You step onto a cracked but clean tile floor that was probably once red, but is now a faded salmon pink. A large, rectangular communal table seating about 10 takes up the middle of the floor, with mismatched smaller tables arranged near the large front windows. The long counter in front of the kitchen door sports plates of fragrant bread, cookies, and muffins and bowls of fresh wild fruits. A small, rattling fridge in the corner holds a selection of juices and cold spring water in reused bottles and jars. Atop the refrigerator is a can for cash donations; next to it is a box for barter payments. Scrawled on the box in black marker are the words "Pay what you can, when you can."
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt hangs untucked above them, long sleeved and fastened with a row of small, black stone buttons. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
Thin and lanky, almost gangly at her modest 5'5", Rahne has an almost childish quality to her form and features. Raggedly cut reddish-blonde hair hangs in stringy, unkempt and uneven locks about an impish face that hovers between youth and maturity. High cheekbones offset wide oval eyes of bright, unflinchingly pure emerald green and a frequent smile that adds to the rebellious look of her deeply tanned face.
Arms and legs that seem almost too long to go with her relatively short torso are swathed in a pair of faded jeans, their knees raggedly ripped out a long time ago, and a motley collage of two threadbare sweatshirts in green and blue and a t-shirt gone grey with age from what was probably white once. Sneakers held together with duct tape cover her feet, as well as a pair of socks in about the same shape as the t-shirt. Inconsistant with this portrait of growing youth is the large, broad knife resting in a worn, tooled leather sheath at her side. A rope belt, wound tightly about her waist four times, secures sheath and blade to her waist while a smaller leather strap pins the bottom to her right thigh. The leather bears the fading intricacies of celtic knotwork, a composition of light and dark growing dimmer with age. Around her neck, a thin gold chain dangles a small, heart-shaped pendant delicately between her collarbones.
She's often seen lugging around a somewhat sizeable backpack, the sides of it bulging here and there in possibly strange ways.
The sun's gone down, but just barely, the traces of twilight still hanging in the sky. The diner proper is empty, but from the kitchen come a sizzling sound, the smell of cooking meat, and a cheerful male voice singing, o/~ ...six times did his iron, by vigorous heating, grow soft in her forge in a minute or so, but as often was hardened, stil beating and beating, though the more it was softened, it hardened more slow. With a jingle, bang jingle, bang jingle, bang jingle... o/~
Well, it's not quite a jingle, but it'll do. The bell on the door barely overpowers the creaking as it's pulled open and pulled shut with a much quieter sound. Lifting her nose to the air, Rahne takes a long, deep breath and smiles broadly. Her stomach gives its own rumbling cry before she can say anything, earning it a wry look from its owner. Setting her backpack down on the closest chair, she hauls herself up onto a precarious dangle atop the counter and calls out happily, "Good to hear a fine tune when coming in out of the cold. Finer yet to smell good smells! Whatcha cookin' back there, mmm?"
There's a fractional pause, presumably momentary startlement, and then, o/~ With a jingle, bang jingle, bang jingle high ho! o/~ with a little extra gusto -- exaggerated performing. A moment or two after, a face appears in the kitchen door, peering out. It has a distinctly brilliant grin. "Venison," he replies, "...I think it was Tristan's dinner first, but that doesn't hurt it anyway. And hiya, cutie. Haven't seen =you= about before. Just get inta town?" Ren inquires cheerfully, looking the girl over.
Rahne raises an eyebrow beneath a few strings of red-gold hair and grins. "Aye, about five minutes ago, give or take an amble. Me, I tend to be everywhere that's not here, so not surprising that we haven't come across each other yet." A slight toss of her head clears her vision so she can better peer kitchenwards with a sly smile. "Venison, mmm? Smells heavenly. Doesn't matter to me how it came there, unless I caught it myself." Snorting, she slides down from the counter until her feet touch the floor, "Listen to me, no manners at all! Name's Rahne. What might I call you, oh cooker of tasty meat?"
Serendipity takes a step out from the door, the better to give himself room to address the young lady with a needlessly flamboyant bow. "Pleased t'meetcha, Rahne. Serendipity Jones, at your service," he replies, "...friends mostly call me Ren. I won't repeat what my enemies call me in the presence of a lady. And =you= c'n call me any time." He winks at her playfully, and heads back into the kitchen, where the sizzling sound has added a popping component that implies it might need an eye kept on it. "Plentya meat t' share, if you're in the mood for dinner...?"
Once again, Rahne's stomach speaks before she has a chance to. Chuckling, she shakes her head and keeps her eyes trained on the kitchen door. "Ren it is, then, even if I'm no more a lady than the next creature. If you've got enough to spare, we're both hungry, me and my stomach." Under her breath, she mutters amusedly to herself, "Shameless flirt. I like that."
There's clinking in the kitchen -- plates being taken down, silverware gathered. "More'n enough," Ren calls back, and the fridge door sounds, followed by rummaging. When he emerges, he's got a plate in each hand, each quite full of bread, something orange and mashed and smelling faintly of nutmeg, and -- of course -- the meat, which has just a little sauce of some kind. And a sprig of some herb on top. The latter was probably added for Rahne's benefit. "Ta da. Dinner is served, m'lady. ...somethin' t' drink with it?" he offers, sliding the plates on the table as gallantly as he can manage.