's not my fault.”

Petra smirks around a comment she was just about to make.

“You should have taken me along, I'd like to see what the nobles' idea of a party is.”

She puts a full mug on the table.

“Talking and fancy names for boring food,” he says, accepting the ale.

There of course had been more to it than that, but he expected Petra didn't need any extra details, and she would probably give him an earful for trying to plant explosives on a golem, even if it did work, somewhat. He thinks back to his sudden encounter with Tsaerri. He certainly hadn't expected to see her there, though she hasn't seem to have changed much. She has probably already forgotten about him.