#//it could also be setup for a tavern brawl... rubs hands...

[nothosword]

"Hahaha, are you for real?" Fergus beams, his enjoyment of the other man written plainly across his golden features. He would consider himself amiable, so meeting interesting folk at a dinner party was a given, but Sephiran's subtle charm begs him to dig deeper. Fergus wants to shake him; he knows there's stuff he isn't seeing.

"You're thinking like a merc. Let's see, I've had..." he recounts the drinks on his hand. The first two sat nicely with him, the smell of spices thawing his nose from a long, flavorless winter. The next one was a splash of hot oil on a skillet; Fergus felt warmth seep into his chest as he drank. Then the last two crept into his head, the poison brewed beneath decadent flavor coming through on a tongue numbed to taste. He waggles his fingers when he finishes counting.

"Five. I'm a fair guy, so for every time you beat my record I'll let something slip."

Though he finds that a pleasant arrangement, he won't let it stop him from wading into the throng of revelry. Fergus swipes another mug off the table (seriously, that chef must be working hard to put them out so fast) and brings it to his nose. He allows himself a deep whiff before the liquid sloshes against his lips.

Against the brine of broken bones that taverns under Loptyrian rule could afford, the Chalphy wine is downright ambrosial.

"Drink up!"

✢⁎. fergalicious definition