Mag Paget, Shotgun Knight (clippedwing) wrote in emillion, |
Whether the event at the beach had done anything to aid the reputation of mages in the city remained to be seen but, for her part, Mag was quite happy to toast to them and their palings and their orange sashes. There were few things she and Aspel had not toasted to in the course of the evening, and so finding the right words for the next raised glass was a greater concern than the location of her sandals (which she had done away with sometime after the third cocktail) or how she would be getting home (she had talked to Kiernan earlier; she assumed that he would find and carry her home later, or Aspel would, if she won their contest). The bartender looked as though he might have liked to cut them off a couple of drinks ago, but he limited his intervention to glancing in their direction every once in a while, apparently torn between concern and a morbid curiosity to see who would outlast the other. For the moment, they were both still in possession of their verticality and coherence, though holding onto them was becoming increasingly challenging. "So the good thing about this beach day, I figure, is they probably won't let the palings down until the beach is empty," Mag said. "We could probably nap on the beach if we wanted to." “If we wished to be as red as fresh boiled crustaceans I suspect we very well could, yes.” Though that idea was so terribly far from appealing that Aspel simply smiled into her glass of spirits, lips pressing against the rim in a terribly grin before taking a sip. Her grip on the glass remained loose, almost alarmingly so. Anyone about them might fear - or watch with dreaded anticipation - for the moment when it fell from her grasp, but now was not that time. “In short, I would advise against such endeavours, unless blisteringly bright red skin is going to be upon the in list this coming season, and if this is the case, I would very much like to know who has informed you of such, why I was not informed, and why you are not openly sharing your source.” With that heavily accented mouthful, Aspel shifted, raising her glass in attempts to clink it against Mag’s. At once, Mag succumbed to a giggling fit. Something to reconsider her perception of her relative sobriety — but she was far too entertained to worry about that. "Excuse you, I do not go red, I am a woman of the desert," she said once she had (mostly) recovered. "Besides, even if I did, I have an umbrella." She took the tiny paper umbrella in her drink and tucked it behind her ear, giggling again. "See? I'm all set for sleeping on the beach." |