The sea was no place for a desert dweller; it was all blues and greens, fluid and cold in its liquid embrace. It was alien to a woman born to sand and sun, a serpent woven by the unrelenting hand of the great Mors. Indeed, this room did not sing to her desire as it would if its walls had been guilded with gold and the orbs filled with sand - but then again, Avdotya was not here seeking the comforts of home.

She glided easily through the room, looking spectacularly out of place in her sprawl of yellows and reds, watching wordlessly as the masquerade went on around her. Her attention slipped in and out of conversations when they interested her, though she found herself consistently disappointed by the excessive dryness of them all. It was verbal fluff, nothing worth her time (as she should have expected in such a public environment, but stupidity flourished in all places). Thus, the viper drifted away from the crowds in favour of the various drinks that awaited consumption.

As she made her way there, her ear caught the stray mumblings of a pale man who seemed just as enthralled with the party as she was. ”That may be the only thing this event has going for it.” Avdotya drawled in passing, the sharpness of her feral tongue as distinct as ever. It was by no means an invite to join her, but it took little to encourage another to a drink when there already existed a thirst.

Regardless, the various bowls lined along the wall had her eye for now... she could only hope Denocte knew a proper drink.  

She was unsure of him - unsure of him because he is all that Avdotya is not; he is boldness, a loud presence that demanded attention in a way she could not and would never appreciate. He was an entirely different breed of fighter, a man playing the same game with a foreign strategy. He was a bright, blazing  fire while she was the ash that choked the air from starving lungs.

Indeed, a viper is not as brash as the bull.

Yet here the pair stood, away from the frivolity of the masquerade and instead taking sips from Denocte’s buffet of drinks. Most were too much for her own hardened taste, a detail that was so expertly caught by her newfound company. Her lips curled at the thought of ‘fun’ and ‘fizzy’. ”So astute.” She replied, slipping past the first glittering crock to study the next bowl from which he had taken a taste of. Her amber eyes watched him carefully, only slightly suspicious that the next swig could find him falling to the floor.

There was no trust in Avdotya’s cracked heart when it came to anything Denocte. They were a nation known for their trickery, and though their Queen seemed to be turning a new page, she remained ever skeptical. A flock abandoned by their Corvid King was not one to so naively place blind faith in.

And so she pulled a small vial of her own from the fringes of her attire, a quick shot to satisfy her thirst. She brushed past the pale stallion and tossed the glass tube to the floor, then frowned. ”I have always preferred Solterran brews.” They were bitter more often than not, a much finer taste than the sparkling mixes sitting before them.
  

Avdotya's taste was one more obscure than most. She savoured bitterness upon her tongue as though it were a sweet nectar to her hardened palate, so much so that anything different had a tendency to send her lips curling with utter distaste. Anything glittering could have made her stomach turn. Indeed, the wide world of alcohols and magical brews was one left willingly unexplored by the Davke woman - quite possibly because a Davke did not often consume it to begin with. It was only when they pillaged the right caravan that they were able to indulge in the more finer aspects of Court life... and even then, never enough to find themselves intoxicated. Very few Davke had ever felt the effect of these brews; even Avdotya herself had never had her mind slip beneath alcohol's influential hand.

So now, while she watched this man lose his steadiness, Avdotya reminded herself of why the satisfaction of one quick swig of her preferred drink outmatched that of excess. At least until he described his next glass, harsh and... spicy, he called it. She felt her head tilt ever so slightly with his words. "I do not know spicy." The woman stated plainly (perhaps just as plain as her diet, apparently), then stepping closer so she could lean her head in and inhale the aroma from his glass. It took only a few moments more for her curiosity to finally break, giving way and urging Avdotya to pour just a small amount it into a goblet of her own.

The viper's eyes lingered on him just long enough for Toro to be able to catch the confounding look that gripped her when her tongue began to burn. It was a subtle sting, but enough coax Avdotya into another sip. And then another. "This is different," she paused, unsure if she wanted to admit it- "in a good way, I suppose." There was a peculiar warmth that had started to creep up in the centre of her chest, one she was entirely unfamiliar with. For now, though, she dismissed it as 'the spicy'.



  

As drinks began to spill and drunken tempers rose, Avdotya found herself questioning why she ever thought attending a masquerade - in Denocte, no less - was a half-decent idea. Yet there she stood, taking a sip of her peculiar spiced liquor while El Toro was quite suddenly shoved into the table behind them (which then inadvertently involved an unsuspecting woman who was ever so innocently pouring herself a glass).

Had she not spent so long testing many of the drinks set out, perhaps the viper simply would have excused herself from the dramatics; however, she could not help but linger while the pale man took to bulldozing his assailant. The mare with the stained gown then scurried by, bumping another as she disappeared into the crowd... leaving Avdotya to blame for so rudely pushing into another body.

At first it was incoherent screaming and what she thought may have been a demand for an apology, but Avdotya soon found another woman’s face unpleasantly close to her own. Truthfully, she was rather fond of her personal space, and so, while the yelling continued, her own voice boomed just loud enough to effectively disrupt her: ”Lest you wish to stir your next drink with your own tongue cut clean from your throat,” she paused to allow the mare a moment to collect herself (and possibly for dramatic effect), ”I would suggest you take a step back.”  Avdotya’s troubles were solved shortly after and the wound-too-tight screamer ran off surely to collect whatever form of security Denocte was offering for the event.

While that may have been an opportune moment to make her leave, she could not help but first look back to El Toro and see if, at the very least, he was still alive.