#support: shinon and karel

[fletching-scar]

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

Listen to this fuck. The way he drones on about temptations and challenges, like the... Y'know. The bitch from the story, the one where you chop his head off and he doesn't even flinch. The green guy?

That old yarn always fucked Shinon up--but it's not important right now. Any second, this guy might decide he wants to cut the highfalutin talk and start stabbing.

The sensible thing to do is back away. But Shinon--Shinon has just spent several happy hours drowning his sense in cider, and this ray of sunshine has the nerve to call him pup.

Shinon growls. Steadies his grip on the knife.

He raises it up. It glints in the cold moonlight.

"I can do a lot more than point it," he snarls, "if you don't watch your mouth."

And then, with his free arm, he sucker-punches Karel in the jaw.

But as much as he'd love to watch this spooky bastard spit some teeth, it's not worth bleeding. Shinon whirls, breathlessly, and starts running fast as all fuck.

THIS SMELLS SOUR / BURN MY FACE

[fletching-scar]

🎄 After the... Annoying events a couple days ago, the bruise on his face has swelled rather badly. Obnoxious — And painful.

Which leads Karel to rifle through the building, looking for anything to stem it. He thinks he catches sight of someone though, someone—

...

...

...

Uh oh.

Ha! No shit. Shinon had been wondering what happened to that creep... but this does make sense. He was too self-important to be anything other than some fancy boy with a twisted mind.

Skinny, too. Like there's really nothing to him.

He shoves off from the wall he's been leaning against, strides across the room with a purpose that belies the three... four... four-ish glasses of wine he's been drinking. Bullies the spooky bastard into a convenient corner, and grins, all vulpine like a highwayman.

"Y'don't look too good in purple."

Shinon's eyes flick sharply upward--there's a bundle of that stupid fucking kiss-weed hanging down. He snorts with laughter.

"Want me to kiss it better?"

[fletching-scar]

As per usual, Karel wanders aimlessly through Garreg Mach. The cloak of night has fallen over the town, and he meanders silently through the streets in search of... Whatever, really. The thought of sleep hasn't came to him: Doesn't want to, doesn't need to. He's fine. He's alone anyway. All except for the fool who's stumbling about in the dark, completely defenseless, who Karel has decided to trail behind for no particular reason... Hey, It gives him something to do, at least.

Shinon shambles toward his bed in the foggiest fumble of feet, florid-faced and warm and wobbling.

"Oh, a drop o' Nelson's blood wouldn' do us any 'arm," he slurs, slaughtering each note. "No, a drop o Nelson's blood..."

And then, under the weight of a hogshead of cider, an instinct fires in Shinon's hindbrain. Like a poacher watching for the woodsman--Shinon marks a little sound.

Someone's there. Behind him. Stalking.

Shinon's body wheels around, unwieldy like a flail. He grasps for the hunting knife strapped to his thigh. The blade's teeth glimmer in the light of the alehouse--but it's far, and the stranger's standing in his way.

If Shinon could see 'em...

"'Ey!" he barks, with his last half-measure of bravado. "The fuck're you?"

[fletching-scar]

And so he goes, wobbling out into the night. Shinon could leave well enough alone.

But he never does, and he never has, and he never will.

"For fuck's sake," he grumbles, quietly--perhaps inwardly, perhaps to his erstwhile drinking companion. And then speaks louder, projecting out the door: "don't fucking choke! Sleep on your--sleep on your side."

And then, nothing. Silence and the lack of it, all at once. The rauw of the tavern around him--crivens, his head--!

Shinon staggers back to his little sliver of the place and sits, tying up his hair with drunken fingers, wondering what in the cold gray fuck he's ever on about.

The man had said it himself. There's no reason for you to help me.

Seemed the thing to do anyway. A man gets piss-drunk, well...

Gatrie would always...

Yeah. A man gets piss-drunk because of you, you're supposed to see him home. Even if you have to drag him, like a morass of kelp caught in a fishing net. Lay him on his side. Leave a glass of water by the bed.

Treat him, for a moment, as though his body isn't just a weapon.

The man had said that too, right? Shinon's head rings awful and thick, like a bell underwater.

He had said it. Said it as though he'd believed it.

Even Shinon isn't in that deep. He's still got to convince himself. It still takes gold and silver and whiskey.

You don't seem well, the man had said.

Maybe that was both of them.

But even if it was, what did that matter?

Ugh. Shinon doesn't know. This kind of stuff, he never does. If he did, he wouldn't drink so damn much.

There's still a tankard of ale at his place, the last gasps of the head fizzing away.

Shinon picks it up and takes a draught.

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

Well, there it is. A spark of unbleached humanity, something small and foul and bestial. 'Course, it's still crusted in pretty words--who says they need to recollect themselves? But Shinon knows this panic, even maybe better than he knows himself.

These are the jagged, heavy breaths of a man who thought that shit was gonna go his way. This is Karel fucking up.

And is that satisfying? What does the kelpie even do, once it's dragged the fool wayfarers down to the silt at the bottom? Does it just watch them flail?

Has he asked himself this shit before?

It feels hazy, and there isn't time. Looking at Karel like this is like startling at his reflection, scrutinizing the swell of his own wicked black eye. Shinon wants to make it stop.

He sighs. With the juddering, inexpert movement of drunken impulse, he tears the ribbon from his hair. It's ratty by now--a gift from long ago. But it'll do. He presses the thing into Karel's clenched hand.

"Get y'r 'air out of your face," he spits, as though he can't quite believe himself.

Shinon rises from the table, jostling the bench. He bobs and weaves to the bar, makes a show of setting down one more coin, and snatches up a little roll of rustic brown bread.

Wheeling back, wobbling on his shins like stilts, he gestures for Karel to follow. Juts his chin out toward the door, the twilit chill outside. "Get you some fresh air, ah?"

It's almost snappish, almost soft. "Else they won't keep servin' me here. C'mon."

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

Hah. This guy's easy. Takes one word to get his blood up, and he'll follow Shinon like a puppy all the way to the Seiros Arms.

It's the kind of place Shinon likes. The kind of place no saint would like to have their name attached--but the cider flows and while the price of whiskey is highway robbery, at least it isn't horse piss.

The barmaid looks at him with a withering familiarity. Shinon is starting to like this place, but the feeling's not mutual.

No tavern really likes Shinon. He rants and roars about the bloodsuckers keeping the common man down... and brawls with the dirty monarchists that always seem to have the nerve to argue.

Well, hell. Tonight he's after a different kind of fight. He seats himself at the end of a long table, gestures curtly for the creep to sit opposite.

The barmaid approaches them like she might a fuckin' gallows. Shinon smiles tightly at her. She works for a living, too... and by the cut of her dress, he figures she's trying to scrape by on tips.

"Ale," he says, almost grimly. "The strongest you've got. Two for me and one for him."

He might thank her, some other night. When he's not staring down judge, jury, and jackass.

He's got an image to uphold.

Once she's skittered away, Shinon leans over the table. On his elbow, all casual-like.

"You drink much, y'bitch?"

It's an easy sort of derision. Almost familiar.

But... Shinon wrinkles his nose. "Or... C'n you afford it?"

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

The man drinks like an automaton. Stands to reason, Shinon thinks. Thus far, he's seen no evidence that there's any blood in Karel's veins at all. No safe, knowable beast underneath.

He's just a mystery. Even now, even when he slips...

"You know that much."

Shinon's spent his years scuffed into the treeline, squinting for any little distant fumble, any minute dropping-of-the-guard, the white of any unfortunate eye. To hone in on the uncertainties of others is an instinct, beaten long ago into his marrow.

But he doesn't know what this means. Of course Shinon doesn't know that much. He's barely met the man, and Karel's already threatened his life in no uncertain terms. He skulks around the city at night, for fuck's sake, and he drags that horrible sword with him, the man cannot be a stranger to killing.

Shinon's brain unravels and twists around this. But he's too ale-headed. The point escapes him and falls through the bottom of his empty cup.

There's another tankard at his side of the table, sweating with the chill of the ale. Shinon takes it. This, too, is an instinct.

This time, he nurses it slowly.

And this time, Shinon's met with pity. You don't seem well.

He never does, but when he's pitied... well, that just means it's obvious, right? That he's failed. That really, he's never been much more than a rangy kid, crying 'cause the arrow-fletching cut his hand.

Shinon mills his jaw. He reaches for derision. Instincts, three for three. But this one doesn't fire.

"The 'ell I am," he rasps. There's a long gray streak of defeat in it, like dirt through Daein snow. "What's it to you? Y'r not either."

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

It's like Shinon's in some kind of play. A cheap, lurid one, all blood-red and scandalous. The sort of production where they lace the corsets real tight, and the monologues...

The monologues are like this. Whatever this guy is on about, he holds Shinon's jaw with scintillating force, and snarls like the climactic battle is just a few lines away.

Shinon can't think of his half of the script. The man is ridiculous. Shinon's throat tightens, trying to laugh.

It's so overacted. It cannot be real.

And then--

--fuck--

--then it is.

The force of the blow sends Shinon sailing, all his dead weight thudding against the stone wall. He tastes blood, and scandal, and perhaps the insides of his teeth.

His ears ring like thunderous applause. This madman stole the show--and then, without a bow, he's gone. Shinon's head is in too many pieces to follow.

But... but this fucker... He's balls-deep in his macabre little fantasyland.

Shinon's gonna give him a cold, unscripted reality check.

But first, he's got to get off the floor.

🎄 After the... Annoying events a couple days ago, the bruise on his face has swelled rather badly. Obnoxious — And painful.

Which leads Karel to rifle through the building, looking for anything to stem it. He thinks he catches sight of someone though, someone—

...

...

...

Uh oh.

Ha! No shit. Shinon had been wondering what happened to that creep... but this does make sense. He was too self-important to be anything other than some fancy boy with a twisted mind.

Skinny, too. Like there's really nothing to him.

He shoves off from the wall he's been leaning against, strides across the room with a purpose that belies the three... four... four-ish glasses of wine he's been drinking. Bullies the spooky bastard into a convenient corner, and grins, all vulpine like a highwayman.

"Y'don't look too good in purple."

Shinon's eyes flick sharply upward--there's a bundle of that stupid fucking kiss-weed hanging down. He snorts with laughter.

"Want me to kiss it better?"

[fletching-scar]

Haughty to the last drop. Even when he's spitting mad, and even now, when he obviously cannot abide the taste of beer, when the first blush of liquor starts to play across his face.

What's gonna break this man? Shinon thought he might provoke him into dropping this creepy facade. Nope. All he's got to show for that is a black eye.

The drink's not doing it either. Not yet, anyway. Shinon catches the barmaid's flittering eye and slaps a copper coin onto the table. It's enough for another round--but he's still got that second tankard.

Once the poor girl hustles away with the money, Shinon takes the damn thing up. It's just as heavy as the first one, smells just as heady and sour.

He'll show this sonofabitch what fortitude means, the only way a drunkard can.

With alacrity, Shinon quaffs the second ale.

roll: 2. strikes: 2/3

With alacrity, the alcohol donkey-kicks him in the teeth. Everything tastes like angry grain. The world is a wide-open wheat field and Shinon's lost among the golden waves.

He really should have fucking eaten lunch.

"Howzat?" he spits, dripping with vinegar. The tankard wobbles to the tabletop. "You wanna back down now? I'll go all night, but how long are you gonna be able to sit here like you--like you fucking know the score, you bargain-basement headsman?"

What's gonna get under his skin? How's Shinon gonna see it--see the creature that lives inside everyone, gold-plated or dirt-poor?

How's he gonna drag this bastard to his level?

The barmaid brings the second round of drinks. Sets them on the table with a swiftness, like they're burning her hands.

Shinon doesn't mind her: just glares across the table, stung raw.

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."

[fletching-scar]

My body is a weapon, he says--shit, he actually says it. As though it's not just the quiet delusion that Shinon dresses himself in every day, an underlayer right next to the skin. As though it's something real and true and inescapable.

Shinon needs to believe in it. He forces himself.

But fucking Karel doesn't have to. Another facet to the flinty stone of his arrogance--or something else?

Shinon scowls. He doesn't know. Karel's fidgeting, anxious. Dodging Shinon's impertinent questions.

For a blink, Shinon might almost feel bad for him. But then there's a twinge in his black, swollen eye, and the barmaid brings the ale, so it doesn't fucking matter.

Nothing ever does!

If nothing else, Shinon will drink to that. He nods to the barmaid as she skitters away, hefting his first frothing tankard of ale.

It's an awful lot of drink. It smells strong. And Shinon can't really remember the last time he ate. This afternoon? Right, he pinched a pastry from the faculty lounge...

But he can't back down. Not here, staring down the man who's bound and determined to be the wolf at Shinon's door.

He tightens his fingers around the tankard, then bolts the whole thing in one go. It's a trick from way back, when he couldn't afford shit that tasted good. Before he pickled the inside of his mouth.

(roll: 2. strikes: 1/3)

Shinon slams the empty tankard down. He gasps.

He feels the alcohol the way he's felt some punches. But Karel wouldn't know anything about that, would he?

Shinon forces a straight, steady smile. He can't let on. He can't put a hair out of place.

Freelancing might be Shinon's job.... but drinking is his vocation.

"That's," he sneers, just a little out of breath, "that's how it's done."

one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor

starter for @otgolokh

There he is again, that creep. Thinks just 'cause he's got extra blood under his fingernails, everyone should bow and scrape.

He does throw a pretty solid punch, though. Shinon's got a black eye that'll testify to that.

Shinon's got... pretty much nothing else, after that fucking party. Surely not his pride.

Ugh, he's aching for a drink. Not that that ever got him very far, but there's nothing he can do about it. The desire exists. It'll only get worse until Shinon caves.

And then Shinon's got an idea, and that's only gonna get worse, too.

"'Ey!" he barks, "tall, dark, and rabid! You love a challenge, right?"

It's a word he's heard this fuckface spit before. Like it means something to him.

Shinon won't wait for an answer. "'Course you do. I know your kind. Come down the Seiros Arms. I'll drink your skinny ass under the table."