[Lodka]

aka 'hot choclaty milk'

It hadn't been long since Lodka had joined the pack, and yet, she was already making herself right at home. Her 'bar' might have been modest- it was ugly, really- but it was beginning to attract a semi-steady flow of traffic. It was a fun distraction from her other work, though she would never prioritize one over the other.

Her current project was a milk-and-carab based, sweet liquor drink, something safe for both feline, canine, and even equine members of their pack. (Did they have horses? Man, it'd be cool if they had horses, they were so big, and-) Lodka snapped herself out of her thoughts, breaking off a piece of carab into each drink.

With paws still bloodstained from dental work on a packmate earlier that day, Lodka dunked one of her long, dexterous claws into the bowl on the 'counter' (really, a piece of driftwood that she had leaned against a rock, inside of a shallow cave). She stirred the mixture until its consistency settled down into something slightly easier to swallow, before retrieving a bottle from her 'shelves' (again, more driftwood against more rocks). It was in a discolored, mud-stained bottle, and likely thrown off of a human craft some hundreds of years ago, but the bottle of liquor was still drinkable. Lodka turned back, pouring a decent amount into each glass, and then set the bottle back where it had come from.

She left the bar to scratch out a new message on the algae-covered rocks outside of her den-



Hoping that her sign was at least a little bit legible, Lodka retreated back inside, waiting for her first customer of the day.

[Batzorig]

    Batzorig walks the beach with a fair frequency. He's not entirely certain why; he's not scanning the sand for trinkets, looking for anything in particular-- except maybe himself. Despite the distance his thoughts have taken him, he notices the etching in the rock. He supposes it should mean something, but the brute isn't learned, and not certain he's even intelligent enough to try. Whatever the intent it was meant to convey, it has his attention-- and just beyond the driftwood, he glimpses something distinctly feline, and his heart skips.
    It's not Addereon. It cannot be Addereon, do not let yourself hope for Addereon-- but it is someone, and that is an improvement from how Batzorig has spent his day thus far. He steps inside, head low, ears hidden in his mane even if they were not angled away, and he pauses with one paw past the threshold, looking at Lodka quizzically.
    "I'm sorry," he says in a way that seems genuine, "I hadn't meant to intrude." Batzorig sets down his other paw, dispersing his weight. His voice is deep, but so quiet, the waves outside may drown his sound. He knows the answer to this, but is unpracticed in introductions, and so questions, "Have we met?"