That wineskin? Hers.
Her? An asshole.
That is not true.
Sahari shot a look over the heads and bent backs of the herb-hunting Healers and Healer helpers, glancing at the blue dragon lounging half in, half out of the shade some distance away. Oachayth's multi-faceted eyes were half-lidded; he was clearly enjoying the warmth that had driven her to drink.
Well, somebody thought it was true, she reasoned, took another healthy swig from the wineskin and capped it, then jiggled the thing in front of the gape-faced whoever that was standing one pot down the line.
"Who'd you sharding well piss off?" She asked F'rdnar, mistaking him for a kindred spirit. Why else would he be stewing in numbweed stink?
Her one consolation was that whoever was unlucky enough to have to hitch a ride back with her afterwards would also, by proxy, reek to high heaven. She hoped it was somebody important, just so she could watch the stick twist up their butt.
I am flying back with you, you know. I will stink. Oachayth almost sounded plaintive, though there he was off in the distance, still lounging lazily, striped by the shade and sun.
No, she thought guiltily. I'll scrub the stink out of your hide before it can settle in.
And then, still holding it out to the young man, gave the wineskin another sloshing jig.
(Sahari's wiry, darkly tanned, with some grey in her hair, and a nose that has obviously been broken and reset in the past - at least twice. There are pockmarks and scars and wrinkles on her face and bare arms. Her front tooth's chipped. She's got that slight upper arm flab sag that happens to older women, which sits at odds with the rest of her; she's like a tense, angry rubberband with hair.)