The Palisade crowd cheered and danced beneath her, as drunk as a pit full of skunks. Many of them were common-folk and they were throwing money onto the stage with utter abandon as she played. Her feet kicked it nonchalantly towards her violin case as she spun and hopped around the stage, rosined bow and sure fingers flying over the strings of the well-loved violin that was currently helping to earn her keep.
When a particularly drunk man tried climbing onto the stage, she leaned down towards him and smiled, kissing his cheek before planting her booted foot square in his chest and pushing him back into the seething mass of bodies.
People loved her songs. They loved how she played, how she danced for them, how she entertained them. The only time they didn't shower her in the entirety of their attention was when Rajani joined her onstage, stealing the show with her wonderful voice. But here and now, Soibhan didn't have to sing. She only had to play, and the crowd sang for her.
"Let them sing of their treasures and Airesh good cheer, But we'll sing of the pleasures of stout Sunder beer;
Belastranans with their vodkas and meager pale ale, Will always be bested by a Sunder beer tale;
All the wine sipping Gallians are the nicest you'll meet, But your beer drinking Sunders can never be beat!
Let's sing for our supper and dance for our mead, Or ask a dear Sunder for the beer that we need!"
Eventually, the crowds' own momentum allowed her to slip off stage with a coin purse near bursting bouncing against her thigh. She fairly skipped to her favorite corner table to clean her instrument before replacing it in its case. A serving girl placed two chilled mugs of ale right before her as if this was a common occurrence(it was) before leaving the gaelic woman to her task.
Word was starting to get around about her little venture. Casual inquiries were being made to her almost daily, and she felt a swell of pride and personal accomplishment to know that her hair-brained scheme might actually take root and become reality. Now it was only a matter of time. Time, and caution. Many would see what she planned as treason, though could one truly be considered treasonous if one was a foreigner? She wondered at that, taking a long, deep pull from her mug, the bitter drink warming her all the way down.
LoveByLetters
Posted: Wed Jun 26, 2013 8:34 pm
Ashtiel Arykosa
She'll not have long to think solemn thoughts to herself, of war and treason and time, for a stranger's voice is due to interrupt this contemplation. The voice is loud and deep, with a rolling roundness to each word which she will no doubt find familiar -- having heard it of late from the determinedly amiable Aireland soldier Macaire. There is indeed a sameness to the voice beyond the strong accent, a certain coarse depth which will immediately bring the other man to mind, reinforced by a physical similarity in the face and bearing of the individual standing over her table.
"Yer song," the stranger's voice points out, "is feckin' bullocks. Tisn't no-ways nae fool from yer lund nor mine t'would bully up fer the horse piss they serves here over real drink." So saying, a small mug is slammed down on the table in front of her, a mug which does not match the others found in this particular bar. There's a thin clear liquid in it, with a stronger scent even then the beer or the sweat or the burnt food that gives such places their own peculiar odor. It's not something commonly found in Sunderland -- it is, in fact, illegal in many places -- and even the knowledge of it, outside of Aireland and her homeland, is surprising.
That someone should find some ..
"Ye cannae mean tae say ye'd sooner have their dross then poitín?" The man pushes the mug towards her, as if to tempt her to take it, and the wry grin he gives her suggests he's mocking her no small amount. Though no doubt 'tis also a test, to see if she knows what she's been given and is capable of handling it -- it's a mocking sort of attitude all the more stunning coming as it does from a man that looks so like to Macaire that he can only be some sort of relation. He is older, yet, and more scarred; a bit more lean, too, with nothing to soften him, and from the looks of his grin he began his drinking some time ago.
The mug seemed inconspicuous enough, but she knew better. Sometimes the most innocent things were the most troublesome, and there was a puckish look in this man's eyes as he pushed the mug towards her.
"It ain't me own song, gent. Tis a song I picked up in Northport," she said, waving her fingers languidly in the general direction of the port town where she had started this crazy journey. "Asides," she added with a brilliant smile. "They wouldn't give me nearly as much coin if'n I boasted about the drinks o' the North lands o'er their shitty beer."
She spun the mug around for only a moment before giving him a challenging look of her own. Lifting the small vessel, she tipped it towards him with a smile turned wolfish before downing the mug's contents in one go and slamming the glass down onto the table with a hiss.
"Aye, I knew it. Poitín." Her fist repeatedly hit the table as the drink flowed through her like liquid fire. She could feel it affect her almost immediately, coiling in her stomach and fogging her brain. Though she recognized his manner of speech as similar to Macaire's, she wanted to play this out a bit. "So, yer goal was ta either show me up, or get me blitzed. Can't say I mind either way. Ya gonna join me, or just keep loomin' over a little lady like me?"
LoveByLetters
Posted: Thu Jun 27, 2013 8:53 pm
"Oy, and who's tae say oi minded whither ye got blootered or scunnered? B'ain't nae mind tae me, oi'll be having me a laugh neither way." From his jovial tone he seems to approve of her boldness in tossing back the strong drink, but that don't mean he's ceded the field to such as her. No, not he, not with the god of mischief glinting in them mud-brown eyes, as he sits hisself down to look over the table at her. There's a careless grace to his movements, like a wolf on an off day, and once he's sat he pulls out a little flask and tops off her little mug before he takes a few hard gulps of his own self.
"Came here tae be hearing ye blather, lestaways, and mabbe ye'll be blathering freer if oi wets yer throat." He is, in other words, bribing her to speak to him, and what better way then to offer her something he knows she'll recognize, and something that would be difficult to come by here in Sunderland?
(( "Yes, and who's to say I cared whether you got drunk or embarrassed? It's no difference to me, I'll be laughing either way. I came here to talk to you anyway, and maybe you'll talk more freely if I get you a drink." -- also omg I am dying over Irish slang srsly ))
She could appreciate his honesty and lifted the small mug up in a salute before taking a smaller sip this time, to better enjoy the extremely strong drink, and hopefully keep herself from getting entirely too drunk too fast.
"Ahhh. Amazing stuff. So, ya came here ta talk ta me. Aboot what, exactly?" The fact that he wanted to converse with her was actually somewhat surprising to the gaelic woman, given how few people knew her. But than again, people knowing her and people knowing of her were two entirely different things.
She tried to remember if Macaire had said anything about a brother before, but couldn't recall anything to mind; this man's accent and mannerisms were a dead giveaway to the relation however. "Are ye a Warden like yer brother Macaire?" she asked, taking a guess she hoped was right. Macaire had become an irreplaceable piece in this entire venture, someone she could rely on to speak boldly and truthfully to her, just as Rajani did. The two of them kept her own head firmly on her shoulders when it might have flown away due to an ego overload or even anger. To have his potential brother around might be just as advantageous.
"Ah, dun mind me poor manners," she added with a start, extending her hand. "M'name is Soibhan of clan Breanainn, of the Gaelic highlands."
LoveByLetters
Posted: Sat Jun 29, 2013 10:09 pm
She may have to repeat her introduction, for he don't hear it -- he's still caught up in her second question, when the naming of his brother makes him choke on his current mouthful of poitín and causes some of it to dribble down his chin and down the front of his shirt. Coughing and gasping, he manages to swallow the rest, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve before gaping at her with a look that says she's gone and done something so off he cain't rightly process it. He could've handled her up and announcing herself to be the queen better then this!
"Bloody hell," he says, his voice a touch hoarse now from nearly choking on the hard liquor. "Me braither? Away on ye! How in hells ye ken --" And then, a cough that turns into a little wheeze, as he latches on to something else she's gone and said, as if specifically minded to rattle his wits. " -- Warden?! That lily-hearted culchie couldnae kip a cat aboot when he were a wee thing -- he got a Guardian now?" Astonished, Nortier takes a deep pull from his drink, then rocks back in his chair, as if to let the liquor strengthen him and allow him to better process then insanity of it all.
<"My brother? Stop joking around! How the hell do you know -- ... Warden?! That weak-willed country bumpkin couldn't keep a cat about when he was a little kid, and he's got a Guardian now?">
She watched his expression change three times in as many seconds and tried very hard to keep her face impassive, though her inebriation made it harder than normal not to laugh.
"Aye, yer brother. Ye sound so much alike that it's hard not ta guess the relation." His incredulity does surprise her, however, and she downs the remainder of her ale just to get it off the table. "Macaire's one o' the elite Warden, I guess ye could say. His Cadence be one o' the few Awakened that we have ta us. And doona be callin' him no lily-hearted culchie! He wouldna like me defendin' his honor from 'is own brother!" she said with a wolfish smile, shaking her fist at him. Her golden eyes sparkled with drunken fire. For all her passionate, fiery nature, never is it at it's worst until she is well and truly drunk, and the poitín had been enough to push her into that territory.
Though to be honest, she'd never needed to be drunk to challenge someone bigger and stronger than herself.
LoveByLetters
Posted: Sun Jun 30, 2013 6:31 pm
"Away on ye!" he repeats, apparently for lack of anything better to say; it is not that he wholly disbelieves her, for she'd not know Macaire's name, not know how similar he was to Nortier himself if she had not seen him. And she cannot know his opinion on Guardians, his thoughts on the war against the wolves, so she cannot know enough to make up so outrageous a lie on her ownsome. So he gapes at her, ready to challenge only a small portion of the truth which she has set forth for his examination.
"He were a lily-hearted culchie, lass, and ye'd spake the same, if ye saw him when oi did last -- nivir away from nae book, fingers gone black with ink, clutching at apron strings and crying he dain't want tae fight nobody!" He shakes his head in disbelief, by his own words making plain how long it's been since he's seen his sibling. It is sad, but not unusual in this day and age, particularly them as are forced to seek their fortunes outside of their native land. What is unusual is the fact that, seemingly by purest chance, these two brothers have come so close to one another again.
She feigned a glare at him and took another sip of the strong drink he'd shared with her, trying to ignore how blurry everything had suddenly become. Well and truly drunk now, the gaelic woman leaned forward across the table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it wasn't as quiet as she thought it was.
"Well, between ya and me, he's still a bit of a puss when it comes ta certain things. But he's a good man, and he's been willin' ta help me crazy arse, so I be holdin' a pretty high regard o' him. Now!" She stood and crossed her arms over her chest, swaying only a little. "If'n yer done gaping like a fish aboot yer brother, why doona ya tell me what ya be wantin' ta talk ta me fer?"
And that was the true telltale sign of her drunkenness: her accent grew thicker and thicker by the minute.
LoveByLetters
Posted: Mon Jul 01, 2013 9:12 pm
He does his best not to choke on his drink a second time -- and though it isn't so clear at first why that may be, this time he looks readier to laugh. Maybe it's the looks she's giving him, maybe it's the drink they've both had, it's hard to say. But in an instant he's turned his chair aside, and reached out to snag her by her wrist, pulling her towards him. If she pulls back, he'll pull her towards the table, just close enough they can whisper to each other.
But if she doesn't pull back right away, she may find herself pulled down into the tall man's lap, while he snakes one arm flirtatiously around her. "Yon crazy arse is loike tae make a man forget his ain kith and kin!" He croons, perhaps proving himself even more drunk then she. "Oi'm half a mind tae propose, and we kin 'ave our weddin' on a battlefield, aye?"
Then he'll lean close, as if he's whispering sweet nothings, and in a softer voice, a more serious tone, he says to her: "Oi want to fight, and oi'll fight for nae queen, nae more'n oi'd bow for one. Them that know tell em you're nae sitting back, idle-like. Will ye lead me to battle, wee likkle highland lass that ye are?"
Her first reaction was to yank her arm free, but on a whim, she let him pull her down to sit on his lap, his arm going around her. At his words, she barked out a laugh and wrapped her arms around his neck. "If'n ya did that, me own brother's like to string ya up by yer toenails ta the back o' 'is horse and gallop back to Gaels, laughing all the way."
But then his more quietly spoken words began to penetrate the drunken haze around her brain and she focused on them until he finished speaking, his gaze intent on her face as she turned her eyes to his. Her smile broadened and she gave him a peck on the cheek, continuing the ruse of drunken flirtation(though she wouldn't lie that she probably would have flirted with him regardless of his true intent).
"I've got it in me head to protect this land and the people I've met in it. If ya dun mind a wee likkle highland lass leadin' an army, I'd be honored ta have another Draughn willin' ta fight by me side."
LoveByLetters
Posted: Tue Jul 02, 2013 6:35 pm
Nortier seems to like very much where this is going -- to the extent that he curls his arms more securely around her, and it's no longer plain whether his flirtation is merely a ruse or is, in fact, the reality. For folk like them, with fighting in their blood, talking about war don't put them down none. Matter of fact, just the thought puts his blood up, makes his heart beat, leaves him tempted to talk to her less about fighting and more about finding a wee bit of privacy somewhere --
"Oh aye, there's nae talk of mindin' it, sae long as ye kips it in mind that ye best be leading me ain self tae the battle, and nivir awae." Just like hers, his thick drawl has gotten worse as the poitín has done its work on him. And although his words are quite serious, hinting that he will follow her so long as she gives orders that he approves of, they are spoken in a coy enough croon, as if he is trying to coax her to roam off somewhere with him, away from this crowded tavern.
Which, of course, he is. It's an odd little subset that finds talk of war to meld so neatly with flirtation, but that is perhaps the background that the both of them come from.
<"Oh yes, there's no talking about me minding it, so long as you keep in mind that you'd better be leading me towards the battle and never away from it.">
She threw her head back and laughed, golden eyes dancing. "Oi doona run from anything," was her response, a feral smile curling her lips. His hold around her felt good, the feeling in her belly even better. The strong drink had them both all in a tizzy and she couldn't say that she minded one little bit.
And though the familiarity of the situation, and how it so closely mirrored that time in the little tavern in Northport, might have hamstrung her right then and there if she'd been sober...
Well, it was a good thing she wasn't.
Stupid girl... some quiet voice in her head said, all but lost beneath her desire for fun and flirtations.
"I think we 'ave an accord then! A drink ta make it official?" she added, leaning back enough to snatch her mug off the table, somehow without spilling a drop of the precious nectar within. Her balance shifted however, and her casual lean turned into her nearly falling off his lap and awarding Nortier with a generous view her v-necked shirt normally hid, if he had been bothering to look.
"Oy! And all this, and ya haven't even given me yer name! I won't be callin' ya 'Draughn' only, brother o' Macaire!"
LoveByLetters
Posted: Sat Jul 06, 2013 7:31 pm
"Aye, and aye again," agrees the elder Draughn brother to her pronouncement; he means to take a deep swig of his drink, the better to show his willingness to accept her proposal, but then she goes and -- whoop, there goes the last of his brain, spilling out onto the tavern floor. He has to think quite some time before realizing that she's asked him a question and that is probably one that he should be able to answer. " .. oh, ah, 'yon Draughn' be well enough, but if ye mist 'tis Nortier, on account me mam loiked fancy tales a muckle bit back when she were a wee lass." This is said in something of a distracted murmur, for if Soibhan is sober enough to realize it, 'Nortier' is not a traditionally Aireish name. Ordinarily he appreciates no commentary on this subject, and fights have indeed been started on that basis, but currently he doesn't much care if there is comment made upon it. He is too busy wondering how he might contrive to get more then just a peek.
"Nortier," she repeated, slowly, as if tasting the name on her tongue. Then that devilish smile returned and she stared at him with drunken, half-lidded eyes. "Tis a fine name for a fine lad," she finally said, clinking her mug against his with a small laugh. Then she tipped her head back and drank, downing the liquid without pause or spilling a drop. When she finished, she straddled his lap and took his face in her hands, kissing him with the poitín still lingering on her lips. "Nortier Draughn," she murmured. "Fine, strong name..."
Soibhan had reached that level of inebriation that made her want to cozy up in his lap even further, just so, and find out what made him tick. But something niggled at the back of her mind, and she began to remember something else she'd wanted to ask him.
When it hit her, she slid from his lap, albeit a little tantalizingly, and stood swaying before him to point an elegant finger in his face. "Yer Chosen! Where be yer Guardian?"
LoveByLetters
Oh my. I'm feeling slightly wicked xD If it's bothering you, let me know! XD!
