theo. (escutcheon) wrote in emillion, |
The day was almost over, thank Faram because had he not had a few drinks throughout the day he would’ve more likely than not, stabbed someone in the throat. Such action would not look good, to say the least, the Fighter’s Guild tended to frown on murder (why, oh why had he no idea. Sometimes to uphold things you had to stain your hands with blood). Having left behind those encountered during the day, he kicked back on his chair and slumped; duties awaited him back with his Retainer, but he was unwilling to return to those just yet. Pawn of the nobility and always aspiring for more, Riv honoured his vows as a Samurai but there were nagging doubts (that growing ambition, his Hyde). Soon enough the chair beside him found itself occupied by a towering and familiar form. Theo had spent much of the day on duty, wandering between endless crowds of people with intent of keeping the peace--no easy task during a festival, as there were always those eager to seek out and cause trouble. By this late of the evening, the berserker was more than ready for a large tankard of ale or two himself. Slamming down a palmful of gil on the countertop, it was only after the server rushed away did Theo notice whom he had sat next to. With a gruff snort serving as a greeting, he gave Rivalen a sideways glance. “Didn’t know this was your thing,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to explain, the tides of people enjoying the festival only now beginning to wane. Thank Fucking Faram. It was not someone who would cause Rivalen to headesk repeatedly in his mind while trying to navigate a conversation. Theodore Finch was a laugh for the Samurai, and in-between the strange encounters of the day, this was one of the better ones. A long swing was taken of his ale. “Didn’t know it was your thing either, yet here we both are.” Rivalen replied with a snort, he refrained from mentioning he had given flowers to his squire (for now, he might drop that information later just to yank at the Berserker’s metaphorical chain). “Work for me,” he grunted, Theo’s feet aching now from rounds and rounds of walking. Duty had brought him around to the festival, and not much else. He had found little interest in Saint Namorados Day (regardless of the surprise candies) and so too did he find little to gain his attention during Howaito Dē as well. “Not much else.” As soon as the server brought his drink around, Theo wasted no time in drowning himself with ale. A large man with a great thirst, he had drained a good third of his enormous tankard before setting the drink back down with a thud. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shook his head--as if he was attempting to dissolve all of his irritation at once. “Drink though, aye, it’s not without its merits.” Theo offered a gesture of cheers. “To the fucking end of Howaito Dē.” |