061 ± [visual / location: the black friar] done with all the circlin' round

[aintnoconvict]

"All right, I'll try and make this quick:"

Glitch? Getting to the point in a reasonable amount of time? Is it possible?

"For those who don't know me: my name's Glitch, I'm that guy who's been here since forever and kinda know the most about all the...stuff that goes on here. Sorta."

No, no it is not.

"Anyway, ah...I've been studying the lighthouse and found some peculiarities with the light-beam thingy which I wanna discuss with everyone. Or most of you, if you can make it. Plus there was that whole hanging out and having drinks thing which I mentioned before all the stuff north of the river happened-- hey we can talk about that too."

Yeah he is taking notes now, all frowny and confuzzled.

"Right! Unless you've got something drastic going on, let's meet at the Black Friar after sundown for the...sunlight-avoidant. First round of drinks is on me. See you later."


ooc: Gathering of the citizens! This is a mingle log so tag in, tag each other, frolic away. I will be adding a tag of Glitch discussing his Very Scientific Observations and there will e a Q&A to follow which I hope will e full of threadjacking. And here havesome pub details. Go go go!

Comments

[thepersianyouth]

Listening to Horst's pleasant voice, Bagoas (the reservedly amiable, enigmatic courtier that he is emulating at present) can't help but marvel not only at the length with which Horst Cabal speaks, but the insights he lays out in the air between them. At last, thinks Bagoas, there is someone here who truly speaks my tongue. Finally, someone who seems to hold an intimate understanding of how he views the world and its inhabitants. So long has he gone without this touch of intrigue that he finds himself positively smitten. The compliment (sharpest knives indeed) sinks in, takes hold, and behind his pleasant smile, Bagoas' mind dances with ideas of how to repay it properly.

There is a Persian proverb that says one learns courtesy from the discourteous. It does not explicitly extend its validity to other contexts, but it does make intimations: learn the wisdom of sobriety from a drunken fool; grace from those sadly lacking.

However, he is not at all sure what he may possibly learn from this. If one knows not what to make of a situation, perhaps it is best not to find oneself in it. Were Johannes Cabal a woman, Bagoas would suspect him of deliberately spilling the drink; as he is not, Bagoas doesn't know what to make of it, other than having outstayed his welcome.

Horst's clothes ruined, Bagoas' hopes of intrigue-making squandered, he finds momentary respite in helping the barkeep mop up the mess. "There is no need for apology," he tells the fairer-coloured of the brothers (and, indirectly, the dark-haired one as well). "Too much of a good thing often renders a man loose-limbed and more besides," he adds, sparing a thought to his late King and Master, to whom strong wine often proved too tempting.

To Horst, "In retrospect, I fear I've made an error of judgement: my timing is unforgivable, but perhaps my departure can go a ways in redeeming myself in your eyes. If you would excuse me."

[trojanhorst]

Few things are as effective at spoiling a close conversation as a lapful of whisky; so startled is Horst that he doesn't have the opportunity to react properly, enhanced speed or no, and can only concentrate on not accidentally crushing his glass of gin tonic in his hand. He sets the glass down as he stands, whisky running in large wet tracks down the legs of his trousers and joining the spattered puddle on the floor.

"I beg your pardon," Horst says to the barkeep and Bagoas alike with no small amount of strain in his voice at being presented with a situation he absolutely cannot salvage. He swabs ineffectually at his trousers with several small bar napkins while the bartender and Bagoas attempt to mop up the rest of the mess. It doesn't take Horst long to give up on his part of the endeavor.

As a vampire, he isn't sure he can actually get a headache; funny how he has one anyway.

"Johannes," Horst says curtly, stinking like a whole orgy of alcoholics. "We should go."

[somelittleinfamy]

Somewhere in the back of his sullen, intoxicated mind, Johannes supposes that both Horst and Bagoas think he did that on purpose. Fine. Let them think so. He certainly doesn't do much to correct the impression; anyway, he might as well have done it on purpose, he reasons, like he gives a damn, like Horst couldn't stand a little public embarrassment for a change.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Home is sounding like a good idea right now. He wanted to stay home in the first place. The--whatever he is, the foreign hijra or eunuch, looks exceedingly uncomfortable. He's not the only one; look, Herr, Fräulein, I'm drunk., he could say. I don't want to be here, in a broad or specific sense, you don't want me to be here, I think we can agree that by any definition no one wants to be having this conversation right now. So why don't we--

Johannes does not say this. He instead tips the remaining whisky back into his mouth. It burns going down. "No, carry on," he says with a gesture indicating Horst and Bagoas and their little interlude. "Don't let me stop you."

[trojanhorst]

Horst knows when Johannes is being purposely obstinate. Defiant. He's done it since he was about six years old, since he insisted on disliking fish at dinner because Father took Horst out fishing that morning and Johannes (who couldn't yet swim) was too young to be invited along and had thrown a tantrum. It's what Johannes does; he turns into a first class brat when someone tells him he's done something out of line. The alcohol isn't helping.

Horst is soaked halfway down and thoroughly irritated with the way Johannes seems to have set out to sabotage their entire evening. He's in no mood to be patient with his brother's immaturity right here in front of everyone.

Instead, he smiles softly and leans in to curl one hand around the back of Johannes's neck, sticky-wet fingers tangling into the hair at his nape, then bends in to press his mouth near to the shell of Johannes's ear. Hushed and low, he intones, "If you don't stand up and walk politely out of this bar with me right now, please believe I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out. Little brother."

[thepersianyouth]

Whether willingly or otherwise, Bagoas does not say, you already have.

When Horst moves, Bagoas extricates himself from between the men, and bows his head. There are times when being dismissed and dismissing oneself is nearly the same thing. Regardless, both hold the desired outcome in this particular context.

The eunuch slips away from the continuing conversation, as silent and unobtrusive as if he never insinuated himself to begin with.

[somelittleinfamy]

Johannes makes a noise of disgust directed at his glass of whisky and jerks his head sharply to one side to indicate what he thinks of being manhandled, drunk or no. He looks unsurprised, though, and indeed fairly impassive about the whole business.

Briefly it looks like he might double down on his protest--but no, the fact is, he's been looking for an excuse to leave for about a half hour. "Fine," he says in English. "Mister--whoever you are. I regret that we couldn't have met under better--"

But Bagoas is gone. Johannes blinks at the spot where he was a moment ago, then makes another face and gets to his feet, pulling his shoulder abruptly away from Horst again. He gives him a look intended to communicate that liquor hasn't changed his own feelings on personal space.

[trojanhorst]

Horst frowns and shakes his head -- but at least Johannes is going. Horst is gratified he doesn't have to somehow muster sufficient aplomb to be able to walk out the door with soaked trousers and a grown man drunkenly struggling over his shoulder while Horst looks effortlessly unflustered. Even his acting abilities do have limits. They should go before Johannes changes his mind.

Miserably aware that he has a job and his brother has only his starting account, Horst reaches over with his wrist extended and settles Johannes's slightly staggering tab (everything but the first drink, paid for by their host), plus a ten credit tip for their very hard-working bartender. He offers apologetic looks to Mayland Long and Glitch on his way out, but mostly keeps a watchful eye on Johannes, to make sure he stays steered toward the door if need be.

It's cold outside. Maybe that'll sober Johannes up a little, which'll be an improvement for one of them: it certainly won't help Horst's headache.