“Chase. I bet you never have to tell baristas how to spell it, at least,” she repeated, lips quirked in a grin. Her own adventures in pronunciation and spelling were entertaining, to say the least. But she was determined to at least make up for her clumsiness. Anyone who could survive a stout getting spilled all over them and [i]not[/i] be immediately put off forever was probably decent people. Carys resolved to make it up somehow—she was not a woman accustomed to leaving a debt unpaid.

He spoke suddenly, a little sharply, and Carys took a moment to process it. Join his friends? He suddenly backpedaled, and it was like watching a bike accident in slow motion. Carys only grinned wider, cocking her head to one side and letting him go on for a moment. It was a little comical, a little sweet, and she was thoroughly entertained. Lest her silence become cruel, she spoke up brightly, “More new people, yay!”  

Her enthusiasm was genuine, despite the little red flag poking up in the back of her brain. But Port Byrne was…so very not Manhattan. She’d been here for less than forty eight hours, but there was just something…welcoming about it all? Sure, she might end up dead in a ditch, but she had the strangest feeling that they would be friendly about it. ‘Sorry about having to murder you, it’s just a thing that needs to get done, no hard feelings, have a beer before we axe your face in’ seemed very much in character. 

“I’m like, eighty three percent sure she can find me when she’s done. Ooh, no, make it seventy six percent, I don’t think she’s used to looking down.” Carys shrugged her shoulders lightly. She’d always hoped she’d be tall—her father topped six foot and her mother had been nearly five ten. Apparently height skipped a generation, and she found herself eye and eye with her grandmothers. Unfair, she mused, although helpful when sneaking.

“Lead on,” she gestured out with her, mostly empty, beer bottle into the night.