Beau (rivalen) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-07-09 02:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, miles baines, rivalen beau |
Who: Miles & Rivalen
What: Misanthropes having a drink.
Where: Bazaar district, a comfortable pub.
When: Backdated to the night of June 1st
Rating: PG13-ish for language
Status: Complete
The only thing Riv was getting Miles for his birthday was a drink, and not because he thought Basil's wife was a bitch but he was currently in the beginnings of unemployment because his retainer decided to do the (potentially) smart thing and leave Emillion. New accommodations would be needed, new furniture, for himself and Scarlet. (Why in the fuck had she decided to become a Fell Knight? Jobs were hard to find without adding the stigma of that.) Pushing the tankard away from him, the pleasant buzz of alcohol filling him (from his skin it trickled downwards, enveloping his muscles, and bones all the way to the core). And in these moments he allowed himself to indulge in a bit of his hate: "Do we need another round, Miles? Or have you become a totally whipped lightweight?" The insults were delivered without bite, but the bitterness that slept inside him resurfaced at the recollection of the gossips going around. He really, truly, hated humes. Mages the most. The mime seated across from him, however, seemed like a source of relatively good cheer tonight (though they still had more than enough time for that to sour, slipping into misanthropic drunkenness). Unshackled from the household of women he’d been living with, Miles could now be himself—to his own horror, he was starting to forget, his natural mannerisms subsiding beneath layers and layers of posturing and artifice. Being Basil Norwood, married man, was turning out to be one of the longest cons he’d ever done. He was forgetting himself in the nobleman, his own life slipping away. “Another round, Rivalen,” Miles said, stacking his empty tankard atop one of the others. “It’s not like I’ve many opportunities to drink, surrounded by the hens as I’ve been. We’re making up for lost time.” Rivalen was only too happy to flag down a waitress and signal for another round to be brought (and they were tipping generously tonight, they barely had to wait before their drinks were replaced). “That is a lot of making up, friend. You’ve missed a great deal of things, the other night was a bard — perhaps a friend of yours? His face was unfamiliar, he became so frustrated with his playing he smashed his instrument — only then the crowd started applauding.” Riv snickered, lifting his new pint in salute. “Ah, for the days of tavern crooning and subsisting on scraps of tips,” Miles said wistfully, staring into his pint as if it offered answers to the secrets of the universe. “How I don’t miss it. I was always more actor than bard. Shitty years those were.” “What should we toast to? Bad musicians? Imbecilic wives? Bad life choices?” (Miles might be a friend, but he couldn’t help needling his decision to get married — money was all well and good, but did he value it more than freedom?) “All of the above. And perhaps, for good measure: complicated sisters and uncertain career choices?” Miles’ grin had some fang in it, but it was a familiar edge: they riled each other up, they gouged each other in the side, it was the only way their friendship knew how to function. “Cheers,” and their glasses were meeting with a heavy clink, the liquid sloshing. His laugh was sharp, but there was only truth in Miles' words so Rivalen didn't answer the toast; clinking the glasses cordially he took a long swing of his, not caring that it was leading him to have a horrific hangover the following morning. The bitterness of the brew matched his sour disposition towards everything of late, "We forgot to toast to a shitty city that is falling to pieces, shame we can't just fuck off after teaching some people a lesson." “Ah, yes. Let’s add that one to the list, shall we: here’s to fucking mages, fucking us up.” Miles raised his glass once more, and this time there was a detectable tartness in his toast, the profanity starting to roll more loosely off his tongue. “May they never cease being creepy reservoirs of untold power, far beyond our puny mortal ken.” A pause, then he added, “Dangerous, that.” There was an acute feeling of delight at Miles' words. Rivalen was a little sick and tired of people excusing what the mages had done (in his opinion, they were to blame). However, little had been done to really curb their influence, control their numbers and have efficient mechanisms for putting them down, preferably like dogs. "Still flesh and bone, they can break - we can break them - preferably when they're not casting our way." “Speak for yourself, you big lout,” the thief said lightly. “Thrashing me in fighting tournaments. You can do all the gruesome bone-breaking in this operation, I’ll leave myself to the fast talk and fast hands, thank you kindly.” His eye roll was painfully exaggerated but well deserved (Rivalen’s humble opinion). “Not my fault you’re getting soft in your old age. Although—” His pause was intended for dramatic air and he smirked, “We could make it work, you wag that tongue of yours close to the hole and I’ll push them in.” There was a dark edge to his tone now, he couldn’t help it. The more he drank, the more he couldn’t hide his true nature; oozing dark and festering like a wound long left unattended (red lines that had slowly turned blue and purple). “Just find me a big enough damned pit,” Miles said. If he recognised the darker shade his friend’s tone had taken, then his own simply mirrored it, instinctively echoing back whatever Rivalen issued forth—it was the innate trait of the mime. “Perhaps the hole in the noble district, if it ever reopens.” “Light the bottom on fire and make it a real tangible hell for mages, now that would be the smart thing for the king to do.” But it was a flight of fantasy, no one could do such a thing without consequences, not even a king. “Fuck it, this city is going to hell and so are we. Might as well fuck up everything on the way down.” Holding up his tankard he gestured for another toast. “Let’s drink to that and have another round. It’s not late yet.” “Here’s to becoming an old fart,” Miles declared with another swill of their glasses. It wasn’t the same as throwing the usual party with Arielle, but Rivalen was perfect company for his mood these days—it would do, and nicely. |