WHO: Melys, Carver, Alistair WHAT: Honoring the fallen by getting hecka drunk WHEN: Nowish WHERE: Kirkwall NOTES: If your character would also participate in Ostagar Anniversary Drinking and we missed you, let me know!
Kirkwall has come far enough in the last thirteen years that a tavern called the Mad Mabari—as clear a signal of Fereldan ownership as you get—can stay in business with minimal vandalism. Its clientele is mainly who you'd expect: former refugees, made insular and proud by years of malignment, and born and bred Kirkwallers there either because it's cheap or because they want an Authentic Fereldan Experience. Strong drinks. Mushy stew. Dog scent so strong it never fades into the background.
Today it's particularly packed, and particularly-particularly packed with Fereldans in their early thirties or older, maybe their spouses and children or maybe not, trading off between singing drinking songs and loudly recollecting the misadventures of friends who have been dead for well over a decade.
Not the most somber memorial.
Alistair wades into it in plainclothes, because he goes nearly everywhere in plainclothes in the city. Wardens make people nervous, either about impending arrival of darkspawn or the impending departure of their best goods and fighting-age children. And whichever familiar face he spots first, he winds up nearby and looking conspiratory.
"If you let me sit with you and pretend to be my friend," he says, "I'll buy your drinks."
Of course Carver came here. It's a little taste of home, something he feels keenly today. Thirteen years: a lifetime ago. He was a young, dumb boy of eighteen trying to protect his family and wanting to find a place in life. He'd almost found it, before the darkspawn struck and Loghain made his infamous choice to retreat, leaving them all to die. Then everything fell apart.
He still has his mabari tattoo, poorly drawn and faded with time, but it's there. The men he fought alongside of remain as fuzzy images and voices in his memory. The feelings linger more than their faces, though he still has a grasp on most of their names still. Hearing some of the stories being discussed around him brings back a few details, and he finds himself smiling from time to time.
As he takes a drink, he finds someone sliding into the seat next to him. Of course, he's hardly surprised Alistair's here. That day changed him, too. He cocks a brow at his offer before setting his drink down. "Because that doesn't sound a touch desperate or anything." He huffs out a laugh. "But all right. I think I can manage. Want me to guffaw and clap your shoulder and everything?"
A bony palm slaps onto his before there's any chance. Probably a bit harder than necessary. Melys slings a stump about Alistair's neck, and leans between them to leer.
"Guffaw? Seen one of those once, th'kind that say words, ain't they? Rivaini." She's not drunk enough yet to believe they're actually talking about parrots, but she shakes her head anyway. "Already got proper, patriotic birds here tonight."
With less venomous irony than she'd otherwise employ speaking of a Hawke (tonight's a night for unity). Melys releases Carver to rap on the table twice, before swinging a pinky at Alistair and shouting at the nearest harried server.
"He's got mine." The girl rolls her eyes on the retreat, and Melys swipes up a piece of bread, shoved unceremoniously in her mouth. "Think she likes me."
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Today it's particularly packed, and particularly-particularly packed with Fereldans in their early thirties or older, maybe their spouses and children or maybe not, trading off between singing drinking songs and loudly recollecting the misadventures of friends who have been dead for well over a decade.
Not the most somber memorial.
Alistair wades into it in plainclothes, because he goes nearly everywhere in plainclothes in the city. Wardens make people nervous, either about impending arrival of darkspawn or the impending departure of their best goods and fighting-age children. And whichever familiar face he spots first, he winds up nearby and looking conspiratory.
"If you let me sit with you and pretend to be my friend," he says, "I'll buy your drinks."
no subject
He still has his mabari tattoo, poorly drawn and faded with time, but it's there. The men he fought alongside of remain as fuzzy images and voices in his memory. The feelings linger more than their faces, though he still has a grasp on most of their names still. Hearing some of the stories being discussed around him brings back a few details, and he finds himself smiling from time to time.
As he takes a drink, he finds someone sliding into the seat next to him. Of course, he's hardly surprised Alistair's here. That day changed him, too. He cocks a brow at his offer before setting his drink down. "Because that doesn't sound a touch desperate or anything." He huffs out a laugh. "But all right. I think I can manage. Want me to guffaw and clap your shoulder and everything?"
no subject
"Guffaw? Seen one of those once, th'kind that say words, ain't they? Rivaini." She's not drunk enough yet to believe they're actually talking about parrots, but she shakes her head anyway. "Already got proper, patriotic birds here tonight."
With less venomous irony than she'd otherwise employ speaking of a Hawke (tonight's a night for unity). Melys releases Carver to rap on the table twice, before swinging a pinky at Alistair and shouting at the nearest harried server.
"He's got mine." The girl rolls her eyes on the retreat, and Melys swipes up a piece of bread, shoved unceremoniously in her mouth. "Think she likes me."
She does not.