the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
It’s early afternoon and the bar is mostly empty, dark in the corners, warm gold coloring the rest of the room where the light falls through the entryway. There is no door, which August noted with interest; he wonders whether it burned to ashes one too many times, or if it just never got cold enough, even in winter, to warrant one.
Today, at any rate, feels like spring to him. There are flowers blooming in containers along the streets. The city is more colorful that he had always pictured it, and he’s been trying and failing not to resent it for this. He may as well learn to appreciate Solterra - he may be here for a while.
Which is why he’s starting out at this particular establishment. August always feels more amicable after a drink; he hopes it doesn’t fail today. Gods know he needs the encouragement.
He pauses for a moment before crossing to the bar, his shadow leading the way. The palomino doesn’t care for having the open doorway at his back, where he can’t see who enters. It’s a far cry from the dark, lush interior of the Scarab, where he can keep an eye on everything, where he knows most of the patrons anyway. His world is full of strangers now.
But he looks at ease, and smiles when the bartender meets his eye. She smiles back, casting a seasoned glance over him before ambling over with the glass she’s been cleaning.
“Bright days,” she says, in common Solterran greeting. “Bit early, isn’t it? But what can I get you?” All the while her smile lingers, and he follows it up to her green eyes, the long scar that marks one cheek. He wonders which court’s citizens bear more scars, and knows the question is unfair.
“Always a good time for business,” he remarks, and scans the row of bottles behind her. A few are familiar, but he nods toward a dark, squat bottle whose contents are golden where the sunlight hits them. “Ah,” she says, “that’s an anejo tequila. Aged three years, harvested from agave in the Mors.” He raises a brow as she recites its lineage, and is already nodding. “I’ll take it.” August watches as she pours, releasing a woody, spicy scent that almost reminds him of whiskey.
He lifts it, tilts it, takes a whiff - and then tips it back before her small gasp of protest can catch him. August almost coughs, and hisses through his teeth at the burn flaring down his throat all the way to his belly. When he looks up at the bartender, his eyes are watering.
“You’re supposed to sip it,” she says reproachfully. August blinks, and laughs. ”Of course. Then I’ll have another.” And one more after that, he thinks, and maybe he can face the court beyond the bright doorway behind him.
@jahin | this was supposed to be way shorter, just pretend it is
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin isn’t entirely sure what to do with his time off. He can’t say he has a grasp on the job yet. So really, he should be studying up on court etiquette or learning the finer intricacies of writing and reading. Unfortunately, most of these subjects have proven elusive, frustrating, and have yielded little result thus far. It’s after one such particular session that Jahin practically snapped his study desk in half in frustration, shouted at his gray-haired teacher, and stormed from the infuriatingly windowless room to the streets below.
It’s not his proudest moment to be sure, but the thought of spending one more moment in that suffocating palace room with that stuffy old badger is practically begging Jahin to bash someone's head in. While Jahin has been accustomed to unbearable circumstances in the past, he would honestly rather spend time chained in the dungeon rather than listening to that old stiff rambling on and on about the finer points of Solterran tragic literature about a sad love storying involving a helpless damsel named Sally and a boring Joe that no one actually gives a heap of sandwyrm dung about.
He wanders the streets, shoulders tense with frustration and jaw aching from clenching his grinding teeth together. No one could have warned him of the infinite loneliness he would endure in the Captiol away from his people, despite the vast population humming busily within the city walls. There is not a day that goes by that he does not question the soundness of his reasoning and his argument that ultimately condemned him in the eyes of his Khan. He’d like to attribute such insubordinate actions to grief and the loss of Makeda but he knows deep down that would be a lie. It has always been something he’s felt to some vague degree and successfully suppressed. Until now.
Uncharacteristically, he wanders into a bar. The simple, unadorned bar is nothing special or outstanding; it’s certainly not like the upper terrace clubs that serve expensive cocktails to elegant looking folk adorned with glittering jewels and luxurious clothing.
Instead, the pub is small and dusty but surprisingly beautiful in its homely simplicity. The afternoon light floods through the doorless entryway, illuminating the masterfully painted panels depicting the fall of Zolin behind liquor bottles shining like golden sea glass.
“I’ll reap what I’ve sown,” he says to the bartender, in a tired, defeated sort of voice. The bartender is obviously no stranger to such dramatic lamentations; he nods briefly and slides a shot gloss overflowing with amber liquid his way. Jahin glances to his side, noting that the bartender hadn’t bothered to switch bottles before pouring his own drink. He downs the glass without thinking, without feeling, despite the fact that he has always vehemently abhorred drinking. Today, he would like to forget that he is Jahin of the Davke and Jahin the Regent of Solterra.
He would like to pretend he is no one, just as any stranger can be. And today, his neighbor is a golden stranger downing another shot. Jahin would like to pretend that he, too, has nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than drink expensive whiskey. “Me too,” he utters hoarsely after his first shot, sliding his empty glass back towards the bartend, along with a few glittering coins. “And a third for my friend.” Of course, Jahin doesn’t have any friends in the Capitol but it is certainly nice to pretend when alone in a bar and about to get drunk.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
August does his best to refrain from turning when the sound of footsteps signals another’s entrance, but he can’t help it when the man speaks.
He considers himself a bit of a connoisseur of dramatic entrances, given his life at the Scarab, but this declaration rates among the best. Its speaker is no less interesting; August marks the scars at once and with admiration, as well as his tumble of wild hair and vivid lilac eyes.
It only takes long enough for the stranger to tip back his shot for August to decide that here is a man he’d like to know more about. Already half-smiling, he nods when the unicorn glances his way, and when he orders another round August tips his own glass in salute. Maybe he’d have to recalibrate his assumptions of Solterran generosity.
“And a lucky friend I am,” the palomino says with a grin. “Though I’m told you’re supposed to sip it.” As soon as he says it, he drains the tequila, earning a head shake from the bartender, who soon turns back to wiping down glasses.
There is already a pleasant warmth in his belly, a burn in his throat and a buzz in his head. Third drink at hand, August moves down the bar toward the unicorn, near enough their shadows lean together conspiratorially. This time, when he lifts the glass to his lips the drink he takes is only a sip, and his silver eyes are considering.
“My thanks,” he says, “and the next round’s on me. If you don't mind my asking, just what is it you’ve sown today?”
Any other problem or sorrow, he thinks, will be better than thinking on his own unbecoming melancholy, and this fellow looks more reaper than reaped.
@jahin | this was supposed to be way shorter, just pretend it is
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
You’re supposed to sip it.
“Oh…” He pauses abruptly, glancing at his empty glass and feeling the unpleasant burn of the bartender’s dark scowl. He feels foolish at first--this is something I should know--just another Solterran custom that he does not know or has failed to learn before making a fool of himself. His people do not have fine, sip-worthy whiskey or tequila (unless they happen to raid a caravan bound for the Capitol from Denocte loaded with expensive wines), only the sort of alcohol that promises to make you vomit as soon as you down it.
The bartender passes Jahin and his new companion another round. He stares at the glass of liquid, briefly considering sipping as suggested (conform, his inner voice demands), but as the tattooed man drains his unapolegtically, Jahin nods, says “Fuck it”--and drains his in one swig as well. It’s too late to appear a refined, well-bred gentleman of court and Jahin supposes no matter how much he learns, or adapts, he will never be mistaken as such.
The stranger at his side grins, almost mischievously, suggesting a third round. While Jahin would like to say no, and be on about his business responsibly (albeit slightly inebriated), he finds he is too frustrated and too tightly wound to say no. So far, getting drunk with a perfect stranger seems to be the only good decision he has made since abandoning his people (Avdotya’s words, how they haunt him so) and becoming Regent.
“Please.” He dips his head courteously, something he has seen Capitol folk do from time to time. He feels silly doing it, as the Davke are physical people (it would be more appropriate to head or shoulder butt) but he does not dare show that side of himself here, and besides, he figures that is probably not proper Regent behavior. The disgruntled bartender slides them each their third, flips the towel over her shoulder, and then stalks off haughtily to serve a couple more refined looking gentlemen with fine necklaces and cloaks who have settled at the end of the bar.
Jahin takes a moment to observe his drinking companion. Golden, suave, and intelligent are the first three words that come to mind. There is a knowing, intense glitter in this stranger’s silver eyes that suggests he sees many details others would otherwise miss. He moves with the easy grace of a feline and converses in a practiced, tranquil manner. The color of the stranger's skin is enviable--burnished gold dappled with silver moonlight and hair as clean and white as snow. Jahin wonders briefly at the history of the tattoo on the fellow’s muscled shoulder. Ahvani bears the same, but on her left hip rather than shoulder--what connection binds the two together?
The stranger inquires about what he may have sown, and Jahin can’t help but sigh. “I have taken on something I am ill-prepared for, and perhaps even more, ill-suited for. I fear…” The idea of speaking his fears aloud, even to a stranger, is too much of a task for a Davke warrior who has always managed to suppress irrelevant, unproductive feelings in the past. He downs the third glass of clear liquid, yearning for courage he no longer believes he possesses. “I fear I’ve made a mistake,” he admits in a hoarse, thickly accented voice. "I don't belong here." I fear Solterra deserves more.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@August eek i hope you still wanted to continue this! :P
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
By now, the liquor has expanded beyond the pleasant burn in his belly and throat to his mind. He had done a fair bit of drinking on the ship, but all of it was seawater swill compared to this. August’s inner commentary has gone happily silent, and he grins widely when his companion proclaims fuck it and downs the tequila. He can’t help but sneak a glance to the bartender who’d said it was for sipping, and she just shakes her head, resigned.
“Thanks,” he tells her as she hands over their next (and hopefully final; August is already unsure he could keep this up much longer, or afford the tab), but she’s already turned away. The palomino squints at the stallions down the bar, clearly nobility, both in dress and the way they studiously ignore him while still making their judgement clear. With a snort he turns back to the unicorn just in time to catch his sigh.
Listening intently (perhaps a little too intently; it’s getting tricky to tell what his face is doing with his mind a soft buzz) August nods in support. It is difficult to imagine this rough-hewn man ill-suited for anything, except maybe ballet, but August could commiserate. He’s curious about the unicorn’s accent; it’s not one he’s heard before, not from the Solterran nobility he’s met here or who used to come to the Scarab, and not from the commoner’s in the streets. If he were sober he’s sure he could puzzle it out -
But never mind that; when the chestnut drains his last tequila August follows suit, gasping at the burn.
“Come now,” he says as he sets down the glass with a thud, “I’m sure you’re not that bad at holding your liquor. No man is ill-suited for drinking.” His tone was clearly in jest, but he isn’t sure how amenable his companion is to joking and moves on quickly.
“Truly, though,” he continues, bending his head in close enough to focus with drunken intensity on the deep amethyst of the stranger’s eyes, “I’ve found taking on such things is the only way to grow, even if it is a mistake in the end.” His brow furrows, thinking of his miserable time on the merchant ship. Surely even that had taught him something (other than how ill-suited he is for manual labor, or maybe just being treated as such), but discovering what would have to wait until he’s sober.
“Besides,” he says, doing his best to speak softly given the men at the other end of the bar, “if by here you mean this insufferable city, not belonging is a credit to you, friend.” August burps, inelegant punctuation to his words. “In fact I’d drink to that if - if - if my glass wasn’t empty.” It feels good to laugh, even if he isn't aware how loudly he's doing it.
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
“That’s true,” Jahin agrees, his lips slowly twitching into a half-smile. The golden fellow does have a valid point. “The Davke are especially talented drinkers. Among other less savory activities...like pillaging and plundering... But he doesn’t mention that; he feels the burn of the finely dressed stallions down the bar glaring his way when they hear the word Davke. Ah, probably should have kept his mouth shut as most folk don’t take too kindly to his particular heritage. Oh well. The drink has loosened his tongue and provides Jahin with a shield of confidence and I don’t give a fuck that he would not normally otherwise exude.
His indigo eyes glaze over as he recalls the more reckless, belligerent days of his youth and the memories of dancing around a roaring desert bonfire among his people beneath a vast, endless sky glittering with stars. Jahin has always been the sterner, serious sort, even as a child, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to throw down and have a good time back in the day when he was young, dumb, and full of raging testosterone that fueled all manners of ridiculous endeavors. But Jahin has long since mellowed since those days. On nights like these, lost in a nostalgic haze of memory, he misses the fire that had burned so brightly within him as a young warrior stallion.
For now the fleeting, emboldening burn of the drink in his belly will have to do.
“You speak wise words, friend.” He doesn’t know if it is the pleasant haze of the drink clouding his mind or simply the unexpected kindness from a stranger, but Jahin feels marginally better; probably a combination of both. He knows he will have to face reality again in the morning but it’s nice to pretend, even if for a moment, that everything is alright.
“I’m Jahin. Are you from, as you put it, this insufferable city?” Jahin eyes the stranger curiously, his gaze lingering briefly once more on the unique beetle tattoo on his shoulder. He motions to it. “I know someone with the same mark” Jahin hasn’t spoken to Aghvani in any real capacity yet, but he is keenly interested to know what connection the golden stranger may have with her. Jahin still has much to learn about the city and the many different factions and houses that operate within the towering walls. “Are you in some kind of cult?” Perhaps not a question most people ask upon first meeting but then again Jahin has always had a way with words.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@August gosh damn i'm on the struggle bus today, i promise the next one will be better
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
The less-than-friendly expressions across the room darkened further when the stranger said Davke, but they aren’t the only ones whose interest shifts. “Davke? August says, turning to appraise his companion anew. He’s heard a few tales of the desert bands, as good at surviving as they are at killing, and they have always snared his interest, surely as a bramble catches a bit of linen cloth. “Are you one of them, then?” It’s an easy answer to guess (particularly when the man has all but said it), but he leans forward anyway.
The palomino takes the compliment with a grin, though the more he drinks the less wise his words become - at least to those listening who are not quite so inebriated. “I’m August, and I am decidedly not.” He might have expanded on that, but luckily the unicorn’s gesture steers him away from it. Instead he glances down at the tattoo, lips quirked thoughtfully. It had been the better part of a year since he’d been back to the Scarab; in truth, he was beginning to forget the mark was there.
He’s been questioned about it many times, but never about it being a cult; the question draws his attention back to Jahin with a laugh. “Sometimes it felt like one. But no - it marks me as an employee of the White Scarab, a gambling house in Denocte.” And much more than that. “Who do you know-?”
August is cut off by one of the other customers clearing his throat, loudly and insistently. He glances over his shoulder, brow raised, and finds them all staring, and not in a friendly way. Whether it was talk of the Davke, Denocte, or general Solterra-bashing that did it it’s impossible to know, but their mood is clear.
“It’s getting a bit warm in here, isn’t it?” he says to Jahin, only half-slurring the words, and catches the eye of the bartender. She raises her eyebrows at him pointedly, and August counts out a dozen signos, then a few more for good measure, and leaves them on the bar with a soft clink.“Let’s, ah, get some air.” It’s harder than it should be to find the exit, but he manages, only to pause for a moment and lean against the doorframe, squinting against the bright midday sun.
@jahin | this is turrible but they will be good bros. should we close up?
