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Current Oso is the sweetest and best in all the world. I love him so much c:
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I wanna be a cowboy, baby
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I spit like awogarpa and I ain't afraid to step up to the plate. You'll see what happens next, Guillermo. You'll see.
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I love PapaOso
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Those aren't laces. Those are my toe nails.
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ꜱ ᴛ ᴀ ʀ ʙ ᴜ ʀ ꜱ ᴛ


TIME: 0803
LOCATION: SDN Meeting Room
INTERACTIONS: @GingerBobOh @Tae @Oso @FunnyGuy @Infinite Cosmos @DClassified

✦━━━━━━━━━━❖━━━━━━━━━━✦


Starburst almost missed the door the first time she passed it.

She doubled back with a skid of her boots on the tile, ponytail swaying as she almost walked into a wall. For a second, she just stood there.

It’s fine. It’s fine. You’re on time. You’re not in trouble.

She sucked in a breath, then shouldered the door open with far more care than necessary, like the hinges might break if she pushed too hard. She came in clutching a too-sweet coffee topped skyscraper-high with whipped cream in one hand and a slightly squished banana muffin in the other.

The room was a rather uncomfortable vibe: the fluorescent lights hummed, the off-white walls overwhelmed her senses, and the perfect faces of A-Teams stared down at her from their crooked frames. Roxanne caught her own reflection between them in the mirror, and her stomach dipped. Her clothes were simple: a charcoal grey cropped top hidden under her oversized pink cardigan and a pair of soft, black baggy joggers that sat high on her waist. The cuffs gathered at her ankles so nothing ever tangled around her boots.

Quickly, she removed her reading glasses from her face, then she shuffled in, trying to make herself, sleeves already tugged down over her hands.

Reforge was there first, sitting near the head of the table, notebook out, mask in place.

She hesitated when her eyes brushed over him, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before she darted her gaze away again.

Don’t sit too close, you’ll look weird. Don’t sit too far, you’ll look weirder.

Her white irises locked on Quinn next, leaned back in his chair with a thermos in hand, which encouraged her to take a sip of her own drink before deciding to speak.

“Um… hey,” she offered softly to both of them at once as she slid into an open seat that was close enough to be part of the group but not close enough to invite attention. She went to work picking off the top of her muffin, her gaze lowering as she asked for the sole sake of filling the awkward silence: "... Gonna be… fun, right guys?”
Welcome!! :) I like the pro pic.
Update: they have finished. Here it is for reference:


Hello all!

We are currently seeking Varian royalty applicants at this time.

@HylianRose will possibly be writing a prince. We're still working together on her character; however, we do know they are open to siblings and connections.


Time: Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Outfit, Amulet
Interaction: @CitrusArms Stratya @Potter Olivia @Lava Alckon Drake @Tpartywithzombi Ariella @Samreaper Kazumin



The light in her eyes had been snuffed out like a flame on a candle.

It was as if someone had pinched the flame between their fingers. Those wide, empty pupils had been fixed on the body from the instant it hit the wood floor with that awful thud. She hadn’t been able to drag her gaze away... Not even once. Beneath the table, her fingers were dug into her own knees, clutching through the fabric of her skirt so tightly she expected to feel her kneecaps crack under her grip, even as her entire body trembled.

The last few minutes hadn’t felt like time so much as a plunge into one long nightmare.

It hadn’t taken long for her and Drake to find their seats once again by the group when it had all started. One moment, they’d been walking back in from the night; the next, it was as if the world had turned upside down.

Charlotte had been uneasy from the beginning, of course. It didn’t take a genius to notice the way ruffians seemed to seep in from every corner, or how all the laughter had ceased. She knew this would be bad from the moment that large man had shut the door.

That was when the anxiety started. The certainty that in that moment she had been trapped. It rolled through her with a terrible familiarity, like déjà vu, as if some part of her recognized the feeling of being shut in with no promise of when—if—she would be allowed to leave.

But that had not truly shaken her. Nor had the gunshot. Nor the windows going black as if the whole city had been erased.

The nausea had started when that poor, innocent man began screaming.

The sound of every splatter of blood hitting the wood tore through her as if the blade was being dragged along her own nerves.

Her breathing had stalled in her chest. Then, rage had surged up so hard it made her legs twitch under the table, as if some part of her was ready to burst out of her seat and throw herself between them without a single thought for what came next.

How could someone do that to him?

Why was no one stopping him?

The answer came as a man lurched to his feet and attempted to make a run for it. It felt as if she could somehow feel his fear thicken the air. The poor man hadn't even made three strides before his back wrenched into an impossible arch. His toes barely scraped the floor; his arms flew wide like a grotesque puppet.

Her breath stopped in her chest as he hung there, suspended, eyes rolling white.

Then the unseen force flung him sideways. He hit the stone by the hearth with a crack that would haunt her for the rest of her days. She let out an audible gasp before she could stop it; her lungs suddenly felt too small as she struggled to pull in air. Her hand flew up to clamp over her mouth as if that might hold the sound of his panicked breathing in.

Charlotte couldn’t tear her eyes away from where he had slid down the wall and crumpled, his leg folded under him at a wrong angle, his head lolling. Hot tears spilled from her dilated eyes, running in streams down her cheeks and over the back of her hand. She hadn’t even known she’d been about to cry, and though no sound left her mouth, tears just kept falling.

The first thought that had made its way into her brain had been: That's maybe someone's husband... Someone's father... Someone's baby. Her stomach lurched so violently she thought she might be sick right there, her mind circling again and again around the simple fact that he was no longer moving. She wanted, even if it was absurd, to drag herself over to his body, to shut his eyes, to hold him, if only because there was no one else there to do it, and that knowledge tore at her, body and soul.

I'm so sorry... I wish I could have protected you.

Then for an instant, the body on the wall wasn’t his at all; it blurred and became another broken shape, blood spreading out in the same slow way from a head. The two images slid over each other until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Black hair sprawled over grass that seemed to bloom up over a stone, and suddenly she was no longer in the tavern at all—she was back on the night outside her home in Veirmont, staring at the first dead body she had ever seen—her mother.

She stayed like that for a long time, simply staring at the corpse as the world around her blurred away, her teeth chattering against one another in tiny clicks.

The room went on without her.

She didn’t hear Ox’s threat. The shapes of the sounds brushed past her and dissolved. Her mind was still trying to understand how a person could be there and gone at the same time.

The first thing that truly pierced the fog wasn’t a sound at all.

It started as the feeling of resistance when she tried to breathe. She frowned without quite noticing, her chest hitching and her brows furrowing. Her body tried again on instinct, another inhale. This time, the air only went hard halfway down, as if it had run into a wall.

It became much clearer that an unseen force was tightening around her throat. Her fingers flew up from her lap to claw at her throat. No matter how wide she opened her mouth, she couldn't quite get in a breath of air.

Her eyes tore away from the corpse at last and jerked back into the present. She saw the glow of the fire, the bowed heads, the way people at neighboring tables were touching their throats, faces blanching as they felt the same phantom hands... The sound of the man with the mauled hand weeping.

“Drink,” Charlotte's gaze slowly moved to the woman who spoke. “Or I close my hand and see which of you sings sweetest when the air runs out.”

A tankard scraped against the table and bumped her wrist. She hadn’t seen who set it there. Her vision tunneled around it as she reached for it. Her fingers closed around the cup clumsily, lifted it with both hands, and forced the liquid past her tongue. It was only then did the grip on her throat slackened slowly and she took in a full, ragged breath.

"Do as they say. Please tell Drake to do as they say. I will protect you all..”

Olivia’s voice filled her mind. It took a moment of extra processing before she shook her head subtly.

No, Olivia… not here. Do not call on magic. Do not give them the slightest cause to turn their eyes to you.

Her throat still felt tender, but she leaned toward Drake and gently brushed her fingers against him. “Olivia is right,” she murmured. “Please… no sudden movements. Just do as they ask for now.”

A voice by the bar then tugged her gaze. Kalliope was calmly trying to negotiate, as if it were a simple market deal, to pour the drinks instead. For a moment, Charlotte simply stared at her with worry knotting in her chest. Her eyes lingered on her, hoping to the Gods that she knew what she was doing, before she forced her gaze back down to the wood beneath her hands.

That woman filled her mind, the one who had snapped a man’s life away without even moving toward him. She had given Charlotte a brutal clarity as to why the kingdom had become so suddenly intent on hunting down those who participated in witchcraft. It was powerful and dangerous beyond anything she had ever dared imagine. And if her own aura had truly been what she once saw… then she, and Olivia too, were cut from the same cloth as that woman.

But there was no time for Charlotte to deliberate who she was or what she was.

What mattered was that no one else ended up like that man by the hearth. And something in her felt fiercely so that she would die trying before she let that happen, even as the tears continued to spill down her cheeks.
Welcome to the guild!! :D

If you ever need help or have questions, feel free to ask.
So I am an adult female with about fifteen years under my belt. I wrote in 3rd person only and am anywhere from literate to novella. I will definitely match uou. My genres are mainly revolving around drama, action, adventure, but ALWAYS ROMANCE! Im just a hopeless romantic. Long term and slow burn is best. I have many plots ranging from modern to fantasy, you name it. Just hit me up on here or discord and let's start planning something! I do ask that we talk ooc to know one another enough, and that we lead the rp together. I seem to always end up being the lead.

Justbuma


Hello Justbuma! Welcome to the guild. c:
Romance is so fun to write. It's my favorite too c:

Hope you find a great roleplay to write in !


The cool night air clung to Charlotte and Drake as they stepped back in from their walk and the last distant echoes of Drunkard’s Day drifted in behind them.

For a moment, the warmth of the tavern wrapped around them again: the sour reek of ale and sweat, the flicker of lamplight over faces they knew and faces they didn’t.

Their boots crossed the threshold, just inside—and a huge hand slammed the door the rest of the way shut behind them.

The impact shuddered through the frame. A thick oak bar scraped down into iron brackets beside Charlotte’s shoulder with a long grind that set teeth on edge. Then it was dropped into place with a heavy thud that felt final in a way the room immediately understood.

The man who’d done it was massive, so close that for a moment he was all Drake and Charlotte saw: bald scalp shining with sweat, a pale scar dragging across one clouded eye, shoulders filling the doorway as if he could have blocked it by standing there alone. Ox dragged a half-emptied ale cask in front of the door for good measure, muscle bunching in his forearms as the barrel scraped across the floor.

He didn’t move aside or apologize. He didn’t even look at who had just entered. His dead-pale eye stared straight ahead.

Laughter in the room suddenly all died at once.

From somewhere deeper in the room, a man’s voice spoke. It wasn’t loud, but it carried as if it had been:“Hold it, Ox.” Conversations trailed into ragged whispers and then stopped altogether as heads turned toward the sound.

Bootsteps hammered along the loft above in quick succession.

Two men vaulted the railing. One hit the staircase with a thump that rattled dust from the rafters; the other caught the main ceiling beam in a low crouch, crossbow already leveled. On the stairs, the freckled one jerked his weapon clumsily from face to face, his knuckles white, his eyes blown wide with a fear that bled into aggression.

“Hands on the tables!” he shouted, voice pitching. “Palms down, fingers spread where we can see ’em—now! Now!”
He sounded like he was shouting at himself as much as the room.

On the beam above, the older crossbowman’s movements were slower, almost lazy by comparison. The bow tracked, steady, following the lines of escape: door, windows, the narrow space between chairs where someone might dart.

“You reach for steel,” he said, the calm almost worse than a snarl, “I drive a bolt through your hand before you get your fingers around the hilt.”

The whole tavern hung poised somewhere between disbelief and panic. Then a gunshot ripped that moment apart.

The pistol’s bark was deafening in the room, the sound ricocheting off the rafters. The ball tore into a ceiling beam, chewing out a splintered crater and showering the table beneath in chips and dust. Someone screamed as a tankard fell from her fingers and rolled, spilling beer in a dark stream that ran toward the center of the floor.

The man holding the smoking pistol stood on top of a table in the middle of the room, boots planted among scattered cards and coin. His frame was too thin for his height, all sharp joints and hollow angles under a stained waistcoat. Greasy dark hair was yanked back from his face, throwing the unnatural brightness of his eyes into full view. A straight-razor dangled from a silver chain at his wrist, spinning slowly.

He twirled the pistol once around his finger with careless ease, then let its muzzle drift toward the crowd. A slow, delighted smile formed across his features, showing a mouth full of crooked teeth. “Hate shoutin’ over people,” Marius observed, tone mild, as if discussing the weather. “Now you’re all listenin’, huh?”

He swept the razor up, letting it kiss his own cheek in a fleeting, familiar gesture, leaving a faint red line. He didn’t so much as flinch.

At the bar, a woman who had been leaning with her elbows on the counter, laughing into the rim of her drink all night, straightened with a shift that made several men’s eyes follow her without thinking. Dark hair spilled in loose waves over the low neckline of her bodice. The cinched waist and layered skirts did nothing to hide the way her hips moved when she turned.

Her arm slipped smoothly around the barmaid’s shoulders in a gesture that might have read as conspiratorial in another context. At the same time, her other hand slid down, under the counter, and came back up with a slim dagger. She set the tip in the hollow of the girl’s throat.

The barmaid froze, her eyes wide as saucers.

“You heard him, loves,” The woman said, her voice low and rich. “Hands flat on the wood. Palms spread. The faster you behave…” she tilted her head, lashes lowering as she smiled, “…the less creative we have to get.”

The barmaid swallowed, very carefully, and set both hands on the sticky bar top, fingers trembling.

Around the room, the spell of shock broke into motion. Tankards thunked onto tables. Knuckles whitened as hands were forced flat against scarred wood. Dice skittered, forgotten, across the floor. A man started to stand, then caught sight of the crossbow on him, then pistol, and then the dagger, and sat back down so fast his chair squealed.

By the hearth, the fire suddenly swelled.

Another woman stepped forward into its glow. She had been there all along, sitting quietly on a low stool with a drink between her hands. Now the change was more in the air around her than in her body. The light picked out the ink marks that traced patterns up from her collar. Maelen pulled a pinch of something from a pouch at her belt and tossed it into the flames.

The fire erupted upward. Heat shoved at the nearest faces, hard enough to sting eyes and dry mouths in a heartbeat. For an instant, the whole tavern was washed in stark, colorless brightness that flattened features and turned everyone into pale cutouts.

Then the flames curled in on themselves like a fist closing.

The bonfire collapsed into a tight knot of white light, no taller than before but wrong somehow: too bright, too still. Shadows in the room lurched and stretched, bending toward the hearth as if dragged. Outside the fogged windows, Sorian vanished.

Where there had been the muddied glow of lanterns and torches, the vague movement of people in the street, there was now only flat black. Not darkness as in night, but as if thick cloth had been pressed over the glass. The sounds of Drunkard’s Day beyond were suddenly distant, thin, like someone had stuffed wool into the ears of the whole building.

Maelen watched the heart of the fire with the faintest of nods, as if approving a piece of handiwork.

“There,” she murmured, more to the flames than to the people staring at her. “No eyes in, no voices out. Now it is just us.”

Near the central pillar, a plain man stepped into the space that had been carved out by fear.

He was the sort of person no one would remember after passing him in a market: average height, steady build, dark hair tied back neatly. His boots were scuffed but repaired. Up close, the crooked line of his nose and the scatter of white scars across his knuckles spoke of fists and years spent resolving problems with them.

Garran Holst did not look dangerous. But his eyes did.

They moved slowly over the room, not in a frantic scan but with the attention of a reptilian, measuring the exact weight of each life in front of him. He paused on hands, on weapons left too close to reach, on the barred door, on the shutter to the kitchen, on the narrow hallway leading to the back rooms. When his gaze brushed over the cut of Lord Drake’s coat, Charlotte’s face, the familiar Edwards profile near the baked goods and spilled ale, he did not start or double–take. A tiny muscle in his jaw tightened and then smoothed.

“Everyone sits,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice. “Hands stay where they are. That includes you two by the door…We’re not here to spoil your fine holiday,” Garran continued, sounding almost bored. “You drink. We collect. Everyone breathes. That’s the simple way.”

Meanwhile, Marius hopped down off his table, landing in the spreading puddle of beer. The pistol went back into its holster, forgotten for now. He let the razor spin on its chain as his gaze wandered over the sea of pinned hands and pale faces. He stopped beside a dockhand. The man’s right hand lay flat on the tabletop, but his fingers had curled just a little at the sight of the gun—a reflex, some deep habit of reaching for the knife at his belt.

Marius’ smile sharpened. In one smooth movement ,he fisted the man’s hair and yanked his head back, bending him awkwardly over the bench. The dockhand’s eyes bulged, a choked sound tearing out of his throat. “Let’s give our guests a lesson,” Marius purred, not looking at him so much as through him. “So nobody can say they didn’ understand the rules.” The razor flicked out, bright and thin. He didn’t go for the throat. He laid the blade across the back of the dockhand’s hand and dragged, straight and deep, from thumb to wrist.

Flesh parted, and blood spilled, flooding down over the man’s fingers and pouring onto the wood with a wet patter. The dockhand screamed and tried to wrench his arm away out of instinct.

Marius slammed his hand flat to the table. The impact drove the bleeding palm into every splinter and groove. The man howled, trying to twist free. Marius’ other hand pressed down on his fingers, pale knuckles tightening.

“Hands do not leave the table,” he murmured. “You pull them back, I start takin’ pieces. A thumb’s worth a handful o’ silver. A finger’s a ring. An ear…”

He added pressure. There was a resistance like bending a branch. Then the man’s hand gave with a loud pop, and his index finger bent sideways. The scream that tore out of his chest was sharper and thinner.

Marius closed his eyes for one heartbeat, as if savoring the sound, then twisted again. Another joint snapped. The dockhand’s knees buckled; if the bench hadn’t been there, he would have gone straight to the floor. Then Marius let go.

The dockhand collapsed forward, curling around the ruined hand, sobs broken into ragged little gasps as blood dripped steadily off the edge of the table, onto the floor, onto his boots.

Marius glanced down at the red on his own fingers, amused, and absently licked it away.

“That’s lesson the first,” he said, raising his voice just enough to carry. “Hands stay where they belong. Next one tries it, I carve the message somewhere they can’t hide it.”

A man at the neighboring table quietly voided his bladder; the horrible smell filling the air.

At the back of the tavern, another man jerked to his feet, face gray with terror. He shoved the bench back so hard it toppled, scrambled over the legs of another patron who cursed in a whisper, and bolted for the rear door, breath wheezing in and out of him as he’d already run a mile.

The crossbowman on the beam swore under his breath, tracking the panicked zigzag of the man through the maze of tables.“Don’t—”

Maelen lifted her hand and simply crooked her fingers once, palm toward the fleeing man.

His back bowed violently, as if an invisible hook had sunk into his spine and yanked. For a moment, he hung grotesquely arched, toes barely touching the floor, arms splayed. The tavern watched, transfixed, as his head snapped sideways, eyes rolling white.

Then the unseen force slammed him into the stone wall beside the hearth with a meaty crack.

The sound his skull made against the stone was thick and final. He slid down into a heap, leaving a smeared trail of dark red behind. One leg bent beneath him at an angle the human body wasn’t meant to take. His arm twitched once, then lay still.

No one ran to him. Every face near the hearth was turned toward him, waiting for a groan, a cough, anything. There was nothing.

Maelen let her hand fall back to her side, flexed her fingers once as if she’d been holding something heavy, and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “The shadows you think you can slip through? They belong to me.

A sob broke loose from somewhere in the middle of the room. Another answered it, then another, until the whole tavern seemed to breathe in ragged, uneven gasps. Someone retched into their own lap. The only other sounds were the drip of blood from the dockhand’s fingers and the low, unnatural hiss of the blue-white fire.

At a small table near the wall, two older laborers leaned toward each other, lips barely moving.

“That’s Lord Edwards,” one whispered hoarsely, “Duke Gideon’s boy. And the girl—Lady Ariella. What are they doin’ here…”

“And the Vikena lass,” the other hissed back, eyes darting toward Charlotte, who looked overcome with shock after taking her place at a nearby table. “If this goes wrong, whole city’ll feel it.”

Marius’ attention sharpened. The mention of titles seemed to slide into his ear like a blade finding a gap. His gaze tracked the muttering men’s line of sight, followed it over the cheap coats and rough shirts to the islands of fine cloth, good tailoring, careful posture. Recognition dawned not in a start, but in the slow stretch of his grin.

“Well now,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Thought we were pickin’ bones. Turns out we’ve walked into a banquet.”

Near the pillar, Garran stepped smoothly up onto a sturdy chair. He didn’t loom, exactly, but the slight height made his steady voice carry. “Name’s Garran Holst,” he said, as if offering his hand at a business meeting. “Some of you know it. Most don’t. That’s fine. What matters is this.”

He gestured with two fingers toward the barred door, then the blacked-out windows, then the body crumpled under the smeared red streak by the hearth, and finally the dockhand cradling his ruined hand.

“We control your doors. We control your light. We decide what happens when you run, or reach for a blade, or think too hard about bein’ brave.” His tone didn’t rise, not even a little. That, more than anything, made a prickle run down spines. “So you do not run. You do not reach. You do not play the hero.”

His gaze moved again, slower this time, a predator’s idle scan refined by an accountant’s mind. It slid over Charlotte, over Drake, over Ariella.

“We’re takin’ purses, rings, things that shine,” he went on. “You keep your hands flat, you keep your eyes on the wood, and some of you walk out lighter and drunk with an ugly story to tell. That’s one way tonight goes.”

On the beam, Jory swallowed audibly, the sound cutting across the hush.“Garran, we said this was a quick pull,” he blurted, panic fraying his words. “Slum crowd, in and out. Not—” His eyes flicked toward the nobles and away again, terrified of even looking too long. “Not them.”

Garran didn’t look up at him. “We said we’d be smart,” he replied, almost gently.“Smart men don’t turn their backs on gold when it walks into their hands.”

He let his gaze slide back toward the cluster of local nobility again, calculation sharpening behind his eyes. Vikena. Edwards. Ransoms that could change lives or end them.

Then his gaze snagged on Roman; he might not have known the Varian’s name, but face was familiar—he had a gut instinct the man did not belong in a place like this.

In a darker corner of the room, two figures who had been nothing more than background until now lifted their heads almost in unison. Felix’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table; Yuka’s thumb stroked the rim of her mug once. Their clothes were rough enough to blend in, but their stillness marked them as different from the slumped, shaking drinkers around them.

Their eyes sought not the nobles, but the red-haired songstress by the bar: a focus that had brought them here long before Garran ever settled in this tavern. They traded the smallest of looks. For now, they played the part of hired blades.

Closer to the bar, the woman with the revealing dress, Moira, let her attention wander from the trembling barmaid to the blond farmhand who had been all restless energy earlier. Her eyes dragged over him with slow, lazy amusement. “Asteroth’s silly little rabbit,” she murmured under her breath, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she studied Kazumin’s profile. “Wrong briar patch tonight.” The dagger at the barmaid’s throat dipped. The girl sucked in a ragged breath but didn’t dare move.

A new shape broke from the knot of men near the back hall.

He was tall, almost as tall as Ox but built in a different way: less bulk, more power. Where Ox looked like a wall someone had taught to walk, this man moved like a man who knew exactly how far his reach was and how much damage each inch of it could do.

His coat was a dark leather that had seen better years. A pale scar tugged from the corner of his mouth into his stubble, bending his resting expression into something that always looked on the verge of amusement, or cruelty. His hair was dark and fell in a loose tie to his collar; his eyes, when they lifted and began to rake the room, were a hazel that looked almost colorless in the firelight.

Those eyes found the nobles without any help from whispers.

He stepped close enough that she would feel his presence without his needing to touch her. The air seemed to tighten around the table; the men and women nearby stared hard at their own hands.

“Didn’t expect company like yours down ’ere, dove,” he said, voice low, like they were sharing a private joke instead of a room full of hostages. His gaze traveled slowly from the curve of her bare toes up to the line of her throat, then to her face, and that scarred mouth crooked a little more. “Duke Gideon lets his little girl drink with the rats now?”

He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t need to. The way he stood, angled just slightly in, weight comfortably balanced, hand resting loose and confident near the knife at his belt: made it very clear that if anyone else tried, they would answer to him first.

From his chair, Garran watched all of it with that same look, measuring risk against reward. He let the murmurs fade again, let the room feel the weight of the broken man by the hearth and the wet hitch of the dockhand’s sobbing breaths. Then he drew a breath of his own and shifted just enough to signal his people.

“You’re all too sober,” he said. Garran nodded toward the bar, toward the shelves lined with bottles and kegs that represented a week’s takings for the owner. “Tap everything still worth drinkin’. Ale, wine, spirits. Every table gets fresh cups. Full.” His eyes slid back over the room, to the dockhand curled around his mangled hand. “I want everyone so deep in their cups they couldn’t stand straight if I cut the legs off their chairs.”

The barmaid froze.

Her gaze flicked from Garran to Maelen, to the blacked-out windows, to Ox looming at the door. Then it went, helplessly, to the faces she knew: regulars who spent every eighth day here, sailors who’d trusted her with their coin, a pair of girls who snuck in when they thought their mothers were asleep.She hesitated, jaw working.

Marius stepped up beside her like a shadow given shape.

The next moment he had a fist twisted in the barkeep’s collar and slammed her forward across the own counter hard enough that bottles jumped and clinked. Marius pressed the barrel of his pistol against the back of the woman’s head, right where skull met spine.

“Pour,” he said softly. The word slid down the back of the barkeep’s neck like a knife. “’Fore I decide we don’t need you for the job.”

The barkeep swallowed. With shaking hands, she reached for the nearest keg tap and began to pull.

Moira laughed softly, the sound a pleasant little purr that did not match the situation at all.

Ox moved from the door, the bar still in its brackets, and lumbered a step into the room. Even that small shift made people flinch. He lifted his good eye toward the tables and grunted once, the sound low and ugly. “Nobody says no,” he rumbled. “Don’t wanna drink? You can lie down like him.” His dead, clouded eye turned toward the crumpled corpse by the hearth.

Maelen watched from by the fire, the unnatural white flames reflected in her pupils, making them look almost inhuman. She pinched her fingers together once more, and for an instant, several of the more stubborn patrons felt their throats tighten, a phantom pressure coiling around their windpipes like invisible fingers.

“Drink,” she said, her voice still soft. “Or I close my hand and see which of you sings sweetest when the air runs out.”






Part 2


Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: The Damien Estate




With the toast concluded, Calbert set down his glass and reached for a serving spoon. He selected a portion of quail, the fig glaze catching the light as he transferred it neatly onto his plate. Cassius followed suit, but the bread was his target. Buttery and golden brown, that first bite of fresh bread was like heaven to the tipsy man. He finished the whole piece before filling his own plate with a little of everything. Despite being deep in the cup, Cas managed to plate everything in a relatively civilized manner. The way he managed not to knock over a single thing was commendable, truly.

“Exquisite,” Calbert murmured, inspecting the dish before turning his attention back to the table. “Do help yourselves.” Taking a sip of her wine, Violet set the glass down on the table. Smiling at her father, she reached for some food and began taking some for her plate. Alexander was last to act, but ensured to take some of everything, as a good guest should. Besides, he thought the food looked delicious, even if it would fail to satisfy his unnatural appetite.

Liliane offered a gentle smile toward their guest as her husband began to place a portion of food upon her plate. Dressed in a glittering white gown, she looked almost angelic under the chandelier’s light : her blonde hair cascading neatly around her lovely face. It was clear that time and deliberateness put into her appearance for this evening, and it was quite difficult to doubt it went unnoticed. It was subtle, but the way Alexander made eye contact with her as he seemed to anticipate her readiness to address him, was… attentive.

The vibrant light shining this evening was made absent to complacent eyes, but the moth had found a treasure.

“Mr. Deacon, I imagine Sorian has been rather lively today,” she began, her tone melodic yet sweet. “Did you happen to attend any of the Drunkard’s Day festivities?”

She lifted her fork slowly, cutting into her meal as though the gesture itself were a form of art. “Oh! Do pardon me. I do believe your charity auction counts as a festivity…” The countess suddenly amended with a light giggle.

Calbert’s gaze slid to his wife with a flicker of uncertainty that was almost imperceptible. He hadn’t particularly preferred this topic of choice, though he shared his wife’s curiosity for the details.

“I heard you were kind enough to even participate in a date with someone yourself.” Her fork paused in midair before she looked up to meet his gaze once more, a tender smile curving her lips.“How absolutely darling of you.”

Violet leaned back in her seat, taking another sip of her wine as she allowed the conversation to flow. Her eyes glanced at Cassius, watching the man she knew was more broken than he let on, swallowing his emotions until his glass was empty. She, too, hid her own unrest as her eyes moved to look at Alexander. Her eyes glanced down at the wine as she took another bitter sip, reminding her of their date.

Cassius poured himself another drink, before beginning his indulgence of the delectable meal before him. He savored the first bite, though the military man in him struggled not to devour the meal quickly as he was used to for years. Like the bread, it was so delicious that it was almost enough to make him forget the rage that still bubbled deeper in his gut than food or alcohol could reach on this night. There was a snake in their midst, and he wasn’t willing to put the metaphorical spoon down when the pot was right there in front of him for him to stir.

He took a long drink of his wine, and then opened his mouth.

“Oh you have no idea, my lady.” He declared before Alexander could respond to Liliane’s words, making that very man dart his eyes toward him. “Mr. Deacon here was the prize of the entire auction.” His eyes turned to their guest once more. “I must ask, my good man, where is it that you garnered such magnetism? It’s almost…otherworldly. Even I, with all my talents, don’t have the ability to sway the minds of others as you do. Was it your line of work with the Black Rose that trained such blandishment, or were you just born so special?” He asked, feigning curiosity. A curiosity that was met with an amused grin.

Calbert’s gaze had slid toward Cassius over the rim of the glass before he took another sip. Whilst the Count treated most conversations like a chess match, it seemed his son had taken an interest in simply chucking the pieces across the table. The thought amused him almost as much as it disappointed him.

“It’s not quite like that.” Alexander chuckled as he sliced into the sizable piece of stuffed quail on his plate. “It’s… It's hard to put into words with so many lovely ladies at the table.” He then jokingly looked nervously around at the women seated. “But I believe we can trust them.” With his fork, he joyfully partook in the quail before washing it down with a sip of wine. Cassius could not resist the temptation to roll his eyes.

Calbert’s knife paused mid-cut for just half a heartbeat, barely enough for anyone to notice, before resuming its rhythm. His posture remained impeccable, a faint smile touching his lips as if amused.

“You see, men like us… You, your father, and myself all have this particular element about us. It's not merely good looks, humor, or status… It's our aura. That might be the best word to use to describe it, but those previous things mentioned surely help.” He shrugged. “Think about it Cassius… You enter a room, and that very room and everyone in it is owned by you in a way. May it be enmity or attraction, you have entered the minds of others with just your presence and there is nothing, and I mean nothing they can do about it…” He shook his head disappointedly as he started cutting away at the quail again. The length he took to play with Cassius was ludicrous! Like firing an arrow that circled the entirety of the world, only to strike the man behind him in the back. Keeping his delivery smooth, and treating the moment as one for mentorship was but a thick smokescreen for his attack. “They can't help it. And you can't help being the man you are… So like the farmer you're not, thank your heritage, you should recognize and cultivate that aura, and in time, you won't have to ask me how men like your father and I do it. The only difference between us is time.” He shot a wink at Cassius before lifting his fork to take his second bite of quail, but he paused and his focus ventured across the table.

“Oh, and Duchess Damien, your question. If I'm being honest, I was so caught up in organizing the auction, it's the only festivity that I could take part in. And though, I failed to take part in anything else until this evening, the Auction turned out to be a grand time, though… the date could have been better.” He stifled a chuckle. “I’m kidding. It was fine.” He said with little confidence, as if his first judgment rang true. “And how about yourself? Did you happen to partake in any festivities today? I figured I would return the favor by asking the same of you, Duchess.” It's what he didn't say that made such a question a touch distasteful.

Liliane giggled, her voice melodic, lifting her fingertips to her lips. Calbert’s smile deepened at the sound, his gaze lifting from his plate to rest upon his wife with a look of adoration as she spoke.
“Oh, Mr. Deacon, you flatter me far too easily. I scarcely can hold down a glass of wine without my head spinning.” She gave him a bashful smile, her fair lashes lowering as she shook her head. “My health has never been in good spirits, I’m afraid, though I cannot fault the day for lacking charm. The city looked positively radiant with all its cheer.”

“Indeed it did.”

Her gaze slid to her stepson, and she tapped his shoulder teasingly with a playful smile. “Oh, but Mr. Deacon wasn’t the only one who was at the auction today,” she said, her voice lilting with warmth. “I heard all about your donation, Cassius. How very generous of you! Such a kind thing to do for those in need.” Liliane’s expression softened, “Your father was bragging all day about how thoughtful your heart is.”

Cas’s eyes had not left Alexander until Liliane addressed him, subtle animosity hiding just beneath the surface of his well-trained, jovial facade. It faded as he turned to Lily. He listened to her question, just as he had listened to the slop that flowed from Alexander’s mouth. The man was as charming as he had heard, and just as arrogant as he had assumed. Cassius turned back to the undead gentleman briefly.

“I’ll get back to you in a moment, but Lady’s first.” He declared as his gaze shifted over to his stepmother. He was still the inebriated man that had stumbled into this abode, but something about his fury had brought him more control over his condition. Or, perhaps it had always been more of a performance than anyone would know.

“Thank you for your kind words, My Lady. I would be glad to do this family proud with such an action, even though it was under…less than ideal circumstances.” He explained, understanding that there was an elephant in the room after all, and he was not one to run from such things. “The date in question was with Lady Vikena.” Cassius turned to his father, meeting the man’s gaze with purpose. “The closing of a chapter, if you will.”

Calbert had not looked away as Cassius spoke; only the halt of his knife betrayed that he’d marked every word. “A closing of a chapter,” he repeated, a gentle warmth touching his voice. “I will sleep easier for it.”

Grabbing his wine back from the table, Cassius took a steady sip before finally shifting his attention to their humble guest once again. “But back to you, sir. You say the only difference between us is age? Well, I would agree that we have many things in common. However, I fear there are plenty of things between us that are less than the same. But as for our age…” His words purred from him as he spoke, leaning further in towards Alexander at the far end of the table. “You sure look like you’re not more than a year or two apart from me, both of us aging like fine wine I’d say. But just how old are you, Mr. Deacon?”. The dossier his father provided him with on the movers and shakers in Sorian had listed Alexander as no older than twenty-eight. He and the damned man both knew that was a lie.

“Hmm… How about we make a game of it?” Alexander beamed as if he had flipped the playing board and changed the game before a disadvantageous move could be played against him. “Come on, everyone! Each of you can take a guess! If you guess wrong, you shall help yourself to some additional drinks. One for each year you miss…” Alexander peered upward in thought for a few seconds before snapping at a new idea. “And I'll drink an additional drink for each person who gets it correct! It is Drunkard's Day after all. And I consider the Damien Estate one of the safest places to let loose.”

“Oh! Twenty-eight?” Liliane guessed with enthusiasm and a bright smile.

Violet’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass, though her expression remained serene. The question lingered in the air How old are you, Mr. Deacon? and for a moment, she could only listen to the laughter and murmurs that followed.

She didn’t join in. Instead, she glanced down at the tablecloth, tracing the embroidery near her plate as though it held some secret worth studying.

“I imagine age is hardly the most interesting thing about a man like Mr. Deacon,” she said lightly, though she didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Some people carry far more years in their manner than they do in their face.”

A faint, thoughtful smile touched her lips.

“Now… I can see one reason this family remains so noteworthy.” He smiled at Violet and then at Liliane. “Especially the upstanding ladies. One agrees to play my little game with such vigor, while the other spoils me with more flattery. My favorite family, so far, I think.” Alexander kept himself lighthearted despite the way Cassius slyly pressed him. Keep filling those veins with poison, boy. You’ll never reach me.

And while the table turned toward Liliane’s guess, Calbert lifted his napkin, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Do forgive me, Mr. Deacon,” he said. “A small curiosity has been lingering.”

“Something else? Ask away.” Alexander presented an open hand— a sign that he easily welcomed Calbert’s curiosity.

Calbert inclined his head toward Violet. “What was it, precisely, that led you to begin working with my daughter? I’m quite interested in how you first came to… recognize her value.”

Violet took a sip of wine, then her gaze fixed on her glass rather than the vampire at the other end of the table. If anyone looked closely, they might notice that her poise was too perfect, the kind of stillness that comes from holding something carefully in place.

“You say it as if it's something hard to believe, Father, that someone may find value in me.” She swirled the wine in her glass before taking another long sip, starting to feel the effects of the wine.

“Hardly the case, dear daughter…Your value has never been in question. Only the moment he first saw it.”

“Violet, I am grateful for your generous words, but your father seeks an answer that comes from my lips alone. It’s why I’m here, if we’re being completely transparent.” Alexander shrugged at Violet with an apologetic expression briefly crossing his features. “Count Calbert, please know I did not choose your daughter on a whim. In fact, there is more than a single reason I extended my hand to her to be my employee of sorts.” He adjusted the placement of his utensils as he spoke. “The first reason is your relationship with the Black Rose Trading Company, and though that relationship is purely based on business and the protection of goods and resources, I find it much easier to trust people I’m already working with, even if it’s… to a limited degree. Your daughter is not you in the literal sense, but she is you. The work ethic, the distinction, the reputation… even the poise. I will admit that, I have had her help me and my wife with some clerical work and menial tasks here and there before this evening’s dinner, and I apologise for crossing such a boundary, but the young lady is hungry for something more than being a lady.” Alexander glanced at Cassius before returning eye contact with Calbert. “And you and I both know that’s only natural.” Alexander made his insinuation subtle, yet so apparent with such a short look. Just who would inherit the county? The daughter, Violet? Or the bastard son, Cassius? This was not the Varian Kingdom where women stood next to men with equal footing. Calbert would have to decide whether he wanted a bastard son or a daughter to inherit everything he had built and protected.

“The second reason is quite obvious… I’m the Vice President of the Black Rose, and I know of her affliction... It limits her… cages her. With such a unique situation at hand, it’s best to keep her from feeling isolated, especially when thinking of how much promise she held before… She’s like alexandrite..” Alexander dipped his head with a slight smile as he found the relation to his name a bit silly. “Forgive me. But the stone is quite interesting, and it coincidentally fits this little analogy of mine… If you keep her contained here for her safety and wellbeing alone, she’ll only be recognized as a cheap piece of peridot. Pretty, sure, but overlooked during our grand season of courting. They would never see her… truly see her potential… That under the right light, she holds more potential than even a diamond. The daughter of one of my greatest allies deserves that, and I will do everything I can to ensure she finds worth in her existence in places she doesn’t believe she does.”

“And lastly…” He put on a grand smile. “She makes such wonderful company. You and Countess Lilianne did an excellent job in raising such a woman. She is truly a perfect representative of the Damien name.”

Calbert did not answer immediately. Instead, he allowed a thoughtful silence to settle over the table. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip, giving Alexander’s words the appearance of deep consideration. When he finally lowered the glass, his expression had softened.

“You give a meticulous account, Mr. Deacon,” he began, “And I appreciate that. Men who speak with such clarity either have nothing to hide… or are skilled enough to hide it well. In both cases, it tells me something of their caliber.”

Had Alexander been anyone else, Calbert would have found the answer a little more suspicious. Too neatly aligned with what he wanted to hear. But Alexander Deacon was no ordinary man. He was Marek’s second in command. And that meant the truth would fall into his palms either way.

Perhaps this was all just further proof that everything would unfold exactly according to his design.

His eyes flicked toward Violet, lingering with pride.

“You are correct. Initiative has never been a flaw of hers. I have always believed she possessed far more potential than this society has chosen to acknowledge. To hear that someone outside this house recognized it… without my prompting… is pleasing.” He folded his hands, leaning back as he allowed his gaze to drift between Alexander and Cassius. “As for the… natural order of things in Caesonia, well… nature often bends for those with the strength to shape it. I have never been particularly fond of limitations, be they societal or otherwise.”

He paused then added, “And your honesty regarding your prior work with her — even the overstepping — is well noted. Transparency is a trait I value, even if it arrives wrapped in apology.”

He finally lifted his glass again and nodded once, decisively. “All in all, Mr. Deacon… you have given a satisfying answer.” Before Calbert could continue, Liliane’s voice joined the moment.

“Calbert, dear,” she said softly, placing a hand over her heart, “I should add… Mr. Deacon spoke with me not long ago, with such genuine concern for Violet.” She glanced toward Alexander with a grateful smile. “He reassured me the Black Rose had already been watching over her. That their resources were being used to ensure her safety, and that we owed them nothing for it.”

Her expression softened with sincerity. “He was very kind to me. It meant more than I let on.”

Calbert’s eyes shifted to her, then back to Alexander. “Then it seems your attentiveness extends further than business alone,” he mused. “Good. A man who honors my daughter and respects my wife is a man I am inclined to take seriously.”

“Likewise to a man who respects the judgement of the women in his corner.” Alexander raised his glass as a mock toast. “Caesonia may silence and see them ignored in this kingdom governed by men, but they listen and see all the things we miss while we're all busy talking.” He drank from his glass, gulping down all of its contents, while holding up a single finger to a member of the staff. “Another. The Duchess guessed right.” Alexander smiled and tilted his head toward Liliane as an acknowledgement to her accurate answer. “Good judgement in this family.” He thought aloud, though the compliment was definitely intentional.
Stratya, Kalliope, Charlotte, Olivia, Kazumin, Drake, Ariella & Roman


Part 3




Kazumin, satisfied with his snack and a curious mind prepared to hear the details of Charlotte’s date. He could only hope it had been nothing unpleasant as Stratya’s had been, but before she could get the words out, a booming laughter and for a moment found himself joining in.” Aye, wel-..come.” Kazu greeted him initially with a wide grin that deflated upon seeing Roman’s smiling, friendly face.

A burst of rage rushed through him as he took in Roman’s grinning face. Where stood a seemingly friendly giant of a man, was a brute sporting that cruel, mocking smile. It perturbed him to see the guy laughing all jolly like, like the feast never happened. Only till he saw how he nearly crushed the half-eaten cinnamon roll, clutched in a bear grip.

With the mood having improved once more, he hardly wanted to cause any further issues and so fought to maintain his friendly composure, though the strained huff and twitching of his mouth showed a struggle was going on behind his thumbs-up grin. For an instant, Roman would catch a glinting glare off the cowlick’s half-enthused greeting.

Turning his attention away before the temper could get the best of him, he tried focusing on his cinnamon roll; instead, he saw Ari giggling up a storm and looking all tipsy.” Whew…someone’s already in the drunk spirit. Might want to slow down there a tad and get some food and water or find yerself plastered before finishing the one there.” Kazu suggested being grateful for any distraction and hardly one to sit back and let any drink more than they can handle.

Olivia noticed Kazumin’s anger rising–a trait she’d become familiar with. In an effort to soothe him next, she took his hand with her free one and squeezed it. Then, she picked up a cinnamon roll and offered it to him quietly. Her eyes signaled caution; something she was tethering on the edge of as well.

Scratching the side of his temple with a light, anxious tap of his foot while the other hovered midway to the basket. Wrestling with whether to grab something to eat or drink, annoyed at himself for letting Roman’s unexpected presence throw him off. The bitter and sad memories of that night were too fresh on that jovial bearish face. A sudden warm touch elicited a minor flinch, the familiar soft squeeze sapped the heat of his temper, and shifted to an offer of sugary sweetness and cinnamon roll.

His posture relaxed, and tapping ceased as he happily reached for the roll, pausing momentarily. Noticing the look in her eyes that told of caution, and…she seemed bothered by something as well. The cowlicked blonde gave an acknowledging flick of his nose. Taking the roll and proceeding to give it a good twist, ripping it in two with a ho-hum, and offering a half to her, only to toss it up a bit in the air, testing her catching skills with a teasing snicker. Before he thought to take a bite, though, and ripped his piece again and gently nudged Olive, motioning for her to give it to Charlotte, thinking she could use the cinnamy treat just as well.

Distracted from her cinnamon roll as she was, Stratya took Kalliope’s hand to guide the baked delight to her own mouth, sharing a bite of the same morsel with the disrupted woman. Kazumin motioned for Ariella to eat something, and Stratya piped up, “aye, aye, please, ‘ave some t’ brreads. They’rre good ferr‘angoverrs, y’ken. ”

Stratya's intimate gesture, guiding the roll to her lips, sent a warm jolt through Kalliope and eased the tension in her chest. A faint, wicked smile appeared on her lips as she leaned into the brief contact. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she purred, her eyes sparkling with dark humor. “Anyone else who tried to steal a bite of my sweet roll would be missing a finger right now. But for you, I suppose I’ll let it slide.” It was a weak joke, but a clear attempt to use flirtation as an anchor.

The Captain smirked, not scared by a violent joke. “Like it’d be so easy.” It seemed she’d attracted another dangerous person, each danger different from the last. At least she wasn’t an old creep named Donald. Donald, of all things.

Upon the smelling of baked goods, Drake made a hasty return, two whiskies in hand. ”With a five minute wait for a drink I may as well stock up now…But nothing too crazy, I do intend to be coherent enough to socialize.” He assured the group he wouldn’t get hammered on the offset, and a playful yet teasing gaze wandered to his sister who seemed to have reached her “fun” phase of being inebriated.

Olivia waved enthusiastically at Drake and smiled sweetly at him then Ariella. Their conversation on the Vikena porch replayed in her mind, but she didn’t dare interrupt.

He took a brief sip of his first whiskey and looked down at the baked cinnamon rolls that had pulled him so quickly back to the table. ”You are certainly a connoisseur of baked treats. If it’s from you, Stratya, I know it will be of utmost quality.” Drake grabbed a roll and gave it a healthy bite, a smile of satisfaction soon following. ”Spectacular as always.”

With his snack in hand he took smaller bites between sentences, turning to look at Roman. ”What exactly brings you here, good sir? Just out for a drink or has news spread that we are all gathering and causing trouble?”

Kazu eagerly bit into his roll and felt his body slacken with a big, satisfied muffled mhm with an airy hum of his nose. Overhearing the conversation between Drake and Stratya, to which he nodded his head with puffed cheeks, giving a thumbs up, clearly wanting to speak his agreement, but had enjoyed the gooey, soft-baked bread too much to stop.

A hearty gulp and a chest patting, shaking of the head.” Mhm! Ya, sure said it, Drake. These rolls are damn gooey good.” He cheered with a clap.” Got to give my thanks. No better way to avoid hangovers than with bread, good on ya for planning with drunk day on mind there, Lady Stratya.” Nodding as he wiped some of the crumbs and leftover cream.

And *sniff* that whiskey ya got there? All the more reason to fill up if we *drinking*” Emphasizing the end with a delighted chuckle and a rumbling of his gut demanding more. Seeing the attention shift to Roman gave an excuse to grab another piece, curious to hear what brought the so-called friendly giant to their table.

Roman smiled and sighed. This was exactly what he needed: the atmosphere, the smiles, the people, the smells. One scent in particular drew his gaze to the basket of sweet breads on the table. It looked like the knight had been busy and well-prepared for such an occasion.

Helping himself to one of the sweet confections, Roman acknowledged Olivia’s wave and found it adorable that she couldn’t keep eye contact. There was something there, but he couldn’t make out what exactly. The look he got from Kazu did not escape him. It was a look he may just address.

He did make sure to also acknowledge Charlotte with a smile and bumped his mug to Ariella’s with a chuckle. They seemed to be in a good mood, at least.

“I believe you are correct,” he said, looking over to the two women next to him, “and your baking is still wonderful. Best be careful, Stratya, I may just try to hire you onto my cooking staff.” A joke, but one he was entirely tempted to go through with.

It was good to hear others appreciate her baking. It was difficult to judge it, herself. All she could ever really taste was the effort it took to make. “Ooh, thank ye, all. My mother taugh’ me well. She pro’lly go’ t’ big baske’ ou’, rreyt now, in fact.” The good Captain raised a brow at Roman, mischeviously, “I cannae imagine yerr cookin’ staff is quiet as well taken carre of as I am, ‘erre.”

He glanced over to Drake between gulps of bread and ale after his question. “This is my favorite tavern; I’ve been coming here for the better part of a decade whenever the trade winds bring me here. I wouldn’t miss tonight; the fights are always fun to watch and sometimes join.”

I suppose it was Drunkard’s Day. Asking someone who frequents this kind of environment why he’s here was a tad redundant. Drake still smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. ”I am not much of a fighter but I would cheer for you if you got into a scrap.”

The word "fights" was a sudden spark. Kalliope straightened a bit in Stratya's lap, her distraction interrupted by the hint of familiar chaos. Her eyes, momentarily sharp and focused, turned to Roman.

"Fights," she said, her voice regaining some of its usual low, curious tone. "I might need to take a walk later to see how the competition is. Nothing clears the head like a good scrap."

Ooh, Kalliope seemed to have perked right up, at the mention of a good scrap. “Ooh?” She let her gaze come to study the woman’s expression a moment, maybe we shoul’ go tae my ‘ometown, next yearr? Not that y’ need an invitation. Scarrcely on t’ map tae ‘ave people comin’ by tae tell nae, ‘onestly. We dunnae ‘ave quite the ameni’ies of ‘t capi’al, bu’.. if yerr lookin’ tae scrrap, t’ adul’s ‘old mock bat’le with wooden weapons fer t’ kids. An’ therre’s plen’y of taverrn brawls in Encia, too.

”Hmmm, a visit does sound interesting. Remind me when the time comes and perhaps I’ll clear a day out for it…see where the magic happens.” Drake raised his glass for a quick sip before enjoying the further comradery.

Her attention drifted gently to Roman. Supposedly, this was the same man she’d met in Pinebrook, but the layers of secrecy she’d seen from him then told her plenty enough. That music box sure was something. Was she to assume that was less of a mask, then, than this is now? Seemed like a safe assumption. If that were so, then he put on quite a performance at the banquet.

Kazumin, she had noticed, seemed rather tense about the Varian noble. It was the hesitation in his greeting, it hadn’t been a drunken pause. Lots of tension at the table tonight. Perhaps she could find some common ground they could bond upon, “Lor’ Rroman, tell me would ye, of yerr Varrian festivals? ‘ave any ‘rround this tyme o’ yearr?”

Olivia nudged both Charlotte and Kazumin gently in the ribs and motioned for them to watch. She took a spoon and balanced it on the tip of her nose and side-eyed them both. While she waited for their initial reaction, Olivia then took the fork and balanced it as well. Then, Olivia added the salt shaker, black pepper, and Lottie’s unused silverware. A silly grin spread over her face. She took a cinnamon roll and bit into it while the others conversed, then carefully grabbed an empty tankard and began to sip it while maintaining the balance and silliness on her face.

Intending to continue eating, but found himself listening to Roman. The man appeared friendly and jovial as he had in the past. However, he still felt uncertain about the man, knowing he frequented this place made it easier to get a better sense of the guy after chatting with the regulars. A gentle nudge felt at his side snapped him back to attention, hardly noticing he had spaced out and turned to see his friend balancing utensils, shakers, and whatever odd objects she got her hands on.

A sputtering laugh nearly broke out had Kazu not covered his mouth with his left arm, fighting back a snorting guffaw. Muffled wheezy snickers wheezed and snuck past as he kept sneaking peeks at the silliness unfolding.

Without warning, Liv then noticed Kazumin’s mouth opened. She tore a bite off of her cinnamon roll and popped it in his mouth. When her target landed its mark, she started laughing. The shenanigans between them were memories of their childhood and she wanted to ensure the tension drifted away. If making a fool of herself would do so, then so be it.

”Also, Drake,” Liv faced him. ”Do you have a book on you? Maybe I could balance it on my head?” Her voice was light and playful.

The blonde farmhand kept laughing against his palm, eyes partially watered. Fearing he might break out into a proper fit and dared risk taking in a gulpful of air, a costly yet delicious mistake as he felt a chunk pop into his mouth with a slight halted gag out of surprise.” Pfft..h-hey! Not the kind of shot I was expecting, but I ain’t complaining!” Said with a choked chortle.

Wiping his mouth, trying to stifle his chuckling.” What a treat, to have the lady of cutlery and balance with us this drunkard day! ” A snickering mock gentlemanly bow; snapping his finger towards Drake without moving.” Please, sir Drake, adorn the lady with her bookly crown.. ah but first!” A playful wiggling of fingers picking up an unused plate and setting it gently upon Olivia’s head.” There we are, now begin the plating.” Speaking in the manner of an uptight chef with silly hand-waving motions as if preparing a delicate dish.

Drake grinned. ”I’m sad to say I do not have a book on me, but it does pain me so to not see this glorious hardcover crown that you are dreaming about.” Drake knocked back the last of his first whiskey, a rosey color beginning to fill his cheeks.

Olivia’s smile broadened at Drake’s response. She giggled and mimed a book on her hand in the shape of a crown. ”We shall make make-believe then.” Livc declared and began rifling through remaining objects on the table to make a fake crown. The rosy colored look on his cheeks, including Ari’s, told her they were inebriated. Her tolerance was higher, so she wasn’t worried, but did not plan to drink more.

The young lady building a castle atop her head had been a rather amusing sight. “I doan think I’ve everr ‘eard o’ someone brringin’ a book tae taverrn on Drrunkarrd’s Day. Too rrowdy.”

“We do have Drunkard's Day in Varian that will last for the weekend. Back home, there would be drinking contests, contests of strength, fighting for prizes, plenty of food and feasts.” Roman nodded to Stratya while watching Olivia show off her dexterity. “One challenge is diving for ice worms—slippery nasty things in the cold water. They’re a delicacy, but you can’t harvest them with a hook; you have to wrestle them. Those who return victorious find themselves warmed by men and women of their choosing through the night.”

“Norr am I familiarr with ice wyrrms, they mus’ be ’uge. Rremin’s me, jus’ a bi’, of ourr ‘untin’ trradition rroun’ this tyme o’ yearr. For ‘unter’s, mos’ly, y’ come of age by ‘un’in’ somethin’ ferr t’ festival.

Drake imagined the sight of someone wrestling worms, at first picturing basic mealworms. Surely not… He thought to himself before a more fitting image of worms the size of bulls filled his mind. A shudder slipped along his form as he grabbed his second drink.

Olivia stared at Roman when he mentioned ice-worms. What the hell was he talking about? The prize did not suit her. She didn’t respond though, and looked away, lest there be more tension.

Olivia’s spirit and willingness to play the fool instead of him brought another smile to his face, but Kazu’s looks towards him just continued to throw him off. Well, Roman was never known for his tact.

“Forgive me if I sour the mood…” he addressed the table. “Kazumin,” he said with a slight smile. “I do want us to be friends, but the look you’re giving me says you have something that’s eating at you. Best not to let that ruin your night and speak what’s on your mind, lad.” Roman was sure he knew what the look was for. Hell, he felt it too, and not just towards himself.

Still in the midst of admiring his friend’s amusing handiwork and lost in humor that, for a time, his distaste towards Roman went forgotten. But catching snippets of the man mentioning a challenge and festivals caught his intrigue, only to learn it involved ice worms. He found the idea of wrestling and eating a worm amusing, but the gross description made his stomach coil.

A brief look of disgust etched his face before his eyes widened, realizing he did so without intending to, and he tried to cover up by lifting his tankard to his face. He tried to drink down the bout of distaste only to cough and gag upon being addressed by Roman, sending bits of beer spittle down his mug and splashing his chin.” *cough* Eating me? I-” Wiping his mouth, cursing to himself.*Shit, guess he saw? Hngh, why’d he choose now to bring it up!?*

Grumbling at the possibility of losing his good mood and undoing the fun of Olivia’s work, he peered in her direction. Doing so, an idea came to mind as he coughed again, clearing his throat.” Why..why yes, dare I say something is eating away at me.” Holding up a finger to point as he seemingly glared at Roman, then turned away from the table, swiping some objects, where some faint metal clinking was heard. Turning back, revealing spoons in his mouth, walrus teeth style.

Harumph, what’s eating me is my appetite for some of them delectable ice worms!” Scoffed the spoon-mouthed blonde with a wriggling of his nose.” Hrm hrm, to join the party and tease this spoonrus of such delicacies gets me blubbering mad hrm hrm! But…” Rubbing at his chest as if with a blubbery arm squinting his eyes at the huge man, pondering.” Perhaps..a promise of future worms and drinking in merriment may do as a start..for now.” Tapping at his chin before nodding his head, hoping this could postpone the heavy conversation. A pair of metallic clangs as the spoons dropped out onto the table, causing him to burst out laughing with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Olivia reacted fast–she saw the silverware falling and reached down fast to help quiet them. Her gaze moved to his and she glanced at him with a grin and warning in her eyes. ”Kazumin, can you be a dear and fetch me those?” Liv pointed out the silverware to make a distraction.

Charlotte had giggled at Olivia’s antics, dropping her chin into her palm as her elbow leaned on the table. For a fleeting moment, she could almost see her father sitting across from her—Walter Vikena with that lopsided grin, pretending a worm was a moustache.

As she sat there with her tankard still full, the others’ voices drifted over her, distant and muffled, as though coming from the far end of a corridor. The tavern around her blurred while she held fast to the image of her father in her mind. With him, she had once felt known, truly and completely.

Now there was only that familiar, unavoidable hollow where such certainty used to live. Many of the people seated nearby were dear to her, and others good-hearted… But none had she yet allowed into the deepest corners of her heart. No one had ever reached quite so far as her father had, not until…

Another face began to slip into that place she’d sworn was empty forever.

The thought made her breath catch as she blinked back into the present, her smile still gentle as she drew her tankard a little closer and took a sip.

Drake peered over at the slightest of inhales that crept across his ear, catching Charlotte sipping her beverage with a ghostly look on her face. He moved his arm, positioning his finger on the front of her tankard and giving it three quick yet quiet taps. It was merely to call her attention discretely before whispering to her.

”You doing okay? Would it benefit you to take a walk for some air?” Drake was glad to be around such pleasant company. Truly cut the finer cloths of Sorian. But he still had a thought at the back of his mind—Didn’t Charlotte call him here to talk initially? Perhaps this could give her the moment she needed to share what she wanted to.

Olivia started to set the objects down from her face. She scanned the bar for anyone suspicious. The bar was plenty loud with slamming hands and fists, obnoxious and inebriated laughter, and different discussions. She kept an eye on the crowd and then back to their group, and remained alert and aware of her surroundings. She took another cinnamon roll and ate that, and the food ordered by Drake.

Charlotte hesitated, her eyes carrying a shimmer of emotion in reaction to the question. Her gaze dropped to the tankard before her. For a moment she simply watched a trail of foam slide down the rim, as though gathering the courage to lift her head at all. Then she replied quietly. “A walk sounds wonderful, actually.” And with that, the two rose and stepped away from the table, excusing themselves for a moment politely.

Stratya let out a slow breath and leaned back, hand retreating across Kalliope's waist to rest at her hip. Knowing better than to eat only sweetbreads, her free hand assembled some of the smoked sausage onto a bit of the bread and cheese. The flavors mixed pleasantly with the aftertaste of her baked goods, a brief, sweet seasoning to her new, savory snack. She gave a satisfied humm and a gentle squeeze before offering a bite to her lap’s new resident.

She watched, just briefly, Charlotte and Drake rise and depart. Charlotte hadn’t said much after being questioned about her charity date. Lady Vikena seemed somewhat perturbed by the question - as much as she would show such a thing. The captain had been a bit persistent, too. Hopefully, she hadn’t upset her. Charlotte had seemed distant, for just a moment.

Ah well. That was a worry for later, or Lord Drake. At the moment, she was curious, “now, wha’s this ‘bou’ ice wyrms? Big, ah they? Mus’ be, if’n they’rre tae be wrrestled. Good ea’in’? Do ye rroast t’ whole or prreparre cuts?”

Kalliope watched the table, feeling the sugar and her brief confidence fade. The noise and conversation exhausted her. She needed something to lean on. Her hand reached, almost automatically, for the mead. Her fingers brushed the cold, empty metal of the stein she had drained earlier. “Bloody hell,” she muttered while shaking her head sharply. She gave Stratya a quick, apologetic squeeze of the hand and forced a small smile. “I’m suddenly very thirsty. The bar. I’ll be right back.” She slid out of Stratya’s lap and off the bench, moving toward the bar with a hurried, deliberate pace. She needed the distraction of physical movement and a refill.

Well, at least things were going better than the banquet. “Ooh, if ye must. Brring me back a lit’le somethin’, would ye? I'll keep yerr sea’.” Captain Durmand gave a little wave with her fingers and more of her mead disappeared.

Ariella blinked up at Roman, her head wobbling slightly as if the room had just given her a gentle spin. She leaned forward on her elbows, then immediately leaned too far and had to catch herself on the edge of the table, fingers slipping on a bit of cinnamon glaze.

“Frens…?”

She echoed the word like it was the most profound idea she had ever heard in her entire life. A slow, goofy smile spread across her lips. She raised her empty stein upside down, completely unaware that no liquid remained inside, and bumped it clumsily against Roman’s arm instead of his cup.

“Ooooh, yes! Everyone’sh frens tonight!” she declared triumphantly.

The upside-down stein slipped out of her hand, hit the table with a hollow clonk, and rolled directly into Stratya’s lap. Ari gasped loudly as if someone had just dropped a priceless artifact and slapped both hands over her mouth.

“SORRY! Sorry! SOR-RY” she grimaced.

But then she paused.

Squinted.

Peering down at her bare feet sticking out from under her chair.

“…I lost my shoes”

She lifted one foot and wiggled her toes proudly, suddenly delighted by their freedom.

“Oh LOOK! They’re dancing!”

And indeed, she wiggled her toes again, slow and dramatic, like she believed she was performing for royalty. Only then did she remember Roman. She reached out and patted his forearm with drunken ceremony.

“Yes, Roman. Frens. You and… you.”

She gave a solemn nod, then immediately hiccupped.

hic!

“But also…”

She leaned closer as if sharing a life-altering secret.

“...you’re SO BIG. Like a… TREE.”

She lifted both arms straight up to demonstrate how tall a tree is, smacking Olivia’s makeshift table-crown in the process and sending a spoon clattering into Kazu’s lap.

Ari froze.

Then smiled at Kazu like she had intended that to happen.

“Kazuuu, I gave you a spoon! For your soup! ” Wait, do you have soup?”
She looked genuinely concerned for his soup destiny. Then she plopped back into her chair, swaying once, grabbing onto Drake’s sleeve for stability without noticing she’d done it.

“Roman’s my fren,” she repeated with a proud little nod.
hic!

“…But also I think my chair is broken.”

The chair was absolutely not broken and Ari just nearly fell out of it again.

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