Drunk Philosophy

[Gale]

The Toy Lantern| Evening

33 Achtus 2718

There had reached a point where Gale was beginning to dislike their mind. For all the intellect it carried, its understanding and the capability to grasp onto complex thoughts, ideas and various academic practices – it carried its own, equally weighty burden. The burden of realisation, that the nature of the universe was complex while their purpose in it was up for dispute. For the most part the races were trapped within an ever turning wheel, ever to go through the same process – though the journey in of itself differed in all cases.

In all instances it was the same however.

One was born. One was raised. One worked, paid their taxes and inevitably died.

Now arguably, the Galdori would at this pipe up with something about their purpose in the universe was to guide their so called lesser. Or keep them suppressed depending on who you asked. It was masqueraded behind them receiving some higher order, their various deities of the world demanding such. Or something like that, Gale was not sure or really cared for the exact details. But the question then therefore was for what purpose?

If the gods did exist, then why did they require gift them – what was part of their grand design, their goals and futures. Better yet, what was their intention for humans? Were they merely to become beasts of burden beneath the thumb of others?

The smith groaned, thumb and forefinger pinching their brow. The alcohol was far from helping their thoughts from forming into anything coherent. The orbs lifted from the tumbler, the strong whiskey permeating up through their senses. It burned through their body, numbing warmth slowly sinking in. Around the wintery humdrum of the Toy Lantern. They were not exactly sure on how they ended up here and currently they did not care either. It was warm and the drink was cheap.

“But seriously, what’s the point in it all?” their elbow was propped against the bar, the better arm swirling the drink around, “How do we know? We don’t. Like, what if they don’t exist? And everythin’s a lie to comfort us all. What then? What’s the point in it all? Aren’t we then little more than mere accidents of existence? Blips that will inevitably fade out and disappear? What’s the point in the entirety of it all? We all just die.”

The barkeep was silent – seemingly ignoring them. Drink knocked back, the smith breathed, “Another.”

It was filled, brown liquid glinting in the candle light. Somewhere behind another performance was going on. They were not paying attention to what exactly.

“What we supposed to do with our existence if in the end it means nothin’?” they inspected the liquid, finger running around it, “Doesn’t it make everythin’ we do pointless, invalid? ‘Cause we’re all just a bunch of meat sacks with some sentience and therefore think we’ve got some right to run things? All meaningless really, life and all the partakin’ in it all.”

The thoughts did not help when they were stuck on a loop themselves. Constantly stuck on the ‘why?’ and preventing any real forward progress.

A sip, they could feel their cheeks beginning to grow flush. Thoughts lurched one way then the next, before settling, “We just fight ‘cause we can, do what we want, stab and kill and work. Yet we all just end up alone in the end. Born alone, die alone. Seems kind of crappy of ‘em Gods if it’s gonna be like that. Making us all chase our vices for a quick fix, a way to make ourselves feel good.”

[Xavier Zhirune]

33rd of Achtus

The Toy Lantern

evening

By the longed-for comforts of Roa's warm bosom, Vienda was such a strange place these days. No upstanding wick could even spend the night somewhere without a clocking writ, and while forging something like that wasn't so complicated as long as you knew whose whistle to wet and had a bit of ging in your pocket, that slip of paper with signatures and seals sure as Bash's balls were stone wouldn't guarantee you a job.

At least not when you were a musician.

Thankfully, there were a few open-minded spots in the Dives that knew how to take care of their own and had a bit of a soft spot for those with more talent than they knew what to do with in the form of auditory entertainment, and it helped to arrive early, smile pretty, and sell yourself with sweet words and a snippet of song. Which is, of course, exactly how one particular albino wick assured their spot on stage for the evening—perhaps with a few extra smiles thrown in for good measure because it was plumb clocking hard to convince Anaxi folks one was a local when you weren't a godsbedamned ginger.

Not that Xav was anyone but an eternal tourist, drifting through life like some glamorous, glittery cloud. Too bad they were currently just a disgruntled tourist who'd been stuck scrounging for ging for a bit longer than usual.

The Toy Lantern had filled out quite a bit, its cozy, smoky atmosphere almost a complement to the sparkly, dark purple smoky eyeshadow the pale musician had chosen to wear. Earrings and a few silver baubles on their fingers and slung low around their neck caught the ruddy glow of the candles and paper lanterns. Long white hair done up in a feral mockery of the latest Viendan female fashion accented by a few tiny braids, the wick looked dressed for Surwood Isle a whole season too early with layers of muted color in the form of a slim-tailored, high-collared coat and a couple of linen shirts left unbottoned and open to allow far too much pale skin exposed to the warm lounge interior, worn hems a pleasing frame for silver chains and polished gemstones. Knee-high boots and dark trousers scandalously snug, the willowy creature was moonlight poured into proper shape and armed with a well-polished oud.

Unfortunately, it was not yet Xavier's turn on the stage and in their impatience there was only one thing to do—drink ... and try not to criticize too harshly the small band of humans who were playing first for the evening, their rough music more akin to something from the dirt roads of Brayde County than the cobblestone streets of Vienda.

Oh well.

"Chan, please." Lithe fingers waggled at the barkeep, oud slung over one shoulder and resting comfortably against their spine, the albino wick sidled up to the worn wooden surface between two stools, one unoccupied and one inhabited by a young blond thing brooding over their cheap mug of something'r other. Violet gaze shifted sideways, elbows on the sticky bar, tongue pressed against the back of teeth hidden behind lips painted a shade darker pink than the pigmentless musician was capable of creating on their own.

The man had obviously already had one too many, petulant philosophy dribbling from their rather pleasantly shaped mouth, and yet as the gruff wick passed Xav their steaming mug of fragrant mind-altering tea, he happily poured more ugly brown liquid right into the other's cup.

Xav smirked, curling like a feline around the comforts of chan, half-sitting, half standing against the stool next to them. With a pause, the albino wick considered keeping out of the dark path the blond's words were taking them, but like Benea appearing from behind thick clouds on a winter night, the pale thing couldn't help it. Not one bit,

"Dze now—" A slow exhale curled steam off of the still-hot drink, froth parting in little eddies, the pale musician’s tone occupying a husky vocal range of ambiguous depth that did not at all aid in defining them as anyone but unique, "—ent nothin' wrong with feelin' good. In moderation. Or somethin' like that. A lil' bit o' feelin' bad ent ever hurt a body that much, not for long anyways, though sometimes it's what we all need t' appreciate things more when they're good. Besides, I happen to really like my meat sack, mujo ma."

The albino winked, holding themselves back from admitting their pouting philosopher of a neighbor didn't seem to have a bad meat sack from what they could see, either. Perhaps that was a bit too forward for the moment, and while Xavier wasn't really one to care, they didn't want to eliminate their opportunity for distraction while enduring the grungy, out of tune sounds coming from stage, "Even if th' Circle's a bunch o' spitch—which I don't believe it is, mind yourself—but even if th' Circle ent true, that don't mean we can't have a worthwhile life. It certainly don't mean there's no afterlife, gods 'r not. Jus' sayin'—"

Violet hues flicked away from the young man's face and back to the bartop, taking a swig of chan that was still a bit hotter than was entirely comfortable, hissing a quick apology,

"—epaemo. Don't let me interrupt your downward spiral too much, kov. Looks like a doozy 'f a fall, that."

A roll of narrow shoulders adjusted the instrument against the albino's back and sent the baubles around their neck tinkling, Xav willing to fall quiet in order to attempt to cool their drink with a few more gentle breaths over its dark green surface.

⟡ ☾ ⟡

[Gale]

The Toy Lantern| Evening

33 Achtus 2718

A lazy green eye peered from the corner of the smith’s eye. It weighed the creature up – the soft colours of the Toy lantern, the scents and alcohol causing the edges of their form to blur into a haze. The drink was rotated in their fingers, the lingering after burn slowly trickling away into a tingling numbness. The accent, or more the language, tickled against their senses – Tek – yet the unusual colouration presented suggested a less wick origin. It reminded them, briefly, of the complexion of Charity. But this one was a comparative giant.

The eyes slid away, moving past the immediate shape and down to the fingers to the various precious metals that dwelled there. Presentation, ostentatious, an attempt to-

Gale frowned. The word slipping from the mind.

Peacocking? To appear full of grandeur in an attempt to obtain something? The words escape.

Regardless, the smith was finding themselves rapidly less interested in the immediate aesthetic appear – they themselves a small mess of a day of working, the usual unwashed clothing with a poor attempt at tying the few strands back. What was more interesting was the words, the things not seen but felt. Even through the haze they felt the faint tickle of a field. Their eyes slid down to the feet, noting the clean boots in comparison to their ash covered leathers, before shrugging. At last the orbs settled where the elbow had planted itself, the faint reflection of the fabric seen in the surface that had been polished by time, alcohol and other things Gale did not want to think too closely about.

“And did I ever say there was anythin’ bad with feelin’ good, jent?” The irony was not lost on them, “Ne, t’is more the questionin’ of purpose and we placebo it with sensation. How one decides to get about to it, the flavours on the way, then more power to them. But that ent the point I’m chasin’. What’s the point in it all? With all our toilin’ and workin’. You said yourself t’ lead a worthwhile life, but then what is worthwhile?”

Taking a sip of their drink, the smith went to rub their features with their other hand. The shoulder stiffly complained, arm raising enough to have the digits stroke their chin, before they begrudgingly lowered it.

Weak.

“Mean, worthwhile is decidin’ on what’s valuable. What’s important. Keja. Some it’s ging, spur, other material. Others it’s a denk or some… wassit, goin’ for the next tumble. But everyone is different. But, everyone got a different thing to chase ‘nd achieve. Leadin’ their normal lives ‘nd not questionin’ squat. ‘Course, baker down the street is just like the baker in the far west, they only care t’know if their bread is gonna rise right and that people are still gonna buy.”

The whiskey was knocked back – again. Turning it over in their fingers, they slammed the shot against the bar. The malt taste spread through them, they felt their cheeks grow warm. Sighing, they straightened, fumbled around in their pocket for the loose change that existed there, before dropping a couple of forts on the surface. A gesture to the barkeep, the voice called out. A little loud, a little boisterous, but the intention was never the less clear.

“Another,” they ignored the sigh of the tender as he went about serving, the smith now focusing on the faint indents on the shot, a small metal cup, the faint indentations and thin pewter catching the dull candle light. They blinked, brow growing deeper as the golden liquid was poured in. The thick lilt was stronger with the addition of drink, rolling as they traversed their own thoughts, “Howsit all fit in though? What we, the masses, workin’ towards? Mean, if there be no Gods, no afterlife, no… whateffer. Like, there’s got to be a way it all comes t’gether. Meshes. Like for us to enjoy doesn’t someone else ‘ave to do the work? Sure, maybe they like the work. But I don’t think that’s the case for a lot of ‘em. What’s the incentive? What keeps ‘em?”

It was with their better arm this time they rubbed their eyes, fingers pressing against eyelids and wiping away whatever sleep and grime began to gather there, “How’d such creatures continue to work as if part of some great machine, one not even Galdor have say over.”

Leaning forward, they rested their chin on the surface of the bar. There, at the horizontal, they could barely see the faint shimmer of the whiskey they loomed before. The ears twitched, “Ye should blow on it next time. Cools all bunch. Cool too much though, it’s a lukewarm mess. Got to hit that sweet spot. Right where the work can be done and still keep some form.”

The mind flickered to the forge, the furnace, the roaring heat as coals grew white hot.

The face did not turn, but the eyes did – a glance of the hair. White like forge fire.

Lip curled, eyes drifting to the instrument before returning to the drink, “I’ve fallen further and harder. This is but the climb up.”

“What you chasing?”

[Xavier Zhirune]

33rd of Achtus

The Toy Lantern

evening

"Ne, y' jus' sounded like y' don't like actually feelin' good, let alone bad. That's all. " Hummed the pale musician, adjusting the polished oud that nestled so comfortably against their spine, lithe fingers leaving their chan on the bartop for a moment to curl into the woven strap. Glancing over the labels of barrels and bottles, violet eyes lingering over familiar Gioran imbibements and making note of curious new ones they'd yet to try, Xavier ignored the accusation of being a galdor, a clockin' jent, aware that they were an oddity in their halfbred heritage from their mountainous homeland.

The grungy blond was far more handsome than the equally grungy music that continued to drift from the stage, and the albino found themselves eager for it to be their turn both to end the auditory assault as well as to perhaps weasel their way out of a conversation they weren't sure they were prepared to participate so fully in. Clearly, they'd stepped into a deeper exchange of words than they were, in this moment before a performance, entirely ready for. Still, there was a pleasure in talking with someone without the typical needfulness for flirtatious affirmation so many bar patrons seemed to define themselves by. This young blond was half-drowned, not half-naked, after all, and that was fine. For now,

"Worthwhile's what y' make of it, I'd say. Can't waste your godsbedamned time comparin' to that kov 'r that chip or even lookin' too far ahead at what's next or what's not comin'. Ent n'other point than th' one y' sharpen outta th' stick you've been shoved, ye chen?"

The young man was quite inebriated, their introspective ramblings curious but sad. Had Xav ever questioned their purpose? Had they not wallowed in loss and confusion? Had they not lost their own way somewhere between the clouds and the cobblestones of this spitchhole-filled kingdom?

Gods, yes.

It was that questioning that kept them restless, that kept them moving and exploring and singing and playing.

Pigmentless eyes followed soot-stained fingers, watching the human lay their coins on the table and lingering on the rough surface of hands that labored for the forts they left on the sticky wood in desperation to drown deep thoughts deeper beneath the waves. The graceful, willowy creature chuckled—a breathless noise like a husky sigh—as their neighbor grunted for yet another whiskey without a care in all of Vita how the bartender felt about it, the familiar scent of the stronger drink carrying with it a strange sensation of nostalgia for home.

"I don' think even th' gods nor them clockin' gollies can tell you what you yourself 're workin' for, kov. That's your song an' n'one else's. At least 's far 's I'm concerned—not that y' need to care 'bout m' opinion." The lithe musician couldn't help but smile from over the rim of their mug of chan, breathing softly, tilting their head toward their strangely over-thoughtful but interesting neighbor, leaning a little closer, aware that their comments could be mistaken for an innuendo and not at all apologetic for the layers of meaning available to interpretation,"Oh, there's lots 'f ways to bring it all together, mujo ma. I ent convinced we're each here meant t' be alone. Life, like a good bit o' music, is made more beautiful when shaped by more 'n one instrument. T' be fair, kov, I ent sure your questions 've ever been answered—"

Bejeweled fingers wriggled in the space between them, implying the entire span of known time and sentient existence, "—which 's why folks 're still askin' instead 'f tellin'."

Wincing at the heat of liquid far hotter than anticipated against their tongue, Xavier couldn't help but distract themselves with a giggle at the sudden, almost concerned advice from the young man who'd sunk to their chin on the dingy bartop, their verdant gaze staring through their whisky as if somehow the golden liquid contained the answers they may not have really been looking for anyway.

Was the tidbit of wisdom really about chan? Was it about something else? Did it matter?

The albino wick smirked, pink-stained lips quirking in an amused expression at the handsome thing's admission, husky tone quiet, distant for a moment with the memories of that stomach-wrenching fluttering sensation as an airship ascended with any particular speed, "The ground ent so bad, but I do enjoy the climb m'self. Dze, chasin'? Me?"

Eyes returned to the steaming contents of their cup, squinting through the foamy hallucinogenic tea to make out little particles that had sunk to the bottom as if in an attempt to decipher their cryptic meanings. A few careful exhales over the surface to cool the liquid in silence, letting the blond's question hang in the air between them unanswered, unfinished, unsatisfied. After a sip of chan finally just right, Xav huffed a stray strand of hair from their face and turned their attention back on the young man next to them, pale eyelashes fluttering in thought,

"Th' shallow end o' that answer would be chasin' fortune an' fame, but that's jus' what looks pretty on th' outside an' gets me gigs like this one, ye chen. A bit 'f performance. The shiny side o' th' coin, which I like sharin' with folks. Th' real hunt for me's adventure—I'm chasin' th' stars, th' sun, m' own shadow sometimes jus' to see what's out there. Ent got but this life, so I don't wanna waste it in jus' one place, even if th' neighbors ent so bad t' look at, eh?" The tall Gioran's quest to experience life admittedly bordered on hedonism, eager to taste and touch and feel, eager to feed the insatiable curiosity that was disguised as the ever-elusive musical muse. Their compliment was subtle, but it was there, and Xavier left more words unsaid to drink more of their chan and listen to the current musical number on stage begin to finally wind down.

⟡ ☾ ⟡