OLD ROSE HARBOR| EVENING
Elias leaned against one cocked arm on the cool wood of the bartop, his other hand wrapped firmly around a mug of something warm and disgusting. He wasn’t quite resting his head in his arm, but he was close, gold rimmed green eyes staring into nothingness as he sat there dressed in the same salmon shirt and beige pants he’d been wearing since Ophus. His jacket was gone, sold for a few extra coin to buy him a room at the Black Dove for the season. He’d arrived in Old Rose Harbor that morning, travelling by boat and by horse drawn fucking wagon because it was cheaper than a gods-be-damned airship ticket. He had forked out a whole tally for a shower and a shave, patchy though it was. The keep had shown him where he could have his clothing laundered and thank Hurte whilst he lay naked in bed and slept the day away, they washed them and didn’t bloody well steal them.
Dressing in the now fresh-ish garments, the Bastian made his way to the tavern itself, ignoring the way patrons gave him lingering side eyes and bought himself the largest mug of whatever was cheap.
Fucking ruined.
Everything he had was on him, or in the room upstairs. He had maybe five shills and a handful of hats, which he discovered weren’t the customary coinage in the Rose. The mistress of the keep took his coin, but she gave him change he hadn’t seen since he was a teenager. The Kings currency. Drawing his cigarettes from his shirt pocket, sitting up slightly, Elias pulled one out with his lips and began to lift his fingers to light the spliff. The mona grated sharply, his teeth ringing and ears thobbing. Anyone who might be a wick or a galdori in the vicinity would feel the runoff of his very rebuked spell request, and the sidelong glances turned into long glares of disapproval.
“Sorry, sorry.” He muttered to no one in particular, patting down his pocket for his matches. Frowning, he straightened to pat his pants pockets, before sighing and rubbing a hand through his hair.
Why would he have any matches left? That would be some sort of good luck. He was fresh out of that. Old Rose had been the logical place to go, given he had nothing in Vienda and now nothing in Bastia. At least the accommodation in the Rose was cheap, and maybe he could get himself shanked by a pirate if he pissed one off enough.
Frankly, it was what he deserved. Eli realized this now. After a truthfully wonderful and emboldening evening with Xavier, the galdor had really believed he might have seen the light. He’d felt happy, sort of, for a brief moment in time. But Hurte saw fit to punish him, had used that brief respite just to show the man exactly what would come of him. He had been the cause of his families death, and he would suffer endlessly until such time that the cold breath of the afterlife whispered to him. But knowing the Circle Gods, he would live a long and miserable life, tormented for his sins till he was a grey old spinster. He should never have peaked a glance at the bright light beyond his darkness, it only caused more pain.
Taking the cigarette from his lips, Elias downed the large mug of revolting in one long continuous gulp, placing the empty vessel down with a shudder and wiggling his fingers for another one. Sobriety was too long with him, and the nightmares of his past were screaming from their barely holding cages, ready to spring forth and overwhelm him with visions of blackened bodies and crying mothers and brave fathers and—
“I said another.” The Bastian drawled, waving a coin in the keeps face for attention, still holding the cigarette between two long fingers. The woman moved without urgency, taking his coin and pouring the warm alcoholic blend slowly, glaring at the galdor as he stared at her in return. Once it was full, Eli lifted the mug and drained half, forcing down the urge to gag at the taste.
At least it was alcoholic. In a few minutes he would feel much better.