[u]Notes, Taken Silently, On Account of The Drinks and Festivities[/u]

-Jil had glanced at the drinks list before ordering the frilliest-sounding drink listed. It was, in all likelihood, only the third or fourth least alcoholic option (confirmed when perusing the menu for his second round), not counting those which contained no alcohol at all. Possible she was in the mood to sample local flavor. Possible she was too winded after an exciting day to remember any of her favorites. Possible she’d never heard of any of these before, and had tried to aim low.

-Jil had spent the majority of her life living in the shadow of the Kaeri, in halls built from the bones of her too-slow ancestors. Silence and watchfulness were a primary means of survival. Bella ([i][u]Bella[/u][/i]) was her best example of kindness. Rooms devoted to leisure aboard the Plousious were limited to nonexistent. Possible this is her first time at a bar outside her own people. Possible this is her first time at a bar.

-The target of her ire had not acknowledged their presence, not even as Jil outlined a hasty scheme to ambush her. Ambient crowd noisy enough that he couldn’t decipher conversations more than three tables away. Unlikely she could hear them. Possible that Jil has never met this mouse before in her life. Possible that Jil has met this mouse many times in her life. Facial tattoos bright, distinct, details visible from distance. Target could be hearing this conversation, and playing dumb. Consistent Rival behavior. Unlikely. But worth remembering. Never count out a Rival.

-Jil had consumed one half of her drink. Her latest sip was taken with closed eyes, held breath, and a few seconds to brace herself. Muscles visibly tensed across her entire body, especially across her brow, cheeks, and jawline. The opposite of relaxed. Highly probable she regretted her drink choice. Highly probable she was not enjoying herself. Possible relation to sudden ambush plans.

[u]Response[/u]

“Now, now,” Dolce chides good-naturedly. “Getting wasted is no reason we should forget our manners.” He waves to the barkeeper, and puts in an order for the next round. His glass vanishes behind the bar. “I remember, once, a shipmate of mine ambushed one of our fellows on a night out. The punch landed seconds before the target was about to start weeping into their drink. The night…hrmm, we tried, but I believe that was the moment the night was beyond salvaging.”

He shook his head sadly. Right on cue, the bartender slid a glass full of a dark, violently frothy liquid into his waiting hands. Regrets from the past needed company, after all.

“No, a special occasion deserves a [i]proper[/i] bar fight.” A nod. A sip. A grimace. “Mmm. And proper drinks. Trade you a sip? That lemon thing looks rather refreshing.” It’s a bracing burn, this drink. A taste to remind you that you’re not just alive, you’re _strong_. Powerful. Ready to howl at the storm with the sheer thrill of drawing breath. Perfect to prepare a queen of skulls for battle.

Does it have alcohol in it? It’s got spirit, in spades. Spirits, though? Well, the bartender was certainly thinking of alcohol when they prepared it, so maybe the spirit of the thing got mixed in there. You can’t discount the possibility.

“Now then; how shall we test the waters? We have a wheelchair, which would provide ample excuse for an accidental bump as we pass.”