[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Lawn, Brunnhold Campus
Bethas 13, 2720 - After Practice

The sun had already started to set by the time practice was over and the Varsity dueling team started to drift off to their respective evening plans. The Lawn was filled with grumbling and laughter both from exhausted students looking forward to dinner and whatever free time was afforded them. Selections for the travel team had yet to be announced, and for the older students jockeying for coveted team positions that meant more intensity in their exercises. In pairs and groups, the swell of chatter turned from practice and school to future plans, the Arts Fair giving them a mid-week day of free time stretching out before them all.

Cerise sat on the edge of a group of other girls alone, and all she felt was exhaustion. Practice had been tiring, as it always was. She had, perhaps, pushed herself harder than she might have on any other day. Not just because of the upcoming team selections, although that was what she would tell anyone if they had asked. That's what she wanted it to be, and not this aching tenderness she couldn't shake ever since she got back to school after seeing her father. The first time in more than a year. She should feel better, or at least more normal.

All she felt was empty.

A hand came up to press on her eyes as she squeezed them shut. Better, she reminded herself fiercely. She should feel better. She wanted to feel better. Walking away upset after seeing her father was nothing new. Certainly nothing she shouldn't be used to already. The uneasy discussion of books, perhaps, was less usual. Maybe it was just that which made it linger in her mind, reaching to grasp at her throat whenever she was still for too long.

"...Vauquelin? Helloooo Vauquelin--are you listening?" The voice was followed by a gentle nudge from a perceptive field, familiar and friendly. Cerise snapped her head up to see Raquelle standing across from her, blonde eyebrows raised and a smile on her oval face.

"No, I'm sorry Rae--were you talking to me?" Ticks, was she really so inside her own head? Raquelle, to her credit, didn't seem surprised or upset. She just laughed, joined by a few other girls nearby who had been watching as the blonde girl tried to get Cerise's attention these past few minutes.

"I was just asking if you wanted to come out to the Stacks with on the five--Astrid, Mel and me. On a group date. We need one more girl, to make it even, and I thought, maybe...?" Raquelle blushed, but her gaze was earnest. Cerise blinked, surprised into momentary silence. They asked her, from time to time--she had yet to agree. It wasn't that she didn't like Raquelle and Astrid, although she was less than fond of Melpomene. But the whole scene seemed to terribly tedious. What did she want to go on a group date for--or any date at all, for that matter? She was busy enough, she thought. Her life was full enough, without that in it. Cerise opened her mouth to say no.

"Sure," she said instead, surprising both herself and Raquelle, "why not?"

"Oh. Oh!" Now it was Raquelle who was taken off-guard; Cerise couldn't blame her. She was amazed herself. If her confusion hadn't dissolved into such shy delight, Cerise would have taken it back. Nevermind, she should have said, I forgot I'm busy. With something. Homework, or Sish, or... something. But her brown eyes were bright and her pleasure so genuine, Cerise found herself smiling back instead. "I wasn't sure if--that's. Oh! Wonderful, it's wonderful. Mel, Astrid--she'll come after all!"

Astrid, short and dark like her Mugrobi father, turned to her with a smile and a thumbs up. Mel looked--well, she didn't seem upset, which was better than Cerise had expected. Their relationship had been strained since coming back for their final year. Cerise never had figured out why, and it had seemed too exhausting to ask.

Maybe, she told herself, this is what she needed. Not homework, not practice, not her nightly jogging laps around the campus. Company. And it was their last year together--she should try, she thought, a little bit. Before she couldn't anymore. Cerise had avoided going into the Stacks for a long time. All of last year and the end of the one before--maybe it was time to stop. After all, she really just had to avoid the one bar. No matter how popular the Badger was, it was only one bar among many. What were the odds they would go there, of all places?

The Singing Badger, The Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Happy Hour

The odds were, it turned out, higher than she had thought. At first, she had been too swept up in the novelty of the outing to take specific note of the path they wound through the narrow maze of streets. It had been a long time since she had been out in company, and longer still since she'd been in the Stacks to do it. Cerise had even dressed herself with a little more care than she usually did, just for the change of pace. They had all met at the gates before heading out. Mel had even offered her a compliment on her choice of earrings, which had been both unexpected and pleasing. The rest of the group had politely refrained from saying anything about Sish's presence.

Her date, such as he was, had been pleasant enough thus far, if dull. Lionel McAllister was a mildly handsome static conversationalist that she knew not at all; he was no duelist, but on some sports team or another. Cerise knew he had told her, but she had forgotten as soon as the information had reached her ears. He seemed content enough to talk about himself with or without Cerise's input, so she tuned him out and lost herself in the buzz of warm, excited fields. She hadn't come for him, anyway.

It was only once it had become far too late to turn back or feign other plans that she realized she knew where they were going. She was, in fact, quite familiar with the route, even if she had not taken so direct a one as this. Her stomach twisted and sank, her heart settling like a stone at the bottom of it. Of all the bars in the entire city, they had ended up in front of the only one she wanted to avoid: their little group had arrived at the Singing Badger, and there was nothing Cerise could do about it.

"Father, of course, thinks to give me a position with his company as soon as I've graduated. He wanted me to take a junior clerk's position--to 'work my way up'. Can you imagine? His most senior clerk is human, if you can believe it. So I told him, under no circumstances would I work under--" Lionel went on, and Cerise made some kind of vague sound before she turned to Raquelle. Lionel was still talking to the back of her head; she was starting to have regrets about her agreeing to come.

"Have you been to the Badger, Vauquelin?" Raquelle asked Cerise, turning away from her own date--a perfectly nice young man that Cerise had a vague memory of perhaps being her fiance and not a date at all--with a warm smile. Cerise's eyebrows rose, at a loss for words.

"I am familiar. It's--been a while, but I remember enjoying it." That was true, at least. If Raquelle noticed a slight awkwardness in her tone, she gave no indication.

"Oh wonderful! It is really quite charming, isn't it? I should have invited you before, since you like it here! Well, now I know." Cerise smiled, stiff and without touching her eyes. Raquelle didn't notice, she just let her possibly-fiance open the door for them all. At least it was a five, she thought desperately. Emiel didn't work on some fives. Unless, of course, his schedule had changed in the last, oh, year and a half. Cerise prayed to every god in the Circle that it had not.

But the gods, it seemed, did not listen to the prayers of one such as Cerise Vauquelin. Her eyes had turned, automatically and with the ease of a habit she hadn't seemed to lose, to the bar. The path of her sight had arced unerringly to a familiar face. Handsome and flashy, glints of gold she could see even from the doorway. She would have been able to see him from any distance, she thought, in any crowd. That made her angry, and she couldn't have said why or what with.

It hurt. She hadn't thought it would, after all this time--but she was the one who had nursed that wound, kept that grudge alive. Any time she had felt it fade, she had pressed on it, ripped it open to keep it fresh and bright. She had pressed on it more, this month, after seeing her father. Anger and sorrow and some kind of tender aching all at once; Cerise tore her eyes away and took her seat with the others at the table, next to Lionel and across from Astrid on the outside end. Sish settled in her lap, giving her somewhere to set her inside hand.

Cerise picked miserably at the table with the other, Lionel's voice in her ear, and all she wanted now was to leave without Emiel noticing. All she had to do was avoid looking at or thinking about him and his position behind the bar for, oh, at least an hour or more. Just that. Simple and easy.

This had been a terrible mistake.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

It were busy tonight, an', truth be told, Emiel couldn't bring himself to complain. The tip jar was full, bodies crowdin' the bar needin' some kind of warmth against the Bethas chill outside, drinkin' and laughin'. It felt good to see all the students back, drownin' in classes already, pretendin' this year would be the same as the last even though everyone knew it wouldn't be. Not because he were jus' 'bout ready for a day off (finally), neither, ne, but because Anaxas weren't the center 'f attention anymore, an' the other Kingdoms already knew. Brunnhold felt this keenly, so many local businesses havin' suffered a bit during a particularly quiet winter, piled up with snow. Luckily, the Badger had quite a solid foundation of loyalists, an' Em liked to think he had somethin' to do with it.

He tried to give himself a reason to stay, after all, what, with Rohan gone an' his shift all sheets to the wind now, pickin' up time behind the bar whenever he had to. It weren't as though it'd ever been real competition, anyway—Emiel was flashier, prettier, and damn faster, too. He got the folks at the bar smiling and spending their ging; he got the ladies paying more for fancier drinks, and he listened to those sad tales while fillin' the glasses of spurned young men.

If the purple-haired creature had an element, it was obvious tonight because he was in it.

The hearth was crackling and the little regular band up on stage pickin' some wintery tunes. Paolo and Eri both were in the kitchens, keeping busy. He almost had tonight off, but, well, Maur were havin' a boch about now an' it weren't like she could serve. Gavin was a decent kov, though, an' Em sent him off into the crowd to take orders while he lined up a row of particularly famous shots for an eager group of upper forms who clearly just wanted to forget all that time they'd spent at home for the winter,

"Now, ye gotta wait a tick here—" He was grinning, freshly-foe'd hair particularly bright, gold sparkling in the firelight and phosphor from his face to his fingers, quite aware that half the draw to the bar was how many buttons he'd bothered to undo from his collar,

"—where's the flame part, again?" A bespectacled young man stared critically at the milky liquor as it was poured into the pinkish-hued alcohol, the swirling mix of them almost scintillating as if metallic, but not quite.

"Yeah." Chimed in his freckled date, eyes wide while Emiel capped the pair of bottles he'd just poured, juggling them with a shake of his head, taunting them before returning the bottles to the shelf with all the flair he was known for,

"Hang on. I'm gettin' to that part. Sit back a lil' there—" He glanced up, then, past his bar that was his stage and into the crowd, just a flash of amber looking over new faces, keeping an eye on Ga—

The gold-ringed fingers that had begun to drift over his well-tailored, dark wool vest, reaching for the matches he'd hidden there that weren't meant for the cigarette rolled and tucked behind his ear but instead for the snapping of those same fingers over his infamous Flaming Miraan, setting them ablaze paused for a moment at the unmistakable bounce of dark curls and the undeniable gait of a particular galdor. Hidden mostly from view by the chattering body of a young man—a young galdor, of course—there wasn't any question that Cerise Vauquelin had stepped foot into the Singing Badger (n'even on a nine, godsdamnit) after so long (how long? at least over a maw an' a half) with a date (she'd never been back, not when he was workin', anyways).

"Far enough?"

"Eh—oes. Jus' right." Emiel's attention snapped back to the eager youths in front of him, almost audibly. He tucked that match skillfully between two calloused fingers, finding his grin again, and, having made sure just enough milky liquor trailed between the shot glasses so close together that all he needed to do was spark one to life with a snap!, enjoyed the heated rush of bright fire and gasps of delight far more than the sinking, strange sort of feeling that had already settled into his stomach.

"Amazing!" Squealed one.

"An anathema!" Choked the other, quite convinced it'd been magic instead of slight of hand.

"Shut your head and drink." Laughed the third, rolling her eyes.

Exactly, Em forced a laugh and gave the most theatrical of bows, waggling fingers in the direction of his thankfully overflowing tip jar before he smoothly stepped toward whoever was next. Amber eyes caught just the corner of his server's, the kov loading a tray with a fresh round,

"Gav, oi. I want you to keep an eye on that table." A well-carved chin tilted in the direction the new group had settled in, definitely sure of who sat there now, lingering on the serpentine shape so comfortably adorning her shoulders—

"What for, Em?"

"Ne'er you mind jus' yet. I'll pour their drinks, ye chen. You jus' tell me who orders what."

"Sure, if y' want. But those 're my tips on when workin' th' floor."

"Fair. I got plenty I ent gotta share."

The boy stared at him another moment, confused, before rolling his eyes and wandering in the direction of the table waiting to be served, smiling and balancing his tray of drinks. He'd head to the new table next, of course, though he couldn't see the big clocking deal.

She wouldn't 've known, anyway. Clearly n'even rememberin' his days off—ne. It didn't matter. He'd been workin' 'em since the hangin', after all, an' he'd done as he was told an' stayed away from the Incumbent's daughter for all this time. Fingers raking violet strands from his freckled face, he huffed and turned back to the pair of professors in front of him, clearly on a not-so-clandestine date.

How cute.

The thought soured in his suddenly rather dry mouth. He could go for a drink himself. Or, a smoke. It were too busy for either of those things, so fuck it.

"What can I get for ye both?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Happy Hour

"...And we've been spending our holidays in Florne, lately, but Mother says we should likely start going to Thul Ka, instead, with Marshall's aiming to become an incumbent and all that. It seems dreadfully hot there--do you go to see your father's family often, Astrid?" Raquelle was chattering away, a pleasant bubble of girlish charm. Even her voice was sweet; she reminded Cerise very sharply of Amaryllis. Not just in coloring, but an air of... gentleness, Cerise supposed. Or something like it. Astrid had answered, and the conversation had flowed around her without Cerise paying it much mind.

She should have sat further in. The outside seat was easier, with Sish on her lap. Normally the miraan behaved herself in crowds, but Cerise could never be sure when she'd have to bolt after her, or take her outside quite suddenly. Better accomplished when she didn't have to make everyone else slide out of the booth first. But sitting at the outside of the table they'd chosen gave her a good vantage point to look at the bar, if she should want to do so. And she wanted to, which was the whole problem, wasn't it?

Cerise ran her fingers along the soft scales of Sish's side, earning a chirp of satisfaction and a none-too-gentle headbutt against her ribcage for her trouble. Cerise smiled down at the miraan, moving her fingers to scratching just behind the crest of bright feathers at the top of her triangular head.

"Do you bring that everywhere with you then, Vauquelin?" Cerise turned her head, the smile dropping off her face immediately. Lionel--she had forgotten he was there, although she thought he had not stopped talking for even a moment the entire time. He was, Cerise observed lazily, one of those mildly handsome young men who seemed to think themselves fascinating by virtue of the symmetry of their features. He wasn't even that attractive, which was perhaps an unkind thought to have, but it wasn't untrue. Certainly, not as much as--

She really needed to think about something else. She raised her eyebrows at Lionel and let a sneer settle over her, comfortable and easy. "Yes," was all she said.

"I'm sure the young men love that," came Mel from down the row. There was some strange undercurrent of something in the way she said it, and Cerise's eyebrows creased. What had that been about? She couldn't see the other girl's face, seated as she was on the other side of Lionel. Astrid hissed at her to be nice, shooting Cerise an apologetic smile she did not return.

Lionel laughed as if that were a very funny thing to say. "Not all of us mind a little..." he flashed her a grin with all his teeth, "...eccentricity." He moved to put his arm over the back of the booth behind her. Cerise shifted towards the outside edge a very deliberate couple of inches, leveling him a look. Some irritation flashed over his face, but he put the arm back down. If this went on all night, Cerise decided, she would bite him. And not in a way he would like.

It was with a shocking amount of relief that their server, a young man she did not know, approached the table to get their orders. Astrid put in her own order, as did the young man she was with. Raquelle's fiance--Algernon? Lysander? Cerise couldn't quite remember--had ordered for her, and she had laughed and blushed. This seemed to prompt Mel's date to do the same, to similar effect. And then it was to be Lionel's turn, she supposed, making her last.

"I'll have a Gioran whiskey. And a Three Hearts for the lady," he put in, ignoring entirely Cerise's mouth opening to order. "I insist," came his blithe follow-up to the question she had not quite voiced in her glance at him. He had, of course, misread her entirely it seemed. She almost told him so, and sharply, when she caught a nervous glance from the corner of Raquelle's eye. For some reason, she couldn't quite bring herself to start trouble on an outing that Raquelle had invited her too. She had just seemed... so happy to have her.

Cerise smiled again, sharply and without mirth. "If you insist, then I suppose..."

An hour. She would give this miserable experience an hour, and if it didn't improve any she would leave. Fake an illness, say she had to feed Sish--anything. She liked Raquelle and Astrid, she really did, but their attention was devoted to the young men they were each of them with, and longer she sat next to Lionel McAllister the closer she came to doing something violent. It was worse, somehow, to be so bored and uncomfortable at once when she knew if she turned her head she could see Em behind the bar. Closer than she'd been since--

Sish made an angry sound; evidently, Cerise had put too much pressure on her without noticing. She gave her miraan a guilty look. Clocking stupid, and she couldn't even get angry to make it easier to bear. Maybe half an hour.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

This shouldn't 've bothered him. Seein' Cerise's face, even a glimpse of it, in the Singing Badger where she'd once not been allowed shouldn't 've mattered. She were a galdor, after all, an' could do as she pleased, when she wanted to, within the bounds set for her by the law an' her parents, of course. Her kind 'd earned that rite by conquest over the lower races, an' even Emiel had to live under the weight of that his whole damn life. It'd been well over a year, that much Em knew, 'cause he'd done his damnest to fill the emptiness left behind by the gravity of her field, missin' the way he didn't know what hollow felt like until some golly stole what felt like his whole clockin' heart without ever chantin' a single real spell. It wouldn't 've been so bad, maybe, jus' maybe, had her ersehole politician of a da not threatened his fami business.

Gods, he'd really never heard the end of it, an' it was jus' like calloused hands rubbin' salt in all his wounds, jus' like cauterizin' something bloodied and deep but leavin' the iron in the bloody hole 'cause you could. Havakda! What a mess of a year an' a half it'd been, too—all of it jus' a blur since the hangin' in Dentis, all of it jus' gettin' by kinda numb an' hatcher-may-care because he didn't want to deal with it all at once. He still didn't.

Em knew he'd not supposed to had feelings at all, not for someone like her, but by the time he knew them all for what they were, it was too late to stop from feelin' them. Stuck with them, he'd just shoved them away into the cellar like everythin' else, only instead of fancy-ersed wine, he knew it was all just so much vinegar.

Seein' her now, after everything, shouldn't have clocking made him feel a thing, but it did and he felt a flare of anger for lettin' himself. The purple-haired wick tried not to let it show on his face, though, and he did his damnedest not to look over, not to let his attention stray from the bodies pressed close to the bar on this surprisingly packed evening. The faces in front of him were smiling, eager, and more than one 'f 'em 'd been flirtin' since their second drink. He should've been payin' attention to her, to everyone, not sloshin' drinks or fumblin' bottles, not lookin' across the room.

She were allowed to go out with whoever she liked—he had. Even if none of 'em stuck, they still counted. His eldest sister'd married, an' here he was disinterested, unable to keep that candle kindled in any relationship for very long since ... well, since he'd been told to quit what he had. Even if he'd hardly seen anyone at all since Rohan died, well ... who needed the distraction of a warm body when there was so much work to do?

Exactly.

Cerise could spend her time as she liked, with who she liked, Even if this one looked textbook pretty like a decently challenging geometry question was pretty when you were through with it but still as clockin' borin' as an Ophus happy hour. Emiel couldn't help it, twirling a bottle of Gioran whiskey an' almost smashin' it all over the floor at the motion of that young man's arm—

Had he stopped talkin' yet?

Gods, fuck off, Em. He admonished himself, grinning as the trio he'd served Flaming Miraans to continued to proclaim their enjoyment, excitedly chattering at him even if they didn't really care if he heard.

"I need a couple 'f Clever Fellows, a Starfly, a Gioran whiskey, an' a Three Hearts—"

"A what? For Cer—for th' dark-haired chip with the miraan?"

"Oes, her kov ordered—wait. Em, who th' heck cares?"

"Gods. Ne. She won't drink that." Palates changed, he knew, but, surely not so drastically as that. The long-winded man 'd ordered for her? What an idiot, "Lemme jus'—Here, I'm gonna fix that for you, Gav. Jus' tell 'em it's on th' house, ye chen?"

"Em, I ent here for trouble."

"It'll be fine. Why would it be trouble?" There was that glitter of gold from his lip in his grin, but his amber eyes slid away from the younger wick. Somewhere behind him, in the kitchens, he heard his daoa's voice shout gleefully,

"I'ma gitgka again!"

An' if he had time to pour himself a drink and cheer, he would've. As it was, he looked back down to the teenager's face staring at him with concern,

"'Cause that ent what he ordered—"

"'Cause he ordered wrong." The purple-haired wick hissed, setting chilled Clever Fellows on the tray before he set the small tumbler and the little ice cube next to them, carefully pouring the Gioran whiskey and ignoring the rush of frustration that tingled through his veins. He might've over-mixed the Starfly, but it was such a fruity, ridiculous drink that he doubted any golly in a hurry to get guttered would even care to notice. The last bottle he set on the tray? Hessean Milk Stout and a pint glass, squeezed right in.

It was the least he could do, really, savin' someone he'd once called more than a friend from second-rate beer. Maybe, jus' maybe, it was just about the most kenser-brained method of sayin' hello, too—

Ne like he missed her. Not anymore. Sometimes, he still thought of her, sure, but—

"Emiel." Gavin's eyes widened, "What are you—"

"Trust me." He blew a kiss at the boy with a wink, waving fingers to send him off again, feeling something hot and painful churn in his chest while he turned away, sliding himself gracefully back up the bar to lean over it, elbows on the table, and press himself into the Perceptive-heavy field of the young ginger student and her couple of friends who'd been most generous with a fistful of coin the last time he'd loosened a button. They also happened to be halfway to guttered, which made them an easy, reliable distraction,

"Junta 'gain, ladies, you still thirsty?" Emiel purred, resisting the urge to watch Gav deliver the drinks to Miss Vauquelin and her date, Cerise and her friends. Maybe he peeked, glancing over the shoulders of the young women across the counter from him, sneaking a peek at the table, at that miraan, and at those dark curls one more time.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Happy Hour

Maybe she looked. Not on purpose, really, just--her eyes had followed after the boy who took their orders, for lack of anything better to look at, and he was going to the bar, so logically... Cerise had looked away, before she'd even really had anything to look away from.

That's why she didn't at all feel something constrict in her heart, looking at those drunk eager faces pressed up against the bar. They were allowed, and he was allowed to smile back--obligated, anyway, because that was the job, wasn't it? She knew that. A spark inside her found some tinder and caught. Not anger, at least not at them and certainly not at him. Maybe at herself, for feeling that little bit of petty jealousy she shouldn't. Of course anyone else in the whole clocking bar could make all the faces at him they wanted--galdori included. Because it didn't matter to them, it would be nothing. The fault was in her that she couldn't, because it would.

She was just tired, that was all. From practice, school, her visit home, seeing her father. Her father, who was the reason she felt this way to begin with--and he didn't remember, not a bit. Exhausted by having done what she'd thought was best, staying away all this time, only to have it come undone so simply.

Had Emiel even noticed she was here? Did he care anymore? She couldn't imagine so. Neither of them should have cared from the start.

"Inae seems to think he's a sure pick for the static team this year," Cerise said to Astrid's date, Darius Mariani. He laughed, and Astrid laughed too. Even Raquelle had, though she'd tried to hide it behind her hand. Cerise grinned, warming to her subject. "Have any of you seen how bold he's gotten with it? No? Well! Just the other day--"

"You duelists--you'd think this was the only subject in the world, the way you go on about it." Lionel cut in with another laugh. Cerise turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Of those present, Lionel and Mel's date (whose name she had not asked for and couldn't remember if she had been given) were the only two not on the team. Sure, Cerise was probably the most dedicated out of all of them, but there was something baffling about the complaint.

"What do you want to talk about then, cousin?" Raquelle's fiance interjected mildly, after looking at the slow fury building on Cerise's face. Cousin. That, then, explained why they had the spare to pair--although she couldn't quite imagine what had made Raquelle ask Cerise to be the one to do it.

"Yes, McAllister, what do you wish to discuss, if the topic of the table is so repugnant to you?" Raquelle's fiance (she was almost certain his name was quite possibly Arthur, actually) had put the question to Lionel like he genuinely wished to know. Cerise did no such thing; scorn dripped from her every syllable. Astrid coughed politely into her hand.

"No, no, carry on. Don't mind me, cousin. Eh, Langley? We can always entertain ourselves. Odd ones out should stick together, shouldn't we?" Cerise rolled her eyes, and she saw it again--that flash of irritation, paved over by a smile that made her skin crawl. An uneasy silence settled over their table, and this time Cerise couldn't bring herself to be sorry.

Just as well that the boy returned with a tray. Cerise was not, particularly, looking forward to her Three Hearts--they were entirely vile, all told. She would, however, drink it, because they were not as vile as remaining fully sober in Lionel McAllister's charming company. Cerise fixed her attention somewhere on the middle distance, Lionel's voice still in her ear, droning on about some story of his triumph or another. Had she ever thought him pleasant enough? This was why she didn't go out.

"An' a Hessean Milk Stout," came their server's voice, bottle and pint glass settled in front of her. Cerise looked over then, sharply. It took all her strength not to turn her head and look to the bar then, more than it had all night. Instead she looked at the label, peeling slightly off one corner. Cerise froze, unsure of what her face was doing. Astrid looked her a little sideways, but said nothing.

"Is this--this is a mistake," and she didn't know if she meant the order or coming here, because she was so clocking overwhelmed by the sight of one single beer and one empty pint glass, waiting for it. Cerise listened with half an ear as Lionel complained, but she didn't care about him right now. On the house--what was he doing? Had he seen her, after all? Cerise smiled at her beer, and it was the most ridiculous thing.

"--settle it. It's a matter of principle; this isn't what we ordered. Don't worry, I'll fix this." Lionel was trying to get her to stand so he could shuffle out of the booth. He was, she realized, going to complain. To cause trouble, because she was here. Which was the whole reason she'd stayed away in the first place--to avoid doing just that. Not from Lionel McAllister, of course, who was more a prick than a danger, but she twisted up all the same.

"It's fine, really--I like this better, actually." She tried to smile reassuringly at their server, who looked rather nervous. Reassurance wasn't her forte, and she was afraid the effort didn't meet with much success.

"You're sweet, Vauquelin, but these things can't be let slide. Langley, you come with me." Sweet? Had he actually used the word "sweet" to describe her? Cerise was so shocked she stood, scooping up Sish from the miraan's place on her lap and transferring her, loud and full of complaints, to her waiting shoulders. After a few soothing strokes along the small muscles of her shoulder Sish settled, her tail resuming its more usual configuration as her necklace.

Lionel strode towards the bar, full of the kind of righteous indignation that only the very foolish could feel. Langley trailed along after, less eager but willing to do what he was told. A spineless sort, Langley. She could see why Mel was interested in him. Cerise looked to the bar then, at last, not sure if she would catch any of the bright gold of Emiel's eye or not. Not sure she even wanted to, but she couldn't not look anymore. Undone by a pint glass.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

Emiel was really too busy to pay attention to much of anyone for long, and perhaps that was a mixed blessin'. He couldn't glance over at where he knew Cerise was sitting, and he couldn't keep checking on the quality of her date considerin' just what kind 'f shitty beer he ordered for someone he probably wanted to taste the lips—

Em, don't—just don't—don't fuck this up, for godssakes. N'anyone needs that.

He admonished himself for even thinking about such things, teeth digging into his bottom lip, caught on the gold ring through it. A bracelet or two jangled and the purple-haired barkeep realized his otherwise usually smooth, steady hand shook, dribbling the deep mahogany of the Bastian cognac he was pouring into a tumbler for the older professor of ancient history at the end of his bar right onto the surface he'd waxed by hand just a few days ago. Damnit. A regular, the toffin'd been gruff and unfriendly at first, but he'd warmed up over the years to the tsat and his fami, even going so far as to send them a gift of Mugrobi citrus every St Grumbles. He came 'round often, earlier than the majority of bochi fresh out of their uniforms, ordered whatever was on the chalk board outside as the dinner special, and finished with a glass of cognac and a bit of conversation.

Emiel still didn't know his clockin' name—

"I'm sorry." Ne, not really. I ent sorry.

He murmured to no one who gave a damn, wiping the counter and the now over-full glass and gently sliding it toward the old man with his faded red hair and thick spectacles. He knew who the words were meant for and calloused fingers reached up to brush over the rolled smoke behind his ear out of habit, out of longing.

Maybe he should step out for a—

Oh.

It was pure accident he glanced back across the bustling Badger, over the sea of ginger and blonde, smattered with dark patches here and there, all of them stood up by one dark wash of curls. Gavin was still standing at their table, and while Em was too far away to feel his glamour, he could read the younger wick's body language, he could see the way his hands moved in the sweep of apology, wanting to take the Hessean Milk Stout back. Cerise declined and the young textbook-faced man next to her was already attempting to move.

He saw it coming, now. The unfortunate jent felt stood up by a superior drink.

Damn right he did.

Em smirked without flinching, meeting the sharp, grey-eyed glance that so willingly searched him out (as she always did, really, or at least, as she always had), right there, from the other side of the warm, well-worn interior of the Singing Badger with its raised stage and comfortable booths. It didn't sting as much as he thought it would, lookin'—ne, seein'. Oes, his chest tightened, breath stuck for a heartbeat 'r two, but his coy expression didn't falter. Something ached, inside. He felt it like a hangover, but he'd felt it for more than once before, it weren't new or strange. It were familiar. He'd kept this feelin' close when he shouldn't 've; he'd hidden it in his pocket like a riff in his boot. It'd been a pina manna. It'd been over a maw, really, an' if that face weren't everythin' he remembered, well, shit, he was jus' too damn sober to be sentimental.

Three Hearts 's spitch, he would 've said if he were closer. You know't an' I know't. I did you the favor you deserve.

Ne, dammit. You deserve better, some quieter, more bitter voice all but rumbled through his mind, aware 'f things he'd been forced to believe even if he weren't ever sure they were true. N'even now.

Hot and bright, Emiel held Cerise's attention for longer than he should've, tilting his chin toward the bottle left on the table before turning away with a clocking chroveshit wink, his glamour drawing close and tight like a sharp inhale, like that first puff after lighting a match. His amber gaze flicked toward the swiftly approaching man she'd walked in with, the textbook-faced windbag who ordered moderately-priced, disgusting beer that were only served here 'cause some folks sometimes jus' wanted to get guttered without feelin' cheap.

The jent'd brought a friend? What for? It were one drink. An' the right one. Did the young man not want a decent evenin'? Did he not know Miss Cerise Vauquelin at all?

The purple-haired wick pretended not to notice, pretended not to be aware of what, exactly, was looming closer, busying himself by wiping the rest of the bar, noting drinks that needed refills. He couldn't help but look up at the first wash of that pair o' fields, thick and ready. Emiel was making sure to dry his hands with the towel, feeling that tension in each finger, twisting rings, stretching knuckles.

He put on his best grin for them, arching a dark brow with a toss of violet from his face,

"Is there a problem, sirs?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Happy Hour

Cerise remained on her feet after Lionel left and took Langley, the spineless creature, to hassle Emiel at the bar. Let the rest of them think it was McAllister she was concerned for, or Langley even--truthfully, she wasn't sure "concern" was the right word for any party involved here. They would hardly be the first puffed-up pair of young men in green to demand something inane, and they weren't the last. If anything happened to McAllister and Langley, it would only be what they deserved. And if anything happened to Emiel--

--Well then it would be her fault for being here when she shouldn't, and she could figure that out if it happened. But he could take care of himself. Lionel McAllister was no threat, just a puffed-up child with extremely selective hearing.

She caught Emiel's eyes after all, and he didn't so much as flinch to look at her. So she wouldn't either, not even when the that godsdamn smirk from across the sea of noise twisted something she hadn't thought could twist anymore. Cerise didn't flinch and she didn't smile, because as far as anyone in this bar knew, they were strangers. Anyone watching, anyway. Her eyebrows rose, but she didn't even know if he could see her face that clearly at this distance.

Of course he winked at her when he turned away; why wouldn't he? The absolute nerve. Cerise wanted to laugh, but she thought it was more likely she would cry. Neither of these things were acceptable anymore. No, she corrected herself, they never had been. She'd just pretended for a little while. Cerise leaned away, but she kept her eye on the scene as Lionel approached the bar. Sish watched too, eyes bright and suspicious, even if she didn't know what she was looking for. If Lionel McAllister did anything, Cerise resolved, anything at all--she would go over there and slap him herself. It was the least she could do. For either of them.

***

The young man in question was undaunted, pushing through the crowd when it refused to part for him. Langley followed behind him, apologizing in passing to everyone, because of course McAllister couldn't be bothered with something like that. He shoved his way to the bar, spine straight and blandly handsome red-haired face drawn in the kind of lazy affront reserved for those used to having their way.

"Is there a problem? Clocking right there is. I ordered a drink for my lady friend there, and your boy not only gave her the wrong thing, but insisted that it was on the house. I don't know what you're trying to pull, here, but I'm here to set it right. Even if I have to carry it back there myself." Lionel tugged at his jacket, face a parody of haughty disdain. He would not budge from this point; it was a matter of principle, of honor. Of looking good in front of Vauquelin, even if he didn't really need to try that hard.

"I don't need to cause trouble," he continued, with a flex of his rather mediocre static field, "but the girl is distraught." Langley, somewhere to his elbow, made a kind of disbelieving choking sound he tried to turn into a cough. Lionel held, not turning to look at the kenserfaced ersehole he'd dragged with him. Just in case, of course. McAllisters didn't play the odds, they made them.

At last it seemed like he was being listened to, properly. Honestly, this is why you couldn't trust halfbreeds to operate a business. Not even the relatively civilized ones. No sense of propriety, or their place in the order of things.

"Why do you care so much, anyway, Lio? It's just Vauquelin--I don't think she cares. Are you trying to impress her or something? What for?" Langley was always the kind of short-sighted fool who couldn't see what was in front of him. Lionel liked that about him, but it did get irritating. He suspected it was this quality that let him be pushed around by that harpy Melpomene, but that was neither here nor there.

Lionel turned to his friend with a patient smile. "Don't you think she's pretty, Langley?"

"Well, sure, I guess. But she's. You know. Mouthy." Langley frowned, confused. He was lucky he had Lionel around to guide him really, the idiot. The whiskey was making him feel benevolent. He'd had most of it the second it had arrived at their table--no sense in wasting time, he thought. He really didn't plan on being here long. Just long enough.

"Vauquelin's a bitch," Lionel drawled, leaning against the bar with a conspiratorial tilt to his mouth, "make no mistake. But you've heard the rumors about her, haven't you?" There was a significant raising of his eyebrows, and Langley's blue eyes widened. He really was a towhead, Lionel thought with some fondness.

"You don't think they're true... do you?" Lionel shrugged, or at least he tried. It was difficult to achieve, leaned up against the bar as he was.

"I have it on good authority that they're at least credible. And if she was so desperate as to make it with some wretched halfbreed, how grateful do you think she'd be if a real man paid attention to her? I know her type, Langley. The weird ones," he declared with a smirk, "are always easy."

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

One heard mant mana spitch as a bartender in one of the more popular pubs in the Stacks, from confessions of drunk love to admissions of wonton infidelity, from searing hatred to boring-ersed studiousness. He'd been flirted with. He'd been insulted. He'd been caressed, groped, and punched. He'd called a few cabs and sent a few folks home separate jus' to protect those who he could see were only there to be preyed on. He'd had to drag a few folks onto the street. He'd punched back. He'd spent a few nights in jail and paid fines. He had a clockin' record. He'd heard secrets and promised not to repeat them. He'd heard erseholes like this one talk about their dates like they were objects in the room. He'd pretty much heard it all, truth be told, and while he wanted to say none of it surprised him anymore, it were clockin' different to hear all this spitch from the mouth of a young man that walked in with Cerise Vauquelin.

The galdor sidled up confidently toward Emiel, field sigiled and expression haughtily irate. Calm on the outside, the purple-haired wick was in his home, behind his bar, and he set down his towel to rest his palms on the smooth, well-cared for surface, leaning just a little in order to hear this jent complain. His amber gaze fossilized on the sharp features, drawn as they were in self-righteousness,

"Oes, well, it ent too confusin' actually. There's n'any need to make a scene. I gave Gavin th' drink, an' it's on me. This is my house. If you're tryin' to impress that lady 'f yours there, you don't treat her to a Three Hearts—you only buy a lady too many Three Hearts if you're wantin' to get guttered on the cheap. I did you a favor—" Making a theatrical show of himself, confident and preening like the violet bird he was, Em craned his neck around the golly's shoulder to let himself take one more glance at the dark-haired young woman he knew too well, "—she don't look distraught. You sure?"

The galdor wasn't getting his toffin tsuter erse behind his bar. Ever.

Em smirked, shrugging his shoulders—this textbook beau could ruin his own evening, "This your first date? Tryin' to make a good impression? Attaboy. Some ladies like a go-getter, takin' charge. Tellin' folks like me what for, eh? Listen, jus' keep that stout. I'll get you your damn Three Hearts. It's your night, sir, ne mine." Taunting him further with all the coy confidence he was known for, the wick turned toward the large ice-filled rectangular tub he kept stocked with a rotating selection of bottled local beers.

Just for the fuck of it, Emiel took his time, making the mung bastard wait. Cerise didn't want the Three Hearts, ne. That much he knew, an' if this were the sort of spitch she were out drinkin' with—here, where he was, n'even on a clockin' nine (fair, that were, in his opinion, anyway)—then what th' hell happened?

He couldn't not listen, arranging bottles until his fingers curled around the green-glass neck of the beer requested.

Pretty.

Mouthy.

Bitch.

Ne, he didn't.

Teeth dug into his lower lip, catching that gold ring through it, and Emiel inhaled sharply, feeling a tension crawl up his spine, an instinctual reaction as if he, himself, had just been insulted. This jent had ordered shitty beer and didn't even have any positive opinion of—

Oh.

The rest filtered in, the barkeep unable to mistake any of the words that followed, the pair of sorcerer's dicks leaned up against his clean bar with their dirty mouths and dirtier hearts, putting an Incumbent's daughter down like she were unwanted spitch in the gutter jus' 'cause she weren't erseholes like they were. The hint of rumor about a relationship he not only knew about but was the subject of felt like this toffin 'd just taken his bare hands and ripped stitches from a wound that 'd never healed.

He heard it all.

Surely, Cerise wasn't playing a game with this young man.

Surely, Cerise was ignorant.

Surely, if he'd said this spitch to Cerise's face, she'd smash a bottle into his geometrically pleasing skull without a second thought. Emiel had to stop himself, he really did. He valued his job. He'd done this for too long. He had a record already. He couldn't go 'round punchin' every deservin' laoso tsuter that walked into his establishment, no matter how much he wanted to. Sometimes, he had to let them hang themselves—

He exhaled through his teeth, hurt flaring far deeper and even more raw than just the scars left behind by letting go of the dark-haired galdor across the room.

Hot, bright eyes flicked down to the hands on the counter, fingers drumming, impatient while the ersehole called himself a real man and admitted he were jus' lookin' for an easy tumble in the same fuckin' breath. Still dripping small pieces of ice and cold water, the bottle of Three Hearts slammed down, harder than was at all necessary right onto those slim, uncalloused fingers mid-movement, crunching them beneath thick glass,

"Real men don't need to get a girl drunk to get laid."

Emiel Emmerson threatened cooly, unapologetically, and far too loudly—as in, everyone pressed up against the bar in their various states of sobriety totally heard the purple-haired tsat call out this young man and his intentions while handing him a drink meant for the girl in question—shamelessly invoking his right as proprietor and barkeep to officially announce that this young galdor in front of him was now under his watch,

"There's your beer, kov. I'll add it to your tab, eh? Off you two go back to that nice party 'f yours."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - (Not So) Happy Hour

Cerise kept her eye on the bar, not sure what it was she was watching for. Surely, neither McAllister or Langley had enough spine to cause any real trouble. She thought she knew McAllister's type; they were common enough. The oldest son of a powerful family that had been powerful for longer than the Vauquelins had ever been--not political, but the McAllister's had money and that mattered more in most ways. Used to having his way, and petulant when denied--she had not missed the flare of something that had gone over his face when she'd sneered at him, when she'd moved out of range of his arm.

Clocking hells, she was too far away to hear what McAllister was saying. Not that she wanted to--she was sure it was nothing pleasant. It was frustrating all the same. She could go up to the bar herself; nobody would know but the two of them that she shouldn't. But what would that accomplish? Nothing. Nothing at all. Thank you for saving me from that Three Hearts, she could have said, and in another lifetime she might have smiled. I'm not really here for him, she could have said that too. Like that mattered. Like he cared.

No, like she cared. Which she didn't. Not if anyone asked, and nobody would ask. If she cared, it was her own fault, and she would keep it that way. They had, she thought firmly, both moved on. She had, anyway. That there had been nobody since, not really, was coincidence and nothing else.

"Lionel will sort it all out, don't worry," Raquelle offered from her seat next to Arthur in the booth. Cerise looked down at her, surprised to be spoken to. Like all her attention had been drawn across the room to the scene unfolding at the bar; like she had come here for that, and not for Raquelle and Astrid and Mel. She smiled briefly at her friend and came to sit again, perched now on the end of the bench.

"You're right--I'm sure it will work itself out." Cerise occupied herself by pouring the stout from the bottle into the glass, tilting it carefully to keep it from overflowing. It wasn't a smooth, easy action; it was not as awkward as it might have been, some years ago. She had watched Emiel do it enough to know how it worked at least. Only the edge of her grey-eyed vision was kept on the bar now. "Now that they're occupied, let me get back to my story about Inae. So just the other week, I was cleaning up after practice..."

Cerise turned her attention from McAllister, from Langley, from Emiel and put it instead on the conversation. It was easier, without McAllister around to ruin things. She smiled, Astrid smiled. Melpomene let out one of her funny, distinctive laughs that sent Astrid and Raquelle into stitches. When Cerise looked over to her green-eyed friend, she almost felt like things were better between them without her much trying.

The conversation was broken abruptly by the sound of Lionel McAllister's yelp, ringing out even over the noise of the rest of the bar. Cerise turned; they all turned, then. She stood, the movement less smooth than it might have been and accompanied by a series of squawks from Sish at her shoulder. She hadn't seen what happened to make the sound; she didn't care. Whatever it was, he likely deserved it.

Maybe that would have been the end of it, or maybe at least she could have stayed out of it. Maybe, if she hadn't heard McAllister's voice rise again, over all the noise of all the other voices and all the other conversations. If she hadn't been able to hear, clear as crystal, what he said next.

"You lousy clocking halfbreed, how dare you--" McAllister's voice was a snarl; before she knew what she was doing, Cerise was making her way across the bar. She didn't think Emiel needed her help, not really. But she felt responsible for the ersehole she'd been saddled with, even though this entire outing had been someone else's idea and until this evening she couldn't have remembered his face or name. Also, there seemed a strong possibility McAllister would give her a reason to hit him herself. She could use the satisfaction.

"McAllister!" Cerise called out to him, and she didn't care who saw her now. Sorry, Raquelle, she offered silently to the blonde girl she'd left behind at the table. She wanted to be good, she really had. All she had wanted was to spend time with her friends. But her head hurt and her heart hurt and she would be damned if she let that slide. Cerise drew herself up, sharp chin raised and every inch of her jagged, aimed right for that arrogant clockstopper who was holding his hand like his fingers had been broken.

"Vauquelin, sweetheart, don't worry. I can take care of this. I'm not too hurt. You should go sit--"

"What did you do?" She had gotten to the edge of the range of her field now; she saw him flinch from it. Good. He should. It bore down on him like a fist; a few more steps and she was to the bar. Cerise glanced, very briefly, to Emiel's face and then away, back to the idiot in front of her. A look of confusion passed over his face, and Langley's; McAllister realized who she was angry with before Langley did. "Nevermind--I don't care. Just come back to the table and stop making an erse out of yourself. You too, Langley."

McAllister looked first to Langley, and then to her. He did not, she notice, look at Emiel. His face twisted. The warmth of the bar drained out around him; he straightened. That was the moment when Cerise knew she had miscalculated. She had thought McAllister a simpering, spineless sort--the kind of who had a lot of self-importance, but if push came to shove would crumble. A darkness passed over his face. She felt that mediocre static field spark hot, too hot, and to her horror she heard him start to cast.

It was relatively quick, this variation on that favorite of unruly children everywhere: quick to cast and hard to counter. Before Cerise had drawn breath enough to tell him not to do it, it was too late: a bottle behind Emiel's head shattered, contents alight and spilling out towards the floor.

Roll

Lionel McAllister setting things on fire:
Today at 4:06 PM
@Cap O' Rushes: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Emiel Emmerson]

the singing badger

evening of the 15th of Bethas

On the wall outside, next to the door with handles carved like badgers holding instruments, prepared to begin a musical number and cast in bronze hung a sign. The sign was rather standard fare across all mixed race bars, especially in the educational center of the kingdom here in Brunnhold. It read, in summary, how the use of magic in combative and offensive ways was strictly prohibited inside the public premises, about how all magical duels were to be carried on outside with sufficient witness, and how all altercations, magical or physical, were punishable by law and the management held the right to persecute as needed for damages. While most of those statements were true, the last bit was simply ornamental—Paolo Emmerson 'd never won a godsbedamned fort from the civil court system suing galdori customers for damages. In fact, he'd only attempted to sue once, failed miserably, and almost spent time in jail instead.

For the most part, the Singing Badger 'd never been a place of violence. Drunks certainly could get belligerent, regardless of their race, but Emiel 'd had very few problems strong-armin' them out onto the street or kindly convincin' them it were time to go lest they embarrass themselves further in front of their peers. Most of the time. There'd been exceptions.

This were one of them.

The purple-haired wick might've gone a lil' too far, but he really hadn't smashed the jent's hand that hard. It'd been a warnin'—an' a fair one in his opinion—but when the hapless child of a man began to howl like he'd broken digits, Em knew he'd fucked up. Em knew this weren't going to go well. A flash of gold to the other boy's shocked face, to half his bar laughing and the other half lookin' plumb scared, and Em caught a brief glimpse of movement. Then he heard Cerise's voice.

"Ah, shit—"

He'd been called worse, honestly. This weren't nothin', but it weren't about him, neither. This were about what this ersehole—McAllister, apparently—thought of Cerise Vauquelin and what he thought was comin' his way in disgusting defiance of said wrong and perverse opinion,

Sweetheart.

What a godsbedamned—

"—called you an easy tumble, he did—"

Emiel would've said more, palms flat on the table, glamour so taut that he could've bounced coins off it, but her voice tugged at a loose old string that almost unwound him entirely. Her accusatory tone nearly dragged an apology clean out of him, as if she'd been accusing him of anything when she hadn't. She were clearly addressin' this ersehole whose face was twistin' into some dangerous mix of clockin' pissed and fuckin' embarrassed.

Em knew the type.

He knew exactly what kind of laoso piece of chroveshit this McAllister was—

He felt the tide go out in front of him, that stomach-churning, nerve-tingling sensation of pure monic power shift as that same young man gathered his field, sneered like the superior creature he was, and snapped somethin' quick in Monite before Em could even get a word of warnin' to his customers. Truth be told, he knew the spell (no golly'd wanna hear how similar it was to somethin' spokes passed 'round in their Almanacs, somethin' the purple-haired wick 'd cast plenty 'f times), but he didn't have any time to make comparisons.

"Ne, don't—"

Hindsight was gonna be the only bitch tonight.

Glass shattered in a bright explosion, fiery heat and sharp pain ripping into his scalp and back of his neck, searing his shoulders, fueling his frustration. Being alcohol, it was brief but hot enough to shatter nearby bottles on the shelf in a cascade of shards and little flickers of flame. His ears rang, but Emiel was already in motion, ignoring whatever 'd stuck in his burned, freckled skin to leap over his well-cared for counter, snatching for the bottle of Three Hearts he'd smashed the galdor's fingers with and barely managing to curl it against his calloused palm.

The kids he'd pleased with his Flamin' Miraan an' the cute secretly datin' couple squealed in fear, scrambling back. The old professor, though? He stood, slowly, gathering his field but said nothing, not even after the barkeep landed on his feet on the other side, right there in this McAllister's fuckin' personal space.

He didn't think twice—no jent needed to be given a second chance to cast again an' he want—didn't need—already knew what Cerise was capable of. A blur of green, a grit of teeth, and Em knocked that bottle right into that real man's pretty as a textbook illustration face without even givin' him a second warnin' first. It wasn't hard enough to break the glass, but gods how he wished it'd been. It might've broken a nose, though. That satisfying crunch feelin' so good reverberatin' through his hand.

There was that eerie buzz of shocked silence, all attention where the action was. Even the band 'd stopped. He heard Paolo's voice shoutin' in the kitchen.

Em had 'bout thirty seconds to take care of this mess. Or less. Probably less. An' he only had 'bout five ticks before someone found some collie patrol outside.

"Get the clockin' hell outta my bar, Mister McAllister."

Despite his use of the galdori student's name, there was something about his tone that wasn't quite as specific as it should've been. It were all 'round angry, jus' like his wet, bloodied face. He might've meant this one ersehole. He might've meant every last body in the whole Singing Badger.

He couldn't even look at Cerise. He didn't need to, there in the churning sensation of her familiar field. His amber gaze flickering hot and furious like the flames that'd just singed him a moment ago, he just couldn't look at her right now. Instead, he fixed McAllister, whether he was even still standin' or not, with his most professional of glares. It weren't like he was any taller than this piece of chroveshit, ne like Rohan would've been. Em got the real trash end of the gene pool on height. He squared his shoulders and felt blood trickle down his neck, scalp stinging, letting the Three Hearts crash to the floor to cross his arms over his chest, aware that this was precisely where the law got really damn fuzzy.

As in, dangerous and entirely unfair.

All it would take was one galdor accusation and one agreeing witness and Emiel Emmerson would be spending another night in jail.

Like it mattered.

Godsdamnit.

"Now."

Rolls

Bar-hopping:
Today at 8:41 PM
#whatamidoing: 1d6 (4)
Total: 4
Bottle-grabbing:
#fairenough: 1d6 (2)
Total: 2
Face-smashing:
Today at 8:44 PM
Result: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5