sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-11 20:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, magnolia paget, rictor cassul |
well, you shot off your mouth and look where it got you.
Who: Mag Paget & Rictor Cassul
What: Two friends go out for a drink, and Ric tries to guess the nature of the Black Lions mission she was on. Naturally, it turns into a drinking game.
Where: A pub.
When: Sometime this week.
Rating: Foul language.
Status: Complete!
Halfway through the second glass of cider, and after several improbable tales (involving a man punching a wyvern to death, a tribe of warrior chocobos and an ancient mandragora dance, respectively), Mag nodded at Rictor’s beer and said, “I think we’re going to have to step up if we’re going to make this a drinking contest. We’re going to run out of bullshit stories before we run out of alcohol tolerance.” “It’s a test of our creativity,” he declared, waving down a server for a bottle of proper liquor. Since hearing that Mag had embarked on a mission with the famed mercenaries (not a thing he could ever do himself, eschewing monetary reward being one of his holy tenets), Ric had been intrigued. He could at least live vicariously through her and dig some stories out of the other fighter, but Mag’s descriptions had instead tended towards nonsensical and bombastic. Which is how he preferred it, really. “Now that we’re upping the ante, we’re gonna end up passed out in the gutter, getting shat on by passing chocobos, robbed by passing crooks. They’ll rifle through my pockets. Steal my silver cross.” Rictor was already liberally soused, and merrily so, as he often was around Mag. "It's all about choosing the right gutter," Mag said. "No chocobos if possible. And somewhere close to your sister's shop would be great, she'll just shake her head and drag us inside." She opened the bottle and filled two shot tumblers with copper-colored liquor while he watched appreciatively. "Or maybe she'll just find you," she teased. "I could go on making shit up for hours still." For as long as she could still articulate it, anyway. “Those are fighting words, Paget.” Rictor was leaning back in his chair, the legs tilting slightly off the uneven wooden floor. “And also, I think I’m on gutter probation anyway. Wouldn’t do for a man of my—” He fished for the right words, working through the fog of beer. “—stature. And reputation. To be found in the street like debris. No, I’m fucking staggering back to the Grande Cathedral if it kills me.” (He didn’t need to mention that he’d never spent more than five minutes in Aspel’s apartment, and would never dream of having to implore upon his older sister and spend the night on her sofa.) Mag nudged his tumbler over, and the holy knight pondered. “Your Black Lions mission,” he said sagely, with endless profundity, “involved dressing up in yellow feathers, infiltrating a convocation of chocobos, and stealing their eggs for famed celebrity chef Gorden Romsie.” "While clucking loudly and batting our arms like wings," Mag deadpanned. "Several strategies were put forward, but we opted for infiltration in the end. And Gillian obtained fake chocobo beaks for us to wear. Not the best fit for my complexion." She sighed. "But I suppose that's why we got paid so well." “The sacrifices you make for fashion,” he said through his grin, twirling one hand theatrically. “Don’t I know it.” She grinned back. “But hey, at least Gillian and I go way back. Helps to avoid the worst of it. The new recruits were the last to take their pick of the feather boas. More than a few purple and pink chocobos running amok.” “Lipstick on a choco.” The mental image was a ludicrous one, but before he was even done laughing over it, Rictor was already spinning them onto the next hypothetical: “No, wait. This is all bullshit. What your mission was, what your mission really really was, was pretending to be bards. In order to infiltrate a national singing competition and protect one of the judges from assassination. That was it, wasn’t it?” Mag burst out laughing at the notion. At a singing competition, she would not only have been discovered—she would have been kicked out and sued for irreparable damage to the judges’ eardrums. “Yeah, it was a busy three days for us. I mean, we had a couple of real bards to lead the charge. We left them to do their thing and set about protecting that judge.” She grinned. “Got a little tricky toward the end, the judges thought we were trying to assassinate them. Security almost kicked us out, and it was then we realised,” a dramatic pause, during which she tried valiantly not to start laughing again, “the assassin was hiding among the security brutes.” “Lethal bards. I’ve heard of ‘em. With voices like nails on a chalkboard and the ability to kill you at ten paces, just with their fucking vocal chords.” All of Ric and Mag’s various extrapolations and creative embellishments were punctuated with another sip, another drink. And then he shook his head, perhaps more exaggeratedly sorrowful than he needed to be. “Confession of my biggest weakness: I would’ve been found out, too. Not a karaoke guy. I’m Faram-fucking miserable at it.” “Here’s to terrifying people with our singing,” Mag said, raising her tumbler in a toast, “and to the owner of the Drunken Bard, who won’t let me back into his establishment after the disastrous birthday party of 2009.” “After the what?” The holy knight perked up, leaning in over his pint. “Oh, it’s a long story.” She tilted her head as if lost in thought, but an impish grin was stitched on her face. “It all started with a wandering troupe of tightrope walkers from Ordalia, a missing goat and several bottles of Kerwonian firewhiskey...” |