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 Posted: Wed Feb 23, 2011 1:18 pm
who | Wickwright Finch, with his plague, Hopkin, Dorian Arelgren, and Dragomir Meschke
where | In a larger commercial town in Northern Imisus, near the Shyregoad and Helios border.
when | Mid-afternoon
Wickwright Finch's father had always told him that tea fixed all the little problems, and for the big ones there was alcohol. However, the moment Hopkin had asked "May I have some?" from where he was hiding in Wickwright's hood, alcohol had been struck out of the question, so tea would just have to do double duty. His book had done too many things that books shouldn't do in the past week. Wickwright wasn't having it get drunk as well.
It had been a long seven days. True, Wickwright had been preparing for this particular long seven days for a few months, but now it was here, he was having to face some hard realities. The most prevalent was just how much everything had changed. Hopkin was not a book he could work on whenever he needed to at his own pace. Hopkin ate, Hopkin slept, Hopkin had nervous panic attacks when he went too fast in lessons. Hopkin was an eerie little thing with perfect recall of everything Wickwright had ever written in his book, yes, but part of that eerie little thing was human, and Wickwright had to cater to him. It helped that Hopkin wanted to do well at least, but teaching the excito wasn't a cathartic process like writing in his book had been. There was no soothing sense of things being right with the world, only a pressing urgency to figure out how Hopkin worked so he could get him done. Whatever 'done' meant now, at least. And Hopkin kept reminding him just how different he was. The way the thing talked, he sounded like a tiny, solemn-faced scholar, a perfect little parrot, except for those times when he would ask or say something so patently naive that Wickwright wasn't sure how to reply. Those naive questions and comments didn't come from Wickwright's book or Wickwright's head or any part of him. They came from Hopkin. He was sentient, and that made him not completely Wickwright's, though he had been once upon a time. Thirty years' worth of 'once upon a time,' gone just like that.
Wickwright was not usually a drinking man, but he needed alcohol to process that kind of truth. He had come into the nearest town thinking along those lines, but he had the bring Hopkin along to keep him safe, and by the time he stepped into the marketplace, he realized the impossibility of the whole affair. His backup plan was Earl Grey, which he would simply have to make do with.
"Wickwright? May I have some?"
He pressed his hand to his face and let out a deep breath. "Yes Hopkin, you may. Just don't let yourself be seen."
Wickwright was barely used to Hopkin after a week and he had been expecting him. He definitely wasn't ready to see other peoples' reactions to him.
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Posted: Wed Feb 23, 2011 5:36 pm
Dragomir had no real earthly idea why he had decided to leave the house finally; he had no desire to do anything but stay around his house in his "bed" buried beneath whatever pile had tipped onto him. It had been a rather long time, at least to his own mind, which had no conception of the days that had passed, just the feel of them and the moroseness of his own self pity. Because, he had realised with a start a few days into his self-burial in the depths of his tiny home, that was all he felt; a self-pity towards what he had done, which made him feel worse that he didn't have the basic human capability of feeling sorry for the man who he had killed nor for the man's family but more for himself, for the weight of another's life on his back and how he would ever learn to bear it.
He shook his head and sipped disconsolately at the alcohol, already wanting to get drunk to forget for a little while, to not think. And, unless he was utterly foiled by some horrid act of fate, he would do as he pleased. He looked up, dark blue eyes circled by darker rings of lack of sleep and misery consuming him, his face thin and gaunt, his frame even more engulfed by the huge, colourless clothes, and he seemed like a lost child in need of direction, in need of support, which was not so far from the truth. He quietly murmured to himself about nonsensical things that made sense only to his mind in its own realm. He was atrocious, and it was in this mockery of a human being that his beauty, his ghostly beauty, was found from his childish cuteness.
His eyes caught on the man at the table in front of him, his eyes caught on the hood that seemed oddly shaped, but he thought nothing of it; he looked down at his drink again and took a swig, then looked back up and around, doing nothing, eyes bright and glossy but seeing nothing. "... What am I here for..? This alcohol isn't working fast enough." He posed yet again to himself.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Wed Feb 23, 2011 5:56 pm
Dorian's journey to Imisus caused him much physical wear. He "disposed" of his fatigue through alcohol, lots of it, as a homage to his pitiful state. Nancy never allowed him to imbibe any form of liquor ("Devil's drink, young master, if I do say so myself!"), therefore his curiosity was satisfied, rather, overcompensated, when he found himself flirting with the borders of drunk and sober. He decided that it was most likely in the best interests of his future if he refrained from drinking again. Dorian preferred being in control of his actions as opposed to the influence of liquor. Or anyone.
He gazed down at his attire, royal purples and regal blues and greens, punctuated with a scarlet ribbon-at-the-throat. The truth was, he was quite fascinated with how neat his outfit remained, in contrast with the current state of his mind. At least, the situation was enough to keep him distracted from pondering endeavors.
As magnificent as always, Dorian Arelgren!
Slamming his mug down with a strong force, he cast a sheepish gaze at the men to around his table. Hiccuping slightly, he wiped his mouth with a finger as he tried to remain sober, counting and making mental notes of the details around him. Hooded. Young. Ugly women. Uglier women in comparison to the ugly women. A fat man. Probably all peasants.
The others in the bar seemed to keep to themselves, the drinking ones, at least. The civil talk of the bar was emitted from its very front, where several young women were enjoying their quick intake of tea. Or whatever beverage it was. He wasn't quite sure if he was sober enough to make certain any longer. He suddenly missed home, despite his resolution to take a breather abroad. Imisus's weather was truly a contrast from Shyregoad's, even on the border. This, he knew for certain, sober or not.
One thing all the drinkers had in common was that they sure liked talking to themselves, some, more openly than others.
How fun. He was a stentorian himself.
However, he wasn't a natural drinker, nor was he accustomed to enjoying himself in a keep filled with peasantry.
"How many peasants running amok in here, you reckon?" Dorian drawled, to nobody in particular. He wasn't expecting an answer, really.
Dorian concluded that he was quite bored. He expected to excuse himself sooner or later.
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Posted: Wed Feb 23, 2011 7:31 pm
"Twenty-two," a voice coming from Wickwright's hood offered to Dorian helpfully. How colourful that stranger was! Hopkin couldn't help but stare at him over the edge of his hiding place, mouth agape in awe. He had never seen anyone but Wickwright before, and he didn't even know that clothes came in those colours. He had never seen anything so vivid outside of his dreams, and he leaned on his tiptoes to get a closer look without tipping his balance in the hanging hood. There was another person near the colourful man who seemed just as pretty, and he looked back and forth at both of them. Humans looked so delicate! He had no idea that there were so many kinds, either.
Wickwright, who was beginning to feel his hood wiggling, definitely heard the 'twenty-two', and burst into a coughing fit.
"Yes, twenty-two," he said hastily, "I counted when I came in." He turned around to look at who Hopkin was talking to, and found himself facing a loud, colourfully dressed drunk who couldn't have been more than a boy.
Awfully fancy boy for a place like this, though. Wickwright sensed a story, and though he was depressed, he couldn't help but stick his long nose where it didn't belong. It was in his Finch blood, and he couldn't deny his curiosity any more than he could grow gills. "Wickwright Finch, at your service." This was directed at the colourful boy and another one next to him who Wickwight simply assumed was his companion on account of the fact that they both seemed drunk, vaguely dandified, and a little out of place. In his hood, he felt Hopkin scramble to the other side to get a better look as he turned around, and he reached over to adjust it and make him keep still. These men were drunk, but his hood was wiggling quite noticeably by now. "Who might the two of you be?" he asked, in hopes of distracting them.
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Posted: Wed Feb 23, 2011 8:41 pm
Dragomir afforded only the slighest glance up at the well-dressed man next to him, feeling both short and under-dressed in his baggy, oversized clothes. However, he gave no answer to his question of how many peasants were running around this place as Dragomir could hardly find it in himself to care; besides that, however, most faces had turned to that of the murdered man's tortured expression, and he downed the rest of his drink, ears nearly twitching when he heard a small voice intone "twenty-two" in response to the gaily dressed male next to him, and he snapped his head around, confused; he had not heard a child before, at least not one that small, and he noticed the older man behind them coughing and covering it up with a twenty-two of his own in a radically different voice, and he blinked slowly, confused, at the wriggling in the hood.
"Dragomir. Dragomir Meschke." He commented distractedly, his eyes still fixed on the wriggling. "... Maybe I'm just uh, drunker'n I thought, Wickwright, but uh. ... Your hood is wrigglin'. And I think it, y'know, talked. Unless yer... really good at changin' yer voice."
He blinked, then shook his head. "Nice t'meet ya, Wickwright," he offered with a friendly, drunken slur, as he looked up at Dorian next to him, even having to look up a bit at him while sitting down, which he found distasteful; no one should be allowed to be taller than him; yes, that's what should happen, his peaceably drunken mind decided. Everyone, even women (especially women!) should be shorter than Dragomir. Period. Yeees.
It seemed as though Dragomir's movement had set the alcohol to moving as well in his limbs and his propensity to be an incredibly cheerful drunk - in a sharp contrast to his own normal nature - was not to be overwhelmed by the fact that he had killed a man (or perhaps Dragomir had drank some before arriving and was simply extremely, extremely drunk), as he was quite giddy all of a sudden for no real explicable reason, and he found, in the same moment, that he did not really mind this. It was a pleasant alternative to the gloomy corner of his mind still reserved for his endless pity party.
He paused, giving Dorian a chance to answer about his name before continuing with all the tact of a charging tiger. "So, why're you two here?"
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Posted: Thu Feb 24, 2011 11:16 am
At the sound of others responding to him, Dorian burst into a fit of giggles, pausing only to blink, slump back into his chair, and chew his lips before speaking his mind. He'd already forgotten the number Wickwright (or whatever the pop's name was) issued to him, and the girl that spoke a second earlier was really looking quite attractive to his ringed eyes. Curiosity struck Dorian when he inwardly questioned why her title was so masculine. Dragomir Meschke. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Hello, Dorian, is this fate? Dorian, you imbecile, what else could the occasion be!?
Dragomir's mother and father, he assumed, had a brilliant sense of humor. Dorian's however, did not. He had quite a masculine, Adonis of a title. He bellowed it on the Shyregoed streets as if it were Panymium's anthem.
If my name was Doris, or Doriette, oh my, oh my...
He giggled some more before allowing his head to fall facefirst on the table before him. Seconds passed before he finally answered the duo, raising an index finger to the ceiling, gesticulating that his speech was about to begin, lips struggling to form sentences. He finally reached the conclusion that he was probably drunk.
"Forty-five peasants," Dorian coughed in laughter, cheeks tinted red. "Oh, Wicky! You are just marvelous. Absolutely fantastic."
He realized that Dragomir's pause was meant for him. Yes, it wasn't polite to keep a lady waiting, now wherever were his manners?
"Dorian Arelgren. Shyregoed's golden boy. Burned in effigy thirty-three times and counting. Salutations. I drunk believe I'm don't."
His sheepish smile quickly vanished when he fell into a sobbing sequence. At this point, he wasn't quite sure what his gadfly self was babbling any further, save for "OH NANCY" and "CRUEL WORLD". Disturbed stares were distributed evenly around the bar, as the "civil women" from before departed from their station discreetly. The "forty-five" peasants seemed humored by the scene, though they quickly lost interest and resumed their own silence. Young men these days were all the same to them, either an emotional whirlwind or stupidity in a bottle. A potion waiting to be imbibed to further spread its disease.
Dorian continued to wet his sleeves.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Feb 24, 2011 9:18 pm
"Twenty two," the voice from Wickwright's general area corrected patiently, sending Wickwright into coughs again. "Strewth, sirs, my health isn't what it used to be, beg your pardons," he muttered. Smiling too brightly at Dragomir, he replied, "I store all my restless notions in my hood so I won't wriggle into a tight spot. Don't you?" Were these men less drunk, he'd be more concerned, but as it was, he couldn't help but have some fun. Wickwright liked people, but liked feeling like he had the upper hand over people more than anything else. He hadn't had the chance to feel like that very often since his book had become plagued, making this a welcome, if unfair, opportunity.
Arelgren and Meschke. Meschke was unfamiliar, but Arelgren struck some chord, some long-forgotten bit of gossip that Wickwright might have picked up on his travels. If he strained his ears he could hear Hopkin repeating their names to himself in his hood, but luckily the excito was quieter this time. "Thirty three, you say? Gracious. Children these days have the most curious hobbies." It sounded like Arelgren had more than a few stories to tell. Wickwright hoped he was as talkative a drunk as he seemed.
"Me?" He turned to Meschke. "Oh, just drowning my misfortunes in tea. The alcohol here seems a bit," glances at the two dead-drunk boys, "strong. Your-"
Suddenly, Arelgren was sobbing. Wickwright was able to make out a few words, being something of a hobby linguist, but he was not an expert in speaking drunk, and thus moved to try to herd the boy outside, or at least away from the twenty-two customers staring at them. He could catch 'Nancy' and 'cruel world' and assumed that it was probably about the latest girl he had been gadding over- he looked the sort. Wickwright had only ever gadded over a girl once in his life, and from the state of his life, it clearly had panned out just about as well as this Arelgren boy's must have. In situations like this, Wickwright didn't have much pertinent advice, but he did have one good tip to offer. Leaning over so Arelgren could hear him over his own racket, he firmly stated "Breathe."
His hood wriggled in evident concern.
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 9:27 am
Dragomir blinked when Wickwright burst out coughing again, startled by the noise against Dorian's talk of effigies being burned and forty-five peasants, then blinked all the harder at that the hood's wriggling was restless notions. His dark, navy eyes swirled with distrust and confusion but the alcohol swirling in his blood overwhelmed that and it slowly faded to a strange level of acceptance of what his new acquaintance had said. Yes, why didn't Dragomir have his restless notions locked up like this good man did? Obviously it worked for him.
He was lost in thought for awhile about how one would go about locking intangible things up in a hood and then the resolve to figure it out so he could lock everything up like that and never have to deal with it again - that seemed a fair bit more pleasant than getting entirely too wasted (at least Dragomir had accepted he was drunk, finally). Of course, the sobbing startled him out of this and he jumped slightly, nearly falling off of the chair he was sitting on (not a difficult feat when he was perched precariously close to the edge anyway, so that his feet would touch the ground because that was the only way he felt tall in any sense of the word), and looked over at the other, sobbing man, his eyes flicking to Wickwright in confusion, as though the older man had done something to provoke this sobbing fit while Dragomir had a lapse in attention span.
"... It's okay," he found himself murmuring, awkwardly patting Dorian on the shoulder and only barely avoiding hitting him in the head with his off-center, imprecise movements. "'s 'kay."
He had no idea who Nancy was, nor what Dorian was saying aside from that, nor of the stares they had received at first, but he did wish to do this man a favour by informing him that it was all okay - because there was alcohol. And what didn't alcohol make better?
Oh yes. Killing people. Dragomir had been aware he'd forgotten something. His heavily dark-circled eyes filled with tears, though he made a considerably lesser scene than Dorian, it appeared his new acquaintance had two crying, fully grown males on his hands now.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 12:30 pm
Despite that he'd downed two entire mugs of alcohol, Dorian felt no better. Frankly, he should've, ever since he learned that he could reunite with her once more upon entering the House of Obscuvos, but his hesitance and utmost unpreparedness served as his Achilles heels to the situation. He'd left his "putesco" back in Shyregoed, afraid that going abroad with his beloved plague-infected item would draw probable attention from those that sought to steal Nancy's love's incarnate away from him. However, being apart from his totem stirred dolefulness in his heart once more. It seemed as if almost anything could rob him of jubilant fervor these days.
At the sound of reassurance from his two new bar companions, he ceased in his shuddering, hiccuping slightly. The tears still continued to fall, harvested by an unknown force that drove him.
"Forty-two, I suppose you are right, Wicky," Dorian replied, calmer than before. The hooded man cast a sagacious aura about himself, and Dorian could not but feel as if lately the company he'd been receiving was more polite and accepting than the ones he was familiar with in Shyregoed. Perhaps it was winter that made people crotchety, but the two acquaintances he spoke to seconds ago were really not the type to him (at a first impression).
"My apologies. It's the alcohol..." he said dismissively, struggling to find a sober sanctuary in the midst of his nausea. "Are people always this kind in Imisus?"
He was impressed at how background and reputation weren't the concerns of Dragomir and Wickwright.
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 3:59 pm
"Twenty two," Wickwright's hood corrected again, sounding a tiny bit put upon this time. Relieved that he was no longer completely surrounded by crying men, Wickwright forgot to cough that time. "It's always the alcohol," he observed casually. "And, strewth, no, I'm just a social anomaly. Can you imagine if everyone in Imisus were kind? They'd be conquered in a heartbeat." He was still under the impression that the Meschke lad was in Arelgren's company, and assumed the comment was only directed at him. "However, you're clearly upset, so perhaps you could enlighten me about the issue? Call it an old man's curiosity."
Wickwright wasn't sure whether Meschke was crying for the same reason or different ones, but he had already used up his one good piece of advice on Arelgren. Instead, he tried to remember what his father had done when he was crying, remembered that it was to have him recite his lessons, and thought of a different tactic. "Would you like to learn to keep your restless thoughts in your hood?" he offered.
As long as Wickwright's afternoon off from an already-difficult week was going to be spent catering to two crying drunks, he might as well amuse himself. "Another round for all three of us- tea though, not alcohol."
"Four," a voice remarked from his hood.
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 7:00 pm
Dragomir blinked through the tears and scrubbed at his eyes at the voice again and blinked full out at the hood. "Your... restless... ideas are... talking again." Dragomir managed after a while of thinking about what he would say and how to calm down. In an act that was probably not his brightest, his head leaned down across the bar onto Dorian's chest because god dammit if he wasn't tired all of a sudden. He nodded. "Not everyone is 's nice. Awmos' no one is... ac'ually..." He slurred, almost incomprehensible, and closed his eyes, already comfortable against the colourful clothes.
"Hn?" He questioned, opening one eye and fixing it easily on Wickwright before lazily sitting up. "..." He blinked, thinking.
"Yes." He nodded, exuberantly, then grabbed the chair to steady himself and not fall onto his face. "I want... to learn. Yes. That would - that would help.
Tea?" He smiled like he hadn't since a child; he never drank tea, since he was always too busy either working or, as it was today, getting drunk. However, it lended even his gaunt face a childish cuteness to it, the degree that the darkness had taken away.
When the voice corrected him to four, Dragomir just accepted it as being Wickwright good at changing his voice again, and remarked offhandedly, "Four..? Who else is... is comin'?" He tilted his head curiously, looking around for anyone else coming in their direction, but saw no one.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Dorian again and was immensely envious of those very colourful, comfortable clothes.
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 9:06 pm
"Gwehgahfuuugweh?"Dorian sputtered in Wickwright's direction. He was not yet aware that Dragomir had suddenly used him as a resting apparatus. At the moment, his brain was still fighting the nausea to pick the correct words to return to Wickwright, whose cloak seemed quite concerned about the entire happening. He brought his hands up from underneath him (where he'd been sitting on them after setting his mug down), massaging the air as if the gesture would actually assist his thought process. For some reason, sorrow was difficult to describe when drunk. Oh gosh, Dorian, do try to be gay for once.
He hadn't felt enthusiastic in a long period of time, but Wickwright's offer was an opportunity.
"Oh...it really is a long--"" a pause for collection "--story. But. I can tell you, because, you are handsome in a cloak. Where to begin?"
Another pause for recollection. Dorian Arelgren was a horrible storyteller. This much, he confessed inwardly. Perhaps it was the alcohol, like the knowing man suggested. He began:
"Once upon a time there was a beautiful pile of hard-driven snow littered with peasantry. The gods smiled upon it and called it 'Shyregoed'. There were plenty of peasantry living within the boundaries of Shyregoed, but only one almighty force, and he was called Dorian. His mother and father were imbeciles and left him at a young age as sycophants to the high class. He was left in the care of his aging...er...timeless maid, Nancy Burdrew!"
He licked his bottom lip as he thought of how to continue. Either he could flesh out the remainder of his life or choose to skip straight to the unfortunate era.
The unfortunate era it was.
"On Dorian's twentieth birthday Nancy told him she was sick and left. Dorian was alone in the worlddddd....the world...," Rapid blinking ensued, and his story was lost. Words failed him, and he felt his hands fall from the air onto a field of platinum blond hair.
Oh? This wasn't here before...why hello good lady...
He smirked sheepishly at the sight of an unconscious Dragomir, and already he lost interest in spinning his life story to the cloaked man. His new interest was seemingly unconscious in his lap, and as Dorian jiggled in his chair, he was amused by the tossing of Dragomir's head that moved with it. Suddenly, the fact that he was in a non-native public bar was no longer relevant to him.
The Arelgren heir shed his lambskin and went in for his kill.
What followed next was instinct.
(( LOL JK BUT CLOSE ENOUGH KEEP READING))
With a graceful finger, he raised the delicate face to his own, pressing his lips to Dragomir's jaw, blossoming soft, butterfly kisses upwards until he reached the woman's lips. He paused at the sight of them, how they were slightly parted, almost begging Dorian the almighty to conquer. She seemed to accept his every move, and this satisfied the Arelgren's desire for more.
How to enter...? Oh yes...
He thought of how he toyed with Linda Reese back when they were seventeen, and his smile only widened when he thought of the new improvements he could test on Dragomir, oh yes.
With a slight gesture, Dorian's lips covered ground, his tongue tasting the salty surface of Dragomir's alcohol-sampled lips (to be polite, at least) before entering completely.
Once inside treasure cove (Dragomir Cave! Dorian dubbed secretly), Dorian Arelgren, a glutton for desire, licked every wall and crevice of the woman's mouth, hands fisting her hair to gain momentum and control for more. Dragomir tasted nothing like the women Dorian tried before, she was an eclectic combination of regal wine, tropical gin, and the freshest of fruit.
"Did your parents ever tell you you are beaurifol..." Dorian slurred, kisses turning sloppier towards his finale.
(( THIS IS YOU AFTER READING THIS POST AND I'M SORRY. ))
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 9:42 pm
Wickwright didn't see it coming, but pulled his hood up over his head a fraction of a second after it had started. There were some things that he wasn't ready to explain to Hopkin. That was one of them. He felt Hopkin in his hood, trying to find a way out so he could see what was happening and burst into a coughing fit, leaning over so the excito would fall into his hands and then quickly closing them around him.
"Well," he said as the two men enjoyed each other.
Well.
Their tea arrived and Wickwright moved Hopkin to his other hand to sip it and think of his next move. He hadn't spent over 30 years traveling without learning to develop a plan for any situation. He was a Finch and cleverness was supposed to run in his veins, even when he was standing next to...
Well.
Hopkin was squirming in his hand and they were drawing more looks than before. Meschke was feminine, but if he started making noise, they were probably going to get into trouble, and Wickwright was guilty by association. The men were drunk, so it would be difficult to get them to stop, and more difficult to get them to move. If he splashed their tea on them, it'd just soak down Meschke's garments so he'd look more masculine, and even if he managed to get the pair of them out of the bar, where would he bring them? His wagon? He didn't even invite sober strangers in there, let alone drunk, passionate ones. Therefore, the solution was to somehow clear the pub, and quickly. Luckily, everyone's attention was in his general area already.
Loudly, and to no one in particular, Wickwright exclaimed, "Oh, will you look at that pustule on my arm!" and coughed again for effect.
The pub cleared.
"Right," said Wickwright grimly, figuring he had about ten minutes before someone tried to trap him in there so he wouldn't spread anything, "That's one problem taken care of." He eyed the two drunk men and stroked his chin. If he hit them with water, it would still take time for Meschke's clothes to dry out, and if someone came back within that time it would be obvious what had happened. However, the men still seemed too busy to listen to anything he might try to reason out. The best course seemed to be interference, and so Wickwright looked behind the bar until he found a broad, thin object- the ledger, to be more specific.
Gingerly but firmly, he stuck it in between their faces.
"Gentlemen, if you're not too busy, you have about eight minutes to compose yourselves before your situation gets even more uncomfortably warm. If you do compose yourselves, we may all get out of this in one piece. If not, we'll all be likely burned alive, but on the bright side, I'll have a wonderful opportunity to say 'I told you so.' Personally, I haven't had that kind of chance in a while, but I have unfinished business on this Earth, so I would prefer the former."
Hopkin stopped squirming in his hand, but he could feel what felt like a little metallic grasp clinging onto his thumb. Apparently his speech has given at least one of their party a fright, and he gently squeezed his hand, half-aware that he was even making the reassuring gesture. Wickwright was too distracted by the problem at hand to think much about his own issues anymore.
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Posted: Fri Feb 25, 2011 10:46 pm
Dragomir blinked slowly when he found that there was a pair of warm and firm lips on his - he was drunk enough to not care about whatever repercussions would come from what was happening and shifted freely in his chair to continue the embrace, giving the slightest, startled noise at the tongue on his lip, where he jerked and nearly pulled back but found himself held too tightly by some strange force to Dorian and so went nowhere, enjoying this embrace for what it was, only barely cognizant of Wickwright speaking or the people leaving; he had no reason to be, in his own mind, as he was far more interested in what he was doing than what anyone else was doing...
Of course, that is to say, up until the very moment that Wickwright thrust a ledger between them, where he just blinked as he pulled back, his mind a great deal clearer than it had been before, and he tilted his head, trying to recall what had happened while Dragomir's mind had been otherwise occupied with this Dorian fellow.
"Oh s**t," he breathed, reaming his fingers through his hair, knocking it back from his face. s**t, this was a problem; it was here that his brain shifted from calm acceptence to panic of what'd happened; his dark eyes, still hazed from alcohol and more, fell on Wickwright because at least this man seemed to have a damn clue on what he was doing, unlike either of the two younger boys. "You're - you're right."
He shook his shoulders out and didn't know exactly what to say when he started softly, "What do we do? Do you have an idea?"
Dragomir glanced back to Dorian to see how he was faring.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sat Feb 26, 2011 12:40 pm
Dorian felt the blood rush to his ears after he finished his carnal interlude, his sight growing black. His ears made out distinct calls from Wickwright's familiar voice, urgency ringing from every word. Dorian couldn't register exactly what the man was saying, or the lovely Dragomir's response. The alcohol was beginning to render his mind into a comatose state. He moved slowly, arms before him, feeling for the table's surface before he set his head down altogether.
"I do not believe I'm going to make it..." Dorian confessed numbly, his voice an amalgam of drunk and apologetic. He daintily patted Wickwright's arm to reassure the cloaked, older man that he was addressing him. Dragomir's voice was more distinct, and Dorian was far too intoxicated to feel for her. As nice of an experience she was, he had enough alcohol for the occasion (what was the occasion anymore?) and chewing Dragomir's face would only further his fever.
"I'll be staying here for the night prolly..."
It was true. He wasn't capable of moving, and the alcohol would probably wear off in a few hours. Barkeeps were supposedly accustomed to drunk costumers lingering for measurable time, and Dorian assumed that he was no exception to the theory.
"You two can move along without myself. Good meeting you, Wicky, Dragomorororir..."
He excused them with a slight gesture of a hand.
(( YEAH YOU TWO CAN FIGURE OUT HOW TO LEAVE LMAO. I THINK WE'RE PRETTY GOOD HERE IN THE MEETING OF THE TRIO ALREADY. Dorian has to stay at the bar so he can meet up with another character. I'll close the RP, DW DW! ))
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