[Closed] Woodworm & wormwood [Closed]

[Kit]

25th Loshis | Evening
The Ugly Duckling

The table was old, scarred, rubbed pebble-smooth by the touches of a hundred thousand tankards and glasses, a thousand thousand roughened fingertips. One such fingertip traced over a crudely gouged initial, taking in the sensation of the sunken woodgrain, the sticky patches of spilled beer, the crumbs lodged in the weathered graffiti.

...

Kit needed grounding after a long day, and the Ugly Duckling fit the bill quite nicely. Shae would be with him, but the fatigue that dogged them had taken them over again. It was happening less these days, he suspected that they were more comfortable in themself, but that wasn’t to say it would ever go away entirely. As it was, the small wick had no issue with being bundled up in blankets and quilts and cushions in their own cosy and colourful room, plied with tea and left to slip quietly into a comfortable stupor. The older musician had been adamant on separate rooms in their new flat- he wanted a comforting place for Shae that was utterly their own, that they could retreat to when Kit was having one of his bouts of insomnia, or they were feeling unwell.

He smiled at the memory of slipping a steaming cup into their small, grasping hands, two-thirds full so as not to spill if they shook. They had smiled up at him wanly as he dropped a swift kiss on their dark hair, and he’d winked with a smile, closing the door softly behind him.

...

Raucous singing erupted from a nearby table, and the man joined them absently, recognising the song. He had drunk enough by now that his notes rang louder than intended, his clear baritone more tuneful by far than the other would-be performers.

“...gold in great store...never shall play the wild rover no more and it’s no nay neverrrrr”

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

His foot automatically stamped the flagstones, his fist thudding the tabletop in time.

It was the last line of the chorus that had heads turning to look at him, his strong baritone belting it out, instinctively accented with the melodic ornaments he was so used to throwing into his performances. Those runs and mordents trickled into the harsh lines of the shanty, and, halfway through the song, his voice was the only one still singing...

“No never, nooo moooore!”

“Shut yer head, ye toffin!” yelled one deck hand, tossing what might have been a half eaten apple at the musician- Kit couldn’t tell, fending it off with the back of a hand- but one of his companions thumped the back of the thug’s head.

“You lugger, that’s Edevane…” and the rest of the words trailed off, lower than Kit could make out.

“Sorry lads, can’t resist a tune.” Dragging himself out of his daydream, the golly pulled his most charming smile from his back pocket, pushing himself out of his seat.
“Tell you what,” and he raised his voice loud enough to carry to the landlady, “Alice? Toss out a round for these fine gentlemen, my love?”

The woman glared daggers at him from across the bar.

“Ye’ll come here and pay up front, ye divil...but aye.”

…

Barely a half-hour later, he was standing on one of the thrice-repaired tables, belting out “whiskey in the jar”, tankard in one hand, lit cigarillo in the other…

It was only a matter of time before something broke. This time, it was the woodwormed edge of the table, and the golly found himself tumbling through space.

...meet me in the gutter, make the devil your friend...

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 25, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

The one thing Charlie disliked most about a jovial crowd, he thought wistfully, was that a jovial crowd so often broke into song. Even on a five, when the Duckling shouldn't have been so packed. Honestly, didn't these people have jobs to get to the next morning? Just because Charlie didn't, that was no reason for the rest of the Rose to behave as if it were an eight or a nine.

Charlie was about as musical as he was magical, which was to say: not at all. He still turned when he heard a clear baritone, more in tune than the rest of this drunken lot, raise up over the crowd. One of the only other gollies in the place, and he was crooning like he was on some kind of godsdamn stage. Charlie snorted a laugh to himself from where he sat when one of the less musically-appreciative patrons threw what might have been part of an apple at him.

"Alice," he said, all mock-heartbreak and charming smiles, "have you been betraying me with another man? I thought I was the only one for you." Perhaps it was a bit unfair to needle her when she was already clearly frazzled. She ran a hand through short-cropped iron hair and she switched her glare from the musician to Charlie.

"Close yer damn head, Ewing; I ent have time for both of ye, hear me? Toffin clocking erseholes, the both of ye." She slammed Charlie's drink down in front of him, and turned away, still muttering to herself. Ah, Alice. Charlie knew she'd never betray him; she loved him too much. Clearly "blue-eyed gollies" was her type. He would allow this betrayal, if only because the drink she'd so elegantly set before him was very good, and also she'd let him start a tab again.

Charlie's own blue eyes—prettier, in his own estimation, and he was always right—slid over when the man came up to pay. Too drunk, he supposed, to notice Charlie's sitting there. He felt only the slippery edge of a perceptive field before he twitched is own away, quick as could be. There was nothing after that; Charlie relaxed.

For about, oh, half an hour. If even that. That was as long as it took for singer to get up on one of the less reputable tables in the whole place. By then, Charlie had taken a cigarette from his case and held it between two slim fingers, frowning across the bar. He had a headache, and he rather thought he knew the cause. A five, he whined inside his own head, was supposed to be quieter. His grin never faltered or faded, but he was rather irritated.

Which, he thought, was why he said nothing as he watched the table wobble under the other man's weight. Wobble, and groan a little. Crack, maybe. The table was going to give, and Charlie was going to watch. It was somewhere in the middle of whatever awful tune he was bellowing that Charlie proved correct. The edge of that table had seen better days; just two weeks ago he'd heard Alice telling Suzie, her part-timer, that they needed to replace it before it injured someone. She likely hadn't been picturing this exact scenario; Charlie wouldn't have missed it for all the world.

One booted heel was put on the table's edge and it gave way with the unmistakable sound of splintering. The other golly went tumbling—tankard, cigarillo, song and all—from the tabletop to the floor, falling squarely at Charlie's feet. Charlie looked down between his knees, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. Annoying, Charlie thought; but a face he could work with. He exhaled a curl of smoke as he leaned down over that face and he grinned.

"Watch your step," he offered, all smiles and charmingly crooked teeth. He raised his eyebrows, face not in the least bit pitying or sympathetic. As an afterthought, he offered one pale, slim-fingered hand.

[Kit]

25th Loshis | Evening
The Ugly Duckling

The floor was EXTREMELY hard, and he had thrown up the hand holding his tankard in an attempt to keep from spilling, meaning that his elbow hit the flagstones with a bone-jarring crack. The cigarillo was nowhere to be seen, and in a brief burst of spite, the downed musician hoped it caught someone’s hair on fire...

A stream of colourful expletives burst from his lips as the lanky galdor rolled back, clutching the offending joint in pain, drink now forgotten,

"Thrice damned Circle buggering CLOCKING FUCK!"

Sense returned to the Galdor in the feeling of a field brushing his… A true field, not a glamour, though he nearly mistook it for one.

Somewhere in the background he dully registered Alice carping on about something or other… probably the table … he thought, dimly, but the owner of that field had just advised him to mind his step, rather sardonically. Kit's gaze rose, still blinking away pain, over feet, knees...focusing briefly on an outstretched hand before flicking up to the face. He took in the fine garments worn without care, the charming smile, gently dishevelled black hair and a rather pretty pair of blue eyes.

...oh, hello, darling…

One slender hand took another, sun-golden skin against pale, and Kit pulled himself to his feet with the other golly’s aid.

“Much obliged. Kit Edevane, most definitely at your service.. Yes alright Alice, I’m sorry,” he broke off, addressing the disgruntled barkeep with a plaintive expression. “Look, you can have my tips next time I play here, will that cover it?” He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, settling his worn, oxblood leather jerkin back into place.

For a moment, she looked like she would protest, but then the hard line of her shoulders softened and she nodded.

“Oh, alright. But I’ll hold ye to it, ye and that pretty thing ye drag along.”

“Shae’s tips are not on the table.” His cultured voice was suddenly hard, jaw tensing. Kit wasn’t quite so merry drunk as he seemed, and no matter how independant the wick got, and they definitely seemed more sure of themself these days, there was always this unerring desire to protect them that he couldn’t quite seem to shake.

“Down, boy. Meanin’ bein’, she keeps ye to your word, ye slippery bastard.”

Kit’s expression softened.

“So cruel.” He turned back to his gallant rescuer with a bright smile. “So sorry. I believe I was about to offer you a drink. I don’t believe we’ve met before, which is a crying shame.”

...meet me in the gutter, make the devil your friend...

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 25, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Such a creative and colorful vocabulary. Charlie felt himself warming slightly, singing notwithstanding, to the other golly sprawled on the floor. Alice didn't seem to agree; he could hear her dark muttering behind him. Charlie didn't bother to pretend he wasn't slightly mollified by that, too. At least Charlie had never broken anything. Much. Nothing so large as a table, at least.

The hand he extended was taken, and leaned into more than Charlie had expected. At least muttering at machines all day was good for something; Charlie wasn't a large man, but he wasn't thrown—much—by the weight. He grunted, but quietly. He also let his hand linger longer than was strictly necessary, retracting it only when the other man—Kit, evidently—broke off his introduction to address Alice.

"Charmed," Charlie let the word drop from his mouth in a round drawl, curling itself around his face like the smoke from his cheap cigarette. He put it back to his lips with his eyebrows raised, watching the little back-and-forth between the barkeep and the newly-upright galdor.

That was a rather nice jacket, Charlie observed lazily. A nice jacket and an accent Charlie couldn't quite place. Not from here, not entirely; and it wasn't Vienda either, not even the Brunnhold-tilted version of Charlie's own voice. Closer, he thought, to Brunnhold than Vienda. Ah, well. Just a sort of idle curiosity—it didn't really matter to him what the answer was, in the end.

She, hmm? And so riled up at the mention. Charlie filed that information away somewhere in his mind, under the broad category of "potential problems". No sense in thinking about it now. The smile that turned back to him was bright enough, and followed by such a charming offer. Charlie looked up—somewhat tall, he noticed with a mild note of satisfaction—and his languid perpetual smirk sharpened with interest.

"Well how can I refuse that?" Charlie gestured to the seat next to him with the hand that still held his cigarette, perched between pale, callused fingers. "And I don't believe we have; you would remember. Charlie Ewing."

Charlie inclined his head in a sort of echo of a bow, but didn't reach out for even the barest of polite caprises. He kept his field to himself, which is exactly where it belonged. Unlike the rest of him. Charlie tilted his head, letting his hair shift across his sharp face while he considered Kit. Yes, that was absolutely a face he could work with. "Which hardly seems possible. And yet, here we are."

[Kit]

25th Loshis | Evening
The Ugly Duckling

Kit folded himself languorously onto the seat next to his so-enchanting new acquaintance, practically melting onto the bar. Still a little shaken from his unceremonious tumble floorward, he rolled his shoulders once more, settling into himself with a small noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“Excellent. Alice, darling? Might I have a glass of that delightfully smoky rum you produced last week? And for the gentleman…?”

Elbow on the bar, chin in hand, the musician turned an enquiring look to the sharp galdor beside him.

“Charlie Ewing…” he rolled the name on his tongue like a mouthful of the spirit being expertly poured before them.

Ewing. That didn’t sound like a golly name… he took another glance up and down the man sat beside him, paying just a little more attention this time. The thumb of his right hand slid almost unconsciously across the palm to worry at the underside of the signet ring he wore, rubbing over the scratches and smooth, yellow gold of it. There were all kinds of reasons why a man’s name might be a queer fit.

He’d kept his, of course, but only out of spite. Let there be one Edevane not in crisp green with shining snaps.

Just the one, in battered wine-red leather, and let him be remembered for song and revelry and nonsense...and occasionally punching a fellow’s lights out.

Two long fingers slid a couple of coins across the bar to Alice.

“Yes, here we are indeed… at the risk of sounding terribly cliché, what keeps you occupied in this inestimable town?”

Lifting the glass to his lips, Kit took a mouthful, and closed his eyes for a moment. Ale was well enough, to pass the time, but you couldn’t beat good, fine, flavourful spirits, and, hedonist that he was, he always liked to savour the first taste. He swallowed with a contented sigh. A drop spilled onto his lower lip as he set the glass down, and he chased it away with his tongue.

Regarding the younger man with a curious smile, his eye was caught by the cigarette between those pale fingers, and he briefly considered lighting another of his own.

...meet me in the gutter, make the devil your friend...

[Charlie Ewing]

Loshis 25, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie snorted; he was always quick to make the joke himself, about his being a gentleman. Just as quick to refute it from anyone else's mouth. "The gentleman," Charlie said, all drawling sarcasm on the word, "is having whiskey. Neat—more of the same." He'd had two already. One when he sat down, of course, and another when the singing had reached a real height. It wasn't good whiskey, really, what he was drinking. But it was affordable, and Charlie rather liked that about it. Liked that about a lot of things, lately. He really would have to do something about that, sooner rather than later.

Gentleman or not, Charlie turned slightly and met the appraisal with no hint of shame. Sometimes he thought he should have picked a grander name, one worthy of a finer house—but he liked Ewing. It fit him, because he had chosen it to be so. Better than Almond ever had, honestly. And that wasn't precisely flourished either, was it? No.

The motion of Kit's thumb drew Charlie's eyes; he wasn't shy about that either. The ring there was heavy, important-looking. The sort of thing one wore to announce loudly who the wearer was, to anyone who cared to know. They were nice hands, Charlie thought, watching him slide the coin across the bar. Charlie always did like musicians, the whole music bit aside. Clever fingers, musicians. Clever tongues too, sometimes; Charlie evaluated this fact while he watched Kit take a sip from his glass. He hummed thoughtfully, taking a long drag of his cheap cigarette. The smoke unfurled between the two of them, a grayish haze in the low bar light.

"I'm a man of many interests," he said with a small laugh and a shrug of his narrow shoulders. "And the Rose is a flower with many petals." He tried to hold a sincere expression on his face as he said it, that damned absurd line about petals. He lost it as quickly as it came, and he raised his eyebrows.

"I'm a mechanic," he added after. He had been tempted to ask Kit to guess, but that game could sometimes backfire on him rather spectacularly. Also, he knew he looked nothing like one tonight—his clothes weren't neat, but they were clean and certainly not as rough as what he wore to fuck about with an engine. There was no trace of grease on his skin or hair, either, not even under his fingernails. Truthfully, he'd not had a job in a few days, which made it easier to not look like a godsdamn grease monkey.

Now it was Charlie's turn to look, bright blue eyes sharp over the rim of his glass. The whiskey warmed him considerably, inside and out; so did the looking. He set the short glass back on the little paper square Alice had provided. "And you, I take it, are a musician? Or is falling off of tables the sort of show Alice has to look forward to?"