A Bottle of Whiskey

A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Rance » Sat Jan 31, 2015 3:49 pm

Whiskey.

Liquid blindness. Social lubricant. Truth serum.

(Maybe, come morning, they would forget all this, or might not remember it all for days to come -- or at least until the throbbing headache had passed.)

The horn-headed urchin, the gold-toothed brigand, and the one-armed girl retreated to the Floating Dragon. The name of the establishment, Gloria Wynsee realized, was only too ironic: they were fleeing one so-called dragon and seeking solace in another. Men played cards with stacked decks in dark corners. Women with faulty corsets whispered bad poetry in the ears of inebriated farmers. A half-elf without any teeth slurred a complaint about someone having vomited into the fireplace, sop it up if you will, can't expect to get any business if the air reeks of burning booze-puke, what do any of you know about running a tavern--

--and that had Gloria giggling, barely able to hand the half-emptied bottle of whiskey back to Ailova...

...and then they were upstairs, in a cramped room with stained mattress-ticking and a single candle, and I'm burning up; I have to take this bonnet off -- did she even say that? Her argument with Phor had been quickly forgotten. That had been hours, days, weeks, months ago, hadn't it? She tried to stuff the sweat-damp bonnet on Phor's horned head, and blurted--

"Told you, you ought to hide those pretty things. If I've got to -- to hide my tits, then you've got to hide your horns. Doesn't she, Ailova? Tell her. Tell her she's got to hide those horns so -- so nobody comes to claim them, crush them, and sell them for hartshorn."

More whiskey.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Antichthon » Sat Jan 31, 2015 4:13 pm

Phor was in the moment. She was an excited child doing naughty, grown-up things. She was so thrilled about drinking that she forgot to drink, which was a good thing; what she'd had already was enough to make her stumble over herself by the time they arrived at the Floating Dragon. The cards, the poetry the arguments, all of it was just white noise and flashes of movement and light. She only had enough focus left for the two women she was with, and who knew how long that would last.

"How...how am I s'posed to hide 'em?" Phor asked of her horns, once they were safely tucked away in their room. She sat on the edge of the mattress. She was brewing with energy, but if she stayed on her feet, she'd only end up hurting herself. "They're...they're as big as th' rest of my head!" She grabbed her horns as if that demonstrated the fact. It was an exaggeration, but they were very large, and very hard to hide.

A beat.

"...Why you gotta hide your tits? something wrong with 'em?"
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby highawaywoman » Sat Jan 31, 2015 5:47 pm

A feckin' dragon! It had been years since she'd seen one, but she'd never forget the moment. It'd been a perfect heist. The goods easily surrendered and the delivery had been almost complete - and then that thing swooped down with it's fire. It's consuming blaze hit Corbin and his mount, immediately setting them alight as if they were effigies. The smell. The burning flesh, hair, the screams of both man and equine. It was quite possibly the most horrific thing she'd ever witnessed.

The highwaywoman was brought out of her past as the two girls rushed ahead of her to enter the Floating Dragon. She kept up, following them into the gaming hell with a quick look over her shoulder. No feckin' dragon followed. As soon as the unlikely trio entered the place, the smell of burning upchuck and sweaty bodies punched her squarely in the nose. It was enough to make a stronger stomach roil, but Ailova shook it off with another drink. While she was not drunk, the whiskey was potent and it warmed her and soon even she felt that thrilling little buzz.

Once they'd acquired a room and settled with sharing what remained of the bottle; the street urchin and Gloria smiled and tensions were washed away with the booze. The past bickering and headbutting seemed forgiven. Ailova shrugged out of her frock coat, settling on a chair near the window. She planned on keeping an eye out - just in case.

Gloria called out to her though, and she couldn't help but laugh as she saw her trying to force the bonnet upon Phor's horns. Surprisingly, Phor laughed along. It was strange to laugh and to actually feel giddy with their situation.

"Aye, she be right, Phor. Fine set of horns ye be havin'" Ailova grinned, doffing her hat, "Tits be much easier to hide, especially if ye weren't burdened in that area." She gestured to her flat chest which was not noticeable beneath her grimy white shirt. That had been a blessing for the horsewoman, "Tits get in the way of riding. I once saw a fine lady with her tits practically hanging out - all corseted up for a ride. Ridiculous!"

And then Phor had asked inncoently, "Why you gotta hide your tits? something wrong with 'em?"

Ailova guffawed.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Rance » Sun Feb 01, 2015 6:55 am

"Nothing wrong with them. I -- I think they're quite fine. And Edmund, he thinks they're quite fine."

(Edmund would have never said as much, not with those chaste lips of his, not with his politeness, his soldierly self-conduct!)

How...how am I s'posed to hide 'em? Phor asked.

"I don't know," Gloria shouted, her voice louder, booming. "I mean to say that -- that they're quite sensational, really, but other people are going to look at you -- not Ailova, not me -- and think the worst. So like Murrukh says: Fuck'em." Laughing, now, the obnoxious bray of a horse shaken out of her with alcohol, a jerky explosion of mirth that echoed in the closed room. Her cheeks were red and inflamed, breaking through her dark complexion, and her eyes were knolls of glassy gray. She flopped down on the hay-stuffed bedding, scrambling amid the muddy tangle of her skirts toward Phor. She tried to fit the bonnet over the girl's horns, failing miserably in the process, but altogether intent on tying the wax-dipped ribbon under the urchin's chin--

"Ridiculous," Gloria repeated, parroting Ailova's sentiment. "You ought to have dragged that j'uk'ad off her horse and taught her a -- a thing or two, right to the chin. Corsetry is for whores. Whores and night-ladies and pissy, prim-nosed, pompous, pin-titted princesses. Where's my whiskey? Where's that whiskey?"

Task forgotten, head swimming, she sprawled on the bed beside Phor and reached a thousand leagues away for Ailova's bottle--

"The thing that's wrong with my tits is -- is that they're meant for nursing my child, and those Rememdium fucks, they keep lying. They're liars."
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Antichthon » Sun Feb 01, 2015 7:34 am

The conversation about tits had the young girl looking unabashedly between Ailova's and Gloria's chests. "When mine grow, I want them to be big. Like huuuuuge big. Men'll give you everythin' you ever want, then. And won't care 'bout you havin' horns."

People were going to see the horns, and think the worst of her. Duh.

"I know that," Phor said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I think the worst of 'em myself." She passed over the self-depreciating comment, likely unaware that she had even said it. Instead, she made grabby hands at the whiskey bottle. "Gimme some more."

"Hey, get off!" Phor snapped when Gloria continued to try and mash her bonnet over her head. But she only gave a token resistance and growled at the woman--the booze had stripped away most of her fear of being touched. After a few moments, she broke down and was giggling along with the woman.

That giggling stopped sharp when Gloria spoke disparagingly of whores. The word smacked her upside the head like a brick. One could just about see the layers upon layers of emotional defense shooting up around her, as she withdrew into herself. "Yeah, whores," She said, wanting to fit in. "Fuck 'em. It's all they're good for." Her eyes had gone empty. Wait. Gloria had a kid? And she said something about the Rememdium folk lying? "What're they lying about?"
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby highawaywoman » Sun Feb 01, 2015 9:46 am

The blonde brigand was no where near as pissed as the other two. It was amusing to watch them both act like girls, which they were, but she hadn't really spent much time with those of her own sex. It was pleasant, almost comforting. Gloria continued to try to tie the bonnet on the horned urchin, but was having less and less success with the endeavor.

"Wait, Gloria - " Ailova helped to pass the bottle to the inebriated girl, "They still have yer child?" None of that made sense to Ailova. Why separate a babe from it's mother. It didn't make sense. Gloria seemed a kind lass, not an abusive sod of a parent. "Why? Why do they keep the child still?" Was it illness? Or an unfair judgement that they burdened the young mother with?

Then her attentions turned to Phor, who was describing how she'd like a massive set so as to get money from men. "Och, Phor, banish that thought. Men don't give ye money without wanting a pinch and tickle in return!"

This conversation was getting hard to keep up with. The fast consumption of the second (or was it third?) bottle had helped dull her racing mind. Then Phor's giggles faded and the two grappled for the bottle, while Ailova still stood near the small window.

"Phor. Ye don't-" It was in that moment that the brigand snapped her gaze like a riding crop, landing it directly on the horned girl, "Ye don't trade yer favors do ye?" There was no judgement in her tone or face, but Ailova felt a bit of bile push up the back of her throat. Desperate times did call for desperate measures. Hells, she understood that. Such a thing had been offered to her, but she'd killed the bastard and then took to highway robbery. A much safer occupation.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Rance » Sun Feb 01, 2015 4:17 pm

Fingers squeaked on glass. The stopper fell out and clapped to the floor. Ailova's kindness in passing the bottle had been, unfortunately, underappreciated in the wake of her diligent search for the next sip. Sprawled in a mass of skirts and petticoats, she hinged open her jaw and eagerly drank. And when she came up for a breath, she proclaimed:

"Liars, indeed," to Phor. Liars. Mercy TIrel, too. "About my little girl. About my daughter. She should be in my arms, or -- or I should be nursing her, or curling her hairs in my fingers." Whiskey had twisted her face out of its sadness and into a mask of aggravation. She darted her attention toward Ailova, lifted the bottle like a banner of war, and decreed, "They say they're feeding her, bathing her; I say it's because I'm a Jerno, a daft whore. Or maybe they've -- they've sold her off to vultures, traded my daughter off for beans or coins or hides."

Whiskey burned her lips, twisted in her stomach like a glut of hot fire. The room danced a wild jig around her. There were two -- no, three -- of Phor, and...

By the Nameless, she was such a little thing, a tiny spot of a girl, a pretty horned painting, and just looking at Phor, Gloria's eyes became fat, leaking stones. Something niggled her, some flicker on the younger child's face, some sense that awakened a hot flash of fire in Gloria's breast. Whiskey could make a woman see prophecies. Whiskey could drag you from a mountain's peak to the muddy trough at the bottom of the range--

Ye don't trade yer favors do ye? Ailova had asked. So Gloria, a true drunken observer, inquired additionally of the urchin--

"Are you sad?"
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Antichthon » Sun Feb 01, 2015 4:54 pm

A massive rack wasn't enough to get free stuff? "Pssh. Forget it then."

The bonnet hung forgotten on Phor's horn like she was a hatstand. Her drunken mind couldn't keep up with what was going on, but she understood so far as that the Rememdium was keeping Gloria's daughter, against her wishes. "I don't get it," she said. "Why would they keep yer baby? Ishn't...isn't that wrong?" Then Gloria went off on reasons why they might be keeping her daughter from her, and Phor couldn't track the conversation. She grabbed her temples and shook her head in frustration. "Mmmnh!"

"I went to...to see a doctor there," Phor said once she was done with her fit. "Her name was...ern...mn...Mercy. She gave me free...free medicine fer my..." She trailed off. "...it's not going to kill me, is it?" She'd heard only good things about Mercy, but people kept talking ill of the Rememdium, so now Phor was confused. Granted one of those people talking ill of it was Catch... "I said gimme some more! Yer gonna drink it all!" She'd try to wrestle the whiskey bottle out of Gloria's hands.

Wait, wait. Ailova was asking her a question. And it required more thinking to figure out what she meant. "Trade? Trade..." Oh! Oh. Right. "NO!" Phor yelled, unaware of her own volume. "No, no. Ew, no. Only...only whores do that. Only whores do that." She was lying, and it was obvious--the alcohol had sapped her gile. It didn't matter that there was no judgment in Ailova's expression. There were some things you just didn't admit to.

"Are you sad?" Gloria asked.

A much simpler question. Phor hugged her legs to her chest, having grown extremely uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had turned. The whiskey was forgotten. Was she sad? "...yeah." And the way her voice creaked...it was safe to say that "sad" was a massive understatement.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby highawaywoman » Mon Feb 02, 2015 7:24 am

"Gloria, I would help ye get yer child, if'n it'd please ye." Shite. The offer had left her lips, before she could call it back to rest on her tongue. She'd already smashed through her first rule. Don't get involved with the locals. Now she'd broken yet another. Nine hells, ye don't help them! Apparently, the drink had finally gone to her own head.

"I'm good at acquiring things; not that yer babe be a thing!" Feck. The regret she felt for the offer was only momentary. The more she pondered the abnormal situation that Gloria was thrust into - forced separation from a babe she obviously loved - the more she was convinced it was the right thing to do.

Ailova collapsed on the bed, tugging her tall black riding boots off. Phor was no innocent and the liquor seemed to drop down her walls. Walls that had been erected not of brick and mortar, but mental strength and inner fortitude. Ailova looked to the end of the hard mattress where the fresh-faced guttersnipe sat - suddenly subdued by the bandit's and Gloria's questions.

"No, no. Ew, no. Only...only whores do that. Only whores do that." The more Phor said no, Ailova knew she meant aye. It pained her to think of one so young, so feckin' young finding herself in that trade. A flash of fire heated her face as she thought of killing whomever touched such a young one. Stop, not your affair. But it was. She was done cutting herself off. No more ignoring the evil in the world, believing yourself not a part of it because you turned a blind eye. That eye would get poked out.

"Phor it's time to find some real work for ye. Yer old enough and smart. Ye ladies need rest, before ye end up spewin' aboot the place. Pray don't hit me boots or frockcoat with any vomit!" The highwaywoman leaned back against the wall, pulling her feet up onto the bed.

These two young gels, well, she supposed they were now her friends - ifn' one could be such to Ailova.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Rance » Mon Feb 02, 2015 6:09 pm

Gloria, I would help ye get yer child, if'n it'd please ye.

Genuine confusion bled onto her unremarkable face. Lips twitched, trying to form words. Eyes blinded with whiskey blinked once, twice. "They'll give her to me when she's well. When I'm well," she said, a fabricated explanation. "It'd please me to hold her, to feed her. You're kind. You're -- you're very kind, Menna Ailova. Truly."

The bottle was gone from her hands. And everybody was talking; Ailova and Phor were so loud, so loud, and...

...boots flopped off Ailova's feet, and the woman seemed always so confident, always so perfectly poised. Gloria wanted that, that cool, aloof composure, that independence. And horns. She decided right then, with grand (but silent) conviction that she too wanted sweeping horns like Phor's. What she truly desired in this drunken, blurry-headed fantasy, was to ball both of these women -- the older and the younger -- into a malleable lump, maybe reform herself out of their prettiest pieces and finest qualities, because Gloria, who was Gloria but a miserable collection of her own foolhardy mistakes anyway--

Whiskey magnified. Whiskey encouraged introspection.

Phor sat like a crumbled ball. Gloria, still swaying, dragged her heels along the bedding and sat beside the smaller girl. The horned child's thirst for whiskey had fled, apparently.

"It's not wrong," Gloria said to Phor, "being sad. It's at least more bearable being sad if you've got company. Sometimes you -- you do things you don't like, things you see and regret when you get a glimpse of yourself in mirrorglass. But friends don't shun you for those things. For anything, really, if they're a worthwhile friend."

She leaned her broad shoulder closer to Phor. An offer.

"For what did she give you medicine," Gloria asked. "It won't harm you; Mercy's not cruel."

She smiled over the horned girl's head toward Ailova.

"Rest. That's fool's talk."
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Antichthon » Tue Feb 03, 2015 7:59 am

All the talk of Gloria's baby was forgotten. Phor was caught up in the selfish mind of a child. What did she care about Gloria's baby? All she cared about right now was the sudden misery that overcame her, too powerful for even the whiskey to wash away.

She felt Gloria's and Ailova's eyes on her, and bristled. "Stop looking at me." They were trying to see inside of her. She'd shown a hint of weakness, and now they were trying to dig deeper, find a way to exploit it.

And then Gloria had the gall to wax poetic about friendship.

"Shut up," Phor growled. "Shut up!" Gloria offered her her shoulder, and Phor recoiled in disgust. "What d' you know?" She fixed Gloria with a blazing gaze. She was yelling now. "Are you cursed? Did yer parents....parents sell..." Again, she trailed off.

Then, a sadistic smile spread over her face. "Y' know what I hope? I hope...I hope they sold yer baby t' a brothel. I hope...I hope she grows up known' she's nothin' but a whore. And then I hope one 'f these 'worthw-w-while friends' yet talkin' about comes 'n...promises t' save her but then jus'...jus' turns 'round and fucks her little brains out! And then...and then she realizes she loves it, 'cause...'cause that's what she was meant to be. Nothin' but a fucking whore. And then I hope y' kill yerself, because you know it's all your fault!"

Phor spit on the woman. Twice. She then slid onto the floor, and, still curled into a little ball, shivered. But she didn't cry. Phor never cried. Her eyes just fixed into a thousand yard stare, and the light within them dimmed as she just...checked out. She was still conscious, but gone.
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby highawaywoman » Tue Feb 03, 2015 9:05 am

Relief quickly washed over Ailova as Gloria assured her that the baby would be returned when it was ready. Whatever the feck that meant! However, at least she wouldn't have to broach it to a new compatriot that she required assistance in snatching a baby and even worse? There would be no money in it. The highwaywoman had finally taken off her hat, tossing it to the floor near her boots. Hair the color of straw came tumbling down, most of it matted like a hound's fur. She didn't care to brush it daily, but she didn't want to shear the mess either. Mayhap, it was her one bit of femininity that she kept - even if it was hidden and gnarled.

The wicked side of whiskey was beginning to rear it's ugly head. Phor's temper flared up, sending spittle flying towards Gloria's face before the girl-child went to the floor. That one's had enough, thought Ailova drolly.

"Havers, Phor! If'n yer going to drink like adult - ye need to tamper down the tempers!" Shite, like she was one to talk. As a child who'd escaped from her abusive father and later as a teenager -- Ailova had been anger personified! Fighting, brawling, drinking, robbing - most of it was a blur to her now. Thankfully.

The blonde brigand hadn't seen Gloria's face, but she hoped the lass was smart enough to realize that the situation that Phor described was not about Gloria's babe. Ailova would bet her gold teeth that she was the little one that was sold and subsequently used. She leaned forward from her supine position, lightly pressing her cheek against Gloria's when Phor sank to the floor, "'Tis herself she speaks of, Gloria." Ailova whispered, reaching down to pat Gloria's hand.

Och, she was beginning to see why she'd always surrounded herself with men. Sure, those coves could be crass and violent - but at least they didn't have lost babes or past stints in prostitution! That she knew of...
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby Rance » Tue Feb 03, 2015 12:51 pm

Sometimes, Gloria Wynsee was a hammer. She liked to break and shatter things, preferred using force in times where precision would meet better success. Indeed, even in moments of softness and sensitivity, the same theory applied: she proselytized friendship as if it was a thing she knew quite well, presumed it might bandage old scars, but--

Phor's screaming burst of words was never met with a gaze, never given the satisfaction of a glare or much as a flinch when the horned girl spit -- once, twice -- on her face. The spit stank in that way saliva often did: a heady brew of mucus and salt.

Phor dissolved to the floor. Gloria, her cheek moist, did not move.

She never wiped the fluid from her cheek. Her trembling knuckles squeezed into a white fist on the bedding as the brigand's palm touched her. The muscles of her broad, work-hardened shoulders coiled like snakes beneath the rough fabric of her dress. She was a wall; she was a battering ram; she wanted to lash out, how dare you, how dare you say such things about her, spit three, four, five times in return, pin that horned little head under a muddy-heeled boot and press.

'Tis herself she speaks of, Gloria.

But when she responded to the hay-haired brigand, she said, "I know. I know," with the hollow semblance of acquiescence.

Gloria slithered down off the bed. The bottle of whiskey rolled in a circle on the floor. The seamstress sat beside Phor. White-faded knuckles unhinged. Loosened. Callus-padded fingers smoothly sought out the half-conscious girl's scalp. To stroke. To soothe.

It didn't matter if Phor was awake or a thousand miles away.

Gloria's breath was whiskey-fire. Her tone shrouded itself with sympathy. Her teeth and tongue clicked wetly beside the horned girl's ear.

"When my child speaks," she murmured with a smile. "When my child walks, when my child learns your name, little girl; when she grows old enough to laugh and shine like a Sun, when you look at her face having long forgotten those vile words of yours -- do you hear me? -- she will ask you for an apology. You will give it. You will kiss her cheek. She will go about her business: her playing, her happiness, her complete unknowing of what you just said."

And then you will be old enough for me to crack each and every one of your teeth out with the tip of my boot.

"She will forgive you."

I won't.

"Hand me a blanket, will you, Menna Ailova?"
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Re: A Bottle of Whiskey

Postby highawaywoman » Wed Feb 04, 2015 5:52 am

Lassies should never drink the devil brew.

"Gloria, come, sleep on the bed. Leave her to the floor."

Ailova reached out to the other girl, canting her head towards the bed. "I've got to check on me nags. Will ye be alright with her?"

With all the emotions that bounced about the room as rampant as knaves running to a knife fight -- it was her indicator to leave. The highwaywoman wasn't sure of how to process all of this, her mind raced with whiskey-laden assumptions. It was best to clear her head in the dark confines of the livery; mayhap catching a few winks while stretched out on Gaewinn's broad back. Feck the dragon.

Deft fingers untied her neckstock, before bending to retrieve the fallen whiskey bottle. She dampened the cloth and knelt on one knee next to the girls. A few drops of the amber liquid dropped onto the cloth and without asking she reached forward and cleaned Gloria's face off gently - if the gel allowed.

Phor she left on the floor. Ailova was never good with children, but the fact she hadn't beaten the whelp for her treatment of Gloria was enough of a favor for the moment.

"Ladies, I bid ye g'nite."

Boots, frockcoat, and hat were retrieved. Why the nine hells had she removed them in the first place?

Feckin' WOMEN.
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