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
“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.
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
