[Closed] In The Rabbit Warren

[Khy Marah]

32nd Ophus, 2719
Warrens Watch | Evening

If there was something that Khy could say was her favorite past time when she had to come to Brunnhold, then it would definitely have to be paying a visit to the Warrens Watch. A delightful little place that was tucked into Dentis Street (honestly these gollies, who named a street after a season?) which was a particularly popular hang out for the lower classes that inhabited the Stacks. Humans, and the few wicks that tucked themselves into the University town, used the place as a safe haven. Warrens was in fact, originally the home of Warren Black, a human who had moved into the Stacks to work as a driver for the students and teachers on Campus. He’d set up a small meeting place in his home, for his fellow drivers to come and try his cellar brewed ale. Word of mouth had gotten around with the common folk, and soon Warren found himself earning more coin with his ale, then with with his driving services. He got himself a permit, and worked to gut out the home and turn it into a fairly decent bar, turning the attic into a small living area. The Watch didn’t serve food, and it wasn’t fancy, but it had cool ale and a selection of spirits and a place for companionship. Plain wooden stools lined the bar, which a short set of stairs led down from into a sunken seating area. Four long tables with bench seats took up the space, whilst at the front windows on either side of the door two bay windows had seats built in. At the end of the room was a space for a little live music, often occupied by wicks with fanciful instruments. When the drinks settled in enough, the tables were pushed together towards the other end to make room for dancing, should the lads and lasses be keen.

It wasn't all that the red head enjoyed. It was the ridiculousness that came when the older students or junior professors off the Campus decided they would ‘slum it’ with the locals, the jents easily pliable after a couple of drinks under their belts.

“On three y’say, we take this glass o’ rum, an’ knock it back? An’ then, wha’ about these?” The witch held the small glass between two fingers and her thumb, gesturing along the table at the other three that were lined up in front of her. Around the round wooden top, two young men from the University sat in their seats, cheeks warm with larger and teeth showing in wide tipsy grins.

“I’s whisky, not rum! And then you haveta drink aller…aller…allervthis.” The ginger one on her left said proudly, splashing half of his own glass of the alcohol on his silken mauve shirt, hazel eyes bleary already and tie off-kilter. Khy’Marah raised a brow, looking with concern at the drinks, before sweeping her dual-colored gaze to the blonde one on her right.

“All o’this?Now tha’ seems a lil’ excessive don’t y’think?” The blonde giggled, glancing at his companion with green eyes and a shrug. They honestly couldn’t have been more than twenty, full of themselves and finding great delight in the wonders of the lower races bar. A jovial jig played from the quartet of wicks in the music corner, one with a fiddle, one with a guitar and one with a hand held drum.

“Not at all! It’s quite the thing to do here in our fine city. Besides, a witch like you’s been around yeah? I’m sure you can handle a little drink.” He was less drunk than his companion, and a little more experienced in the Stacks, knowing that drinking games often led to a good chance of wetting ones whistle—so to speak—and wicks were known to be fair up for it. Not that anyone would ever know. Everyone was doing it, he kept telling his companion. Better than trying for the stuck up girls from the school, all too prissy for their own good.

And Khy could see right through him.

“Alright kov’s, if y’sayin’ so. We doin’ it together oes? On three? On three.” She smirked, flicking the blonde a quick wink and lifting her glass to indicate they should both get ready. The ginger whooped, holding his glass high with another splash, whilst the blonde lifted his and nodded to the witch.

“One. Two. Three!” Khy’Marah announced, before shooting back the whisky, already reaching with her other hand for the second and dumping down the empty glass. Skulling that, she reached for the third and downed it, smacking both empty glasses down with a shudder and a laugh. The ginger drank his first, his second and lifted the third, hesitating with an unsteady breath. Blondie shot them all, though he was a little more restrained, gagging on the last one and wiping his mouth with an awkward laugh. His companion finally took the third drink, threw his hands in the air to cheer, before dry wretching.

“Ne! Get y’erse out, ent wearin’ y’dinner kov!” The red head said with a shout, as the blonde grabbed his friend to drag him towards the simple lavatory, his face beet red and smile gone.

"Ne dustin' ye chen?!" Laughing, the witch leaned back in her chair, arm over the back and booted feet on one of the free chairs. They’d be back, no doubt, and she’d enjoy a good night of free drinks. If she could hold her drink till they passed out at least. Her long legs were covered in a ruddy red pair of leather breeches, stitched together by hand and accompanied by a brown woven leather belt. Her bodice was a tanned leather corset style top, stitched with boning and laced together comfortably at the front. It was intricately beaded with earthy colors, uncovered in the warmth of the tavern as her warm summer fox fur jacket hung on the back of her chair, baring the tanned skin of her archers arms. Around her shoulders, fiery red locks fell in various braids or loose strands, wild and free, and matching beaded earrings hung from her lobes. A silvery piercing sat delicately through the septum of her nose, its circular design not too large to be distracting and almost feminine in design. Her full lips were stained a rusty maroon, and her unusual eyes swept with a smokey shade of khol, the color suitable for both the blue of her left and the green of her right.

Tapping her fingernails against the empty glass, the witch looked around for her hapless companions, quite ready for another round should they be able to stomach it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

warren's watch

evening of the 32nd of Ophus, 2719

Emiel used to have regular nights off. He used to have a regular schedule, but especially in the slow, idle time of winter break an' after losin' Rohan the fall before, the purple-haired middle Emmerson's responsibilities 'd shifted. He didn't mind; it weren't like he had a lot of other spitch t'occupy his time except maybe gettin' into trouble or dobbin' to the Resistance when they wanted to hear what he had to say.

Winters were hard, though, an' ne jus' 'cause they were cold. Most of the students went home, especially this year, especially in anticipation of the government change. Em couldn't remember what it was like before Anaxas 'd been the seat of the Symvoulio—he'd been a teenager an' too busy to care. He'd been tendin' the bar of the Singing Badger almost the whole decade, though, an' he'd heard plenty of opinions and political views from locals and far-flung travelin' government officials since then, right there drinkin' at his counter.

On his off nights, though, the purple-haired wick didn't like to drink at home. He liked his own selection well enough, it were true, but he much preferred a couple of other spots in the Stacks where he didn't have to be anyone but himself an' the alcohol wasn't too expensive or didn't taste like warm piss. Warren's Watch was especially nice, even in the doldrums of Ophus with the kids away, 'cause it was much more of a lower races sort 'f place where everyone else could go an' have a good time who weren't students and staff of that school that brought 'em all income in the first place.

He liked the Watch 'cause he could jus' sit with a book an' drink good shit alone without too many jent judgin' him on account that he could read. Settled into one of the window booths with his lil' snifter of Gioran cognac, the nice, amber expensive stuff he didn't serve at the Badger 'cause Paolo'd said he didn't much like Gior, Emiel 'd watched the regulars filter in an' out, re-readin' the middle book of one of Fahren's trilogies, quite aware of the totally unrelated memories the words on the page dredged up. Maybe those were what kept him warm in Ophus, that sort 'f heat.

At the bar, a couple of students who'd not gone home for break were gettin' guttered, really plumb guttered, on pricey liquor. He watched the bochi flirt with a witch, quite aware they probably assumed she'd eventually pour herself into one of their laps if they bought her enough drinks.

He knew how it went—he'd certainly been asked the same, even tendin' his own bar. He'd not always said ne, either, so who was he to judge, right?

The redhead witch, as far as he could tell from here, were totally scammin' them. She weren't a tsat, that was for sure. Maybe she would empty their pockets. Maybe she'd call 'em a cab. Maybe she wanted whatever they had to offer after all. He couldn't tell, but it was humorous from a distance, tuggin' at old scabs, remindin' him of games he knew how to play.

Her studious acquaintances 'd maybe had enough, and at least they had the manners to crawl off toward the lavatory instead of makin' a mess on Black's lovely bar. How kind. Weren't enough jent like that in the world, really, in Anaxas. Amber eyes watched and waited while his gold-ringed fingers closed his book, carelessly dog-earing the page he'd stopped on. The purple-haired tsat shifted in his seat and stood, tossing back stray, loose strands from one shaved side of his skull. Picking up what was left of his drink and tucking the leather-bound novel under his arm, he made his way toward the empty space left by the students, slipping to one side of their abandoned stools and taking a seat.

Setting his snifter down with the jingle of a few bangles at his wrist, he leaned on the well-cared for wood and glanced over at the witch, looking first to the empty glasses before offering her a grin,

"Think they'll come back? It's clockin' easy to out-drink a couple 'f jent bochi." Maybe it were a challenge, even if Em weren't quite convinced he wanted to get guttered himself, but maybe he'd read enough an' now he wanted to forget one golly in particular. He grinned, though, freckled face and gold lip ring coy and curious, not used to many nomads in the Stacks.

[Khy Marah]

32nd Ophus, 2719
Warrens Watch | Evening

There was a disturbance in the edges of her glamour, a touch of something full of mischief and no-good, definitely not of the galdori kind either. Khy’Marah glanced at the drink that was placed on the bar where her companions had made space, moving her legs aside as a person slipped into one of the empty stools. Sitting more upright, the Blackhand tested the quirk of his aura as she let her two-tone eyes settle on the empty glasses, before drifting up to the violet haired kov beside her.

Sucking on her teeth, the witch sat more upright and mimicked his arms leaning crossed on the wood top.

“Oes kov, ent like these mung vroo boch t’ give up when they got th’ scent o’ tail, y’ chen? ‘course, ent any tail t’ be had, but shh we don’ need t’ break their hama.” Smirking, Khy tilted her head, turning to face the newcomer more and lean only one elbow on the bar.

“Now, th’ real question is, wha’s a tekaa doin’ drinkin’ this jent’s fancy spitch? ‘fraid y’ might sip tha’ thimble too fast if y’ have a real drink?” Her short nailed fingers gestured at his snifter with an arched brow, letting the gentle touch of good natured humor ripple in the breadth of her own aura. Glancing at the lavatory door, before looking back to the wick again, the witch leaned a little closer.

“Ne many o’ our kind in here kov, oes? Y’ local, or up from th’ golly city?” She glanced up as a drunken rabble of voices sounded from the lavatory, the two young men reappearing, the ginger looking a little less green though a lot more unsteady. The blonde half dragged him through the tavern towards the door, scowling at the newcomer before shoving his friend outside.

“Well…tha’s disappointin’. Tha’ freckled erse were th’ payin’ kind.” The red haired witch said with a sigh, watching the blonde fuss through the front windows with a rickshaw. A slow smile crossed her lips like a vixen sizing up a mouse.

“Hold th’ kensers, maybe tow-head’s go’ a pina in ‘im.” Watching the other galdor throw coins at the driver before slamming the door shut, Khy winked at the man beside her and giggled.

“Name’s Khy’Marah, but m’ friends call me Khy, y’ chen? Now, y’wanna have a real drink kov?” She laughed, a musical put on affair, loudly as though the wick had just told the most amusing joke known to woman. From the tavern doorway, the blonde galdor frowned and stalked over.

“That seat’s taken, half-breed.” He said with all the bravado a tenth form could muster, his decent field flexing with aggression. Khy giggled and reached for the galdor, tugging on his jacket and brushing her knee accidentally-on-purpose against his pants.

“’ere now kov, where’d y’ olio brunno go? I thought we were havin’ a drink r’ two?” Looking away from the purple haired wick, the galdor snorted.

“He’s done for, put him in a cab home.” His tone was dismissive, field full of hormones and frustration, threatened by the presence of the wick beside him. The red head pouted, playing with the button on his tailored clothing.

“A shame. I were wantin’ t’ introduce y’ both t’ m’ friend y’ chen? Introduce y’self kov!” She nodded at the wick, leaving him room to say his name and offer a greeting to the put-out galdor.

“Were tellin’ him ‘bout y’ game, with th’ three drinks, an’ he jus’ reminded me o’ a game tha’ we used t’ play in th’ kints. Though, it’s a bit o’ a hard one. Probably a lil’ too hard f’ a golly, oes.” The blonde’s cheeks touched a shade of pink, and he frowned at her, ego bruised as expected.

“Doubtful. A galdori mind is vastly superior to a wicks. Tell me this game.” Grinning, Khy’s eyes lit up.

“See, y’ have three players. Two face each other, sittin’ across th’ table. Y’ place y’ arms on th’ table, with y’ elbows bent up like so y’ see?” She placed her arm on the bartop, looking at Emeil with a smirk, wiggling her fingers.

“Then, they grip each other's hand an’ th’ third person counts down t’ begin th’ game, oes? Whoever manages t’ pin th’ other's hand t’ th’ surface, with their hand on top an’ elbow stayin’ on th’ table, wins! Th’ winner drinks half a shot o’ somethin’ weak, an’ th’ loser a full shot o’ th’ stronger stuff.” Glancing back at the galdor, the witch shrugged, letting her arm fall to rest her cheek on it.

“O’course, a chip like me ent much tough oes, so tis an unfair advantage f’ y’ kovs. An’ I ent sure I got th’ ging f’ such a game…jus’ an idea from th’ old days.” Her eyes slipped back to the other wick with a wistful sigh, as though reminiscing days of yore.

It took a moment for the cogs to turn before the blonde spoke.

“A bottle of Gold Hart, and a bottle of Rodriguez. And three shot glasses.” He demanded of Black, who gave Khy’Marah a knowing look before moving to comply. Khy clapped her hands, slipping from the stool and grinning at the newcomer.

“Like th’ old days, eh brunno?” She said with a wink, before taking a bottle and the three glasses in her hands and finding a free table. The blonde narrowed his eyes at the man, before grabbing the other bottle.

“Alexis.” He said by way of his own introduction, before following the red head to the table and finding a seat.

[Emiel Emmerson]

warren's watch

evening of the 32nd of Ophus, 2719

The ginger witch were clearly some nomad, her accent thick an' uncivilized in the sorta way that charmed a kov right into a caoja they didn't know they needed to be dancin' in. It worked, obviously, an' Emiel smirked when she admitted her blatant deceit an' skillful plan to drink 'em both under the table. Her bright, mismatched eyes flashed down to his snifter an' he chuckled at her,

"Oi, this be a real drink, mujo ma. It ent always 'bout the quantity, ye chen, but sometimes the quality." Emiel made a mockery of some offended face, dark brows drawn together beneath his bright purple hair, freckled expression hardly serious, "I can drink all the cheap spitch I want, bein' a barkeep myself, but sometimes I jus' wanna spend some coin on fancy 'cause it's good an' I earned it."

He shrugged, emptying the small glass cup with a wink and setting it lightly on the counter, leaning jus' so once he did, gold-ringed fingers tracing over the rim. His glamour returned her amusement with a wash of warmth, though her own was a curious sensation to the wick so used to the company of galdorkind. Maybe it were jus' stronger than the average tsat, really, an' Em followed her glance toward the lavatory while he answered her question,

"This ent a normal spot for bodies like us, ne, but it ent unfriendly. I were born an' raised here, myself, in the Stacks." The purple-haired wick smirked as those gollies spilled from the washroom, one of 'em lookin' worse for wear while the other looked rather calculatin' 'bout it all an' Em knew the type. Thought he could get an easy tumble. Thought he could get more 'n jus' drunk with his friend—ah, clockin' hell, he didn't even need his friend,

"Ne—wait—"

Emiel whispered, tilting his head with a smirk, leaning against the bar, digging its smooth, well-waxed wood into his back while he rest his elbows comfortably on it, watchin' the pair with all the experience of someone who got folks plumb guttered for a livin',

"—that jent wants somethin'."

He chuckled, sniffin', tongue pressed against the back of the gold ring through his lip for a heartbeat or two before he grinned back to the ginger witch in her outdoorsy attire, all tanned an' pretty enough to tempt a couple of gollies into hopin' for a fun time,"Junta, Khy. I'm Em—Oh, I'd venture I could handle a few more drinks, oes. More 'n this one."

Arching a dark brow at the frowning young man that approached, the jent's field all bent outta shape. He felt it all bristled an' angry, some frustrated young thing he could easily drop to the floor with a fist should he feel like takin' the risk,

"Watch what you call the rosh, now, kov, or she may lose interest. I ent here to spoil your plans, but anyway, I'm Emiel. You're what—a ninth form? Tenth form now, eh? I remember you an' your friends gettin' smashed one Saint Grumbles, pukin' on my godsbedamned floor in the Singin' Badger. I see plenty of faces, but I never forget the ones who lose their liquor on my shift like you did."

The purple-haired wick ignored the threat and ignored the insult, used to both but not workin' tonight, choosin' instead to taunt the poor creature because he didn't have anything to lose, not here, not now. He weren't behind the bar so he didn't have to take it. There weren't any tips for rollin' over an' takin' some jent's spitch jus' 'cause he wanted in some witch's skirts. He made room anyway but didn't give up his seat, no clockin' way, settling with the pair of them without a hint of the wariness that crawled through his freckled chest. Em kept himself from laughing while Khy dug into the poor blond's ego even as she stroked his clothes, quite aware of how this sort of ploy tended to play out.

Smirking at the proposed game, he made a theatrical show of patting down his vest, gold rings and the hint of a gold bracelet sparkling in the phosphor light, "Oh, well, I can spot you a bit of ging, but I ent got much mind for math, apparently. Might end up cheatin' you both."

Emiel's grin was wicked, cruel, and totally indignant. He slipped from his stool, listening to the blond galdor's order an' calculating jus' how many shots he could handle, on average, before totally making a real kenser's erse of himself in front of everyone. He followed along, sizing up the unfortunate youth just as he decided to introduce himself,

"Junta, Alexis. Let's see if you're a sports fan or jus' another bookworm, hmm." He clicked his tongue an' settled into a seat, pausing to roll up his sleeves just to make more of a flashy scene.