DRINK CLUB.

[saam]

WHO: all y'all (potentially) (if you want) (i'm not your boss).
WHAT: remember this? well it's happening now.
WHEN: 15th Firstfall
WHERE: The Diplomacy Head Office.
NOTES: I'm (Pel) probably gonna hiatus after this goes up, so I won't be on this log much, but please feel free to reach out (see: contact info page or just DM me its cool) if you need anything. Also CW: drinking, obviously.

The Diplomacy office's (scant) furniture has been pushed to the side, and several lines in chalk have been drawn on the floor. A table to the back holds several tankards, and more kegs. The alcohol within is not Qunari rotgut or wine, but instead the run-of-the-mill ale served in the mess hall. You're welcome.

The rules are simple, and Eshal outlines them clearly: "Everybody, walk on the line without falling over. Take a drink-- the whole tankard, thanks. Then walk the line again. Repeat until we've only got one left standing. No drinking water or eating until it's over."

But there is another matter to discuss.

"Winner gets a favor from me, called in whenever. Second, third, forth and fifth runners up get... a kiss from whoever else's participating. If the person you choose won't claw your eyes out first, of course." Wink. "All prizes must be called in by the end of the day, or they're, what's the word, fucking gone."

She holds up a tankard. "Let's get started!"

Feel free to do whatever you want, thread this however, and if your character didn't 'officially' sign up, they can still participate! Likewise: cheating? If you don't get caught, it's not cheating. Duh. So get creative!

In the end, though, the were dicerolled, so feel free to play out how and what they do to win (or not win) as you like!:

First Place Sabine

Second Place Lino Nieri

Third Place Sister Sara Sawbones

Forth Place Nikos Averesch

Fifth Place Kostos Averesch

Comments

bastien | ota

[cozen]

[ His showing might not qualify as respectable, exactly, but Bastien isn't lying on the floor because he fell down. He's lying on the floor because he's a floppy, languid drunk—to use the term "drunk" a little loosely—who apparently loses interest in competition much faster than he loses his balance. Lying on his side, he has his head propped up with one hand and minimal wobbling, and the encouragement he occasionally offers to people still in the running isn't quite slurred. Only silly.

For example: he taps his free hand against the floor to keep time with someone's steps along the line, gives them a triumphant sort of point when they reach the end, and announces, ] Beautiful work, astonishing grace, [ or confides to someone closer, ] Pardon my impropriety— [ impropriety pronounced with obvious care for the proper arrangement of its inner syllables ] —but you have magnificent ankles.

[ Or other, more personalized compliments, if someone would like to stand in his field of vision for a moment. ]

[bouchonne]

I do, don't I?

[ Byerly settles down cheerfully beside Bastien, sitting on the floor. For once, he is neither drunk nor pretending to be - there's a half-drunk glass of whiskey in his hand, but it's both the first and the last of the night. A reversal of the usual order of things - historically, Byerly would always pretend to be the stumbling, slurring one who would smash into the rich man and tread on his feet and sloppily distract him while another, more skilled individual would lift his purse. ]

Ankles and calves. Those are amongst my finest features, if I do not boast too much.

[cozen]

You do not boast nearly enough.

[ Debatable. But unless someone would like to come over and debate him, at length, delving into details and the relative value of the physical features Byerly might brag about compared to the character strengths he might claim to never have exhibited or perhaps even heard of—unless someone would like to do that, Bastien is going to say what he likes. ]

What would you say is the single finest? No— [ reflective, lazy; he stretches his legs until his knee pops ] —that is a stupid question. Of course it is your eyes. What would you say is the second finest?

Sister Sara Sawbones | OTA

[okayimin]

[ Sawbones hasn't ever been a heavy drinker, but there's something to be said for growing up in Dust Town where your choices were run off from the Diamond Quarter and Duster rotgut. The ale goes down smooth as silk by comparison.

She shows up with a huge basket easily half her size and filled bottles wrapped in scrap linen to keep them from breaking. ] Right. Spindleweed and rosemary. Better you get yourself disqualified drinking something that won't turn your guts inside out then puking them out all over the floor.

[ She's looking a little worse for wear, with dark circles under her eyes, but slugs 'em back with grim determination. She lasts up until she starts to wobble visibly and then topples over entierly. ]

Stone fuck me, that's an out. [She frowns at the nearest person and adjusts her habit, which had fallen entierly eschew. ] Oi, gimme a hand up, willya?

[Being fall down drunk will not stop her from lecturing others on the dangers of being fall down drunk and as the final two finish, she can be heard from somewhere: ] Hey! Get yer sun fucked ass over here and drink somma this tea before you fall over your own feet!

[ Please do not remind her she's meant to be getting a kiss from someone. ]

[exequy]

You are supposed to kiss someone.

[ Kostos sitting down, not at risk of falling over his feet anymore than he already has—and not the person she’s shouting at, accordingly. Just an innocent bystander. Bysitter. An innocent bysitter looking sullen and Nevarran, with a bit of a split lip from the tussle that ensued when he grabbed his brother by the ankles to drag him down and ensure he lost.

But he’s near enough to hold out an expectant hand.

For tea, not for a kiss. Probably. ]

[okayimin]

Get fucked.

[ She does hand him tea, at least. More importantly she doesn't chuck it at his head. ]

'mma official Chantry Sister. [ She gestures to the habit and robes, in case he missed them. ] I took vows

[heorte]

Sun-fucked.

[ Ellis sounds as if he's about to laugh, but he takes her by the hand. ]

I'll have the tea, if you have a cup with me.

[ Since out of everyone in this room Ellis is likely the least in need of tea to keep from puking. But he doesn't see any sense in arguing that point with Sawbones in her present state, so trading his flagon for a cup of tea is the easier route. And it's not really a hardship. ]

[okayimin]

[ The scowl she gives him for his help is downright friendly. ]

You heard me.

[ She takes his hand and lets Ellis haul her up. Which all told does not take a great deal of effort. She stands firmly and scowls with more intensity at Ellis. ]

How's your arm? Those stitches hold?

[ There's probably a better time to do a follow up when she isn't swaying. ]

sabine. ota.

[glandival]

[ When she finds herself the last woman standing--

She does not experience quite the same amount of exuberance as having won at last month's round of fight clubs. She is, after all, very drunk, but doing a decent impression of keeping herself together. At least, internally, that is how she feels. Externally, there is sweat on her brow and her eyes are half-lidded as she sort of fixes her hair, fingers clumsy, then presses her palms to her temples and considers her options.

She wants: water, food, a nap, and for the world to stop spinning.

That's why, a few minutes later, she is on the stairwell. She hasn't made it far, sitting on the stairs, and sort of going down them in a technique normally reserved for toddlers, flat palms on either side of her butt as she lowers herself down one by one, ass first, feet braced.

Fuck yes. This is working great. ]

[ ooc; at some stage, sabine sneaked a shot of whiskey into someone's ale midway through the competition. feel free to be that person. ]

[byblow]

[ Somewhere in Thedas, sometime in the last few ages, someone composed a song similar to the opening riff in Dominick the Donkey, and that song has entered the general consciousness—somehow—as the tune that slowly accompanies pantomimed slow plodding and related physical comedy in lowbrow stage plays.

So that is why Alistair, stood on the landing below Sabine and observing her admirably steady progress with cocked head and raised eyebrow, starts to hum it. ]

[glandival]

[ Sabine pauses her progress to lift her head, and it's hard to tell if she is glaring or if that is just watch her eyes are doing. There are two Alistairs, and they are both making fun of her.

Which doesn't stop her from continuing her way, just as she is, though maybe a little faster. ]

I will fight [ she says ] both of you.

[ But soon she is a step or two away from the landing, feet finding the ground, so she's just. Sitting. Both hands go up, demanding assistance. ]

athessa | ota

[sulahnan]

[ Athessa, forced to tap out early due to a number of reasons (empty stomach being one, not drinking water being two, being a wee thing coming in at number three, you get the idea), is currently as horizontal as she can get on the only comfortable furniture in the office. Face firmly ensconced in a cushion, limbs mostly</> contained upon the settee, anyone looking to sit down is going to have to move her.

And will most likely have to deal with being treated as part of the furniture thereafter. ]

[cozen]

[ Option two: collapsing backwards to sit on her legs.

It's a good collapse. Looks artless, with the way his arms wind up splayed along the back of the settee and his legs played out ahead of it, but it's well-aimed to avoid putting any significant pressure on her limbs—not enough to hurt, certainly not enough to keep her from pulling them free if she'd like to escape.

His fond smile is possibly wasted on the back of her head, but he's happy to waste it. ]

Will you live?

[sulahnan]

[ A muffled nuh-uh sounds from the cushion before she turns her head and blows some of her hair out of her face with a puff of air. ]

I'm dying, Bas. I'm dead. I was dying and now I'm dead.

[hassaran]

[ Yseult has been observing, perched on the corner of a desk somewhere just aside of the main crowd, and though she could be seen drinking from a tankard throughout the evening she doesn't seem to be having any particular difficulty now.

She settles now on the arm of the sofa nearest Athessa's head, tone casual. ]

Do you have a cigarette?

[tender]

[ Unsteadily, Derrica forgoes moving Athessa and sits down on the floor beside the settee. She tapped out before she veered into dangerous territory, but not before she's gone flushed and a little clumsy. She lays an arm across the couch and rests her chin on her forearm with a sigh. ]

Athessa, [ a little sing-song, before giving way to a more serious question: ] Are you awake?

lino | ota

[imbroccata]

[ If you're gonna lose a competition, lose to a pretty girl. Far better than losing to either of the Averesch twins, though that was never truly a concern. Just look at them, all four of them. Ridiculous.

Lino doesn't want to afford them any attention when he's sober, much less now. The room is unsteady around him, the floor keeps finding ways to evade his feet, and he's pretty sure one of his tankards of ale had some whiskey in it, but who the fuck cares?

If you meander past where Lino is leaning, sitting, or slumping, you'll probably hear him muttering to himself in Antivan. Or wait, is that...singing? ]

[dutyful]

[ Ashen, trying his best to get tipsy despite not technically entering the competition, hesitates when he hears muttering. Mumbling.

Is it - wait.

He frowns, leaning down a little, curls of blonde hair covering his eyes. ]

Is that poetry, ser?

[ His Orleasian accent is far, far heavier right now. ]

[okayimin]

[ There's a certain kind of person Sawbones knows on sight. The kind of low down Duster that's got dirt on them that doesn't come off. She's hid from them as a little runt of a Dust Town kid and she's sewn up more than a few of them.

So there's a certain sense of responsibility.

Also she is. Very drunk. And close to the floor so falling over a lot hasn't really stopped her from wandering over to this Duster with a cup of tea that she's managed not to spill all over herself. She means to set it next to him and let him do as he pleases with it, but there's a problem. ]

They make tables too fucking tall.

john | ota.

[hornswoggle]

[ John's had a drink in his hand all night, but jury's out on whether it's his first drink of fifth. He's certainly not drunk, and has been content to appropriate the most comfortable chair in the office and watch the proceedings from the sidelines. He tips his cup to the people who come wobbling in his direction, lazily congratulatory. ]

That was a very good showing.

[ As he speaks, John shifts slightly to affect better posture than slouching indolently in what is probably a chair meant for important guests. ]

Care to take a seat?

[ One of those questions that's really just a suggestion. ]

derrica | ota.

[tender]

[ The entire purpose of this competition has more or less gone over Derrica's head. She'd tapped out at a point she felt was respectable, but she'd never been truly invested in the prize to begin with. Now, weaving through the crowd, she'd been looking for someone to play a knife game with, or cards, or to lean on, all that she knows to be a good and proper when tipsy before she trips over herself and collides with an innocent bystander. Drinks slosh, but no one falls over, so the damage is minimal. ]

You spilled it, [ Derrica points out. ] I think that's how you get disqualified.

[ Nevermind that there's now liquor splashed all down one sleeve. Derrica's bracelets jangle brightly as she shakes the stray drops absently from her hand. Her face is flushed, eyes bright. ]

Oh, are you competing? I've lost track of who's here trying to win something and who's just enjoying the spectacle.

ellis | ota.

[heorte]

[ This seems only marginally better than fight club in terms of ending the night with injuries, in Ellis' opinion.

Ellis who is not participating but observing. He's kept out of the way while nursing a flagon of ale for lack of anything better to do with his hands. It's easy to miss him unless you stray close enough to drop into the chair beside where he's leaning against the wall. ]

I thought at least one of them would be singing, [ he remarks. ] Last one of these I witnessed had a fair bit of song. Off key, but nothing to sneeze at.

[ As far as complaints on the evening go, it's mild. And less divisive than "I think someone's going to trip down the stairs on the way out of here." ]

[sulahnan]

You could sing.

[ Athessa has not yet face-planted into the settee, but she seems to be headed that direction. Literally, and figuratively.

She passes Ellis on the way to the arm of the settee, upon which she lean-sits because the room won't stop. It just won't fucking stop. ]

All they need, s'a bit of encouragement, yeah?

nikos averesch || ota

[exsecutus]

[Nikos would have won if his fucking brother hadn't grabbed him around the ankle and pulled him to the floor after him. Kostos is a dirty fucking cheat and he'll tell that to anyone, even Kostos. Has told that to anyone, and Kostos, a few times now.

Fourth place is dogshit. Sporting the shiny beginnings of a black eye, Nikos has retreated to sit in a corner and glare. And drink. And now it's late, and he's half-asleep, or half passed out, really--bedraggled, clothes stiff from having been doused in wine during his fall, which, then the wine dried, and now he's here.

And there's no wine left. In his cup, at least. Nikos, glare now turned bleary, upends his cup. Not even a drop falls out. He grunts, and shifts himself forward, tries to get out of the chair--then gives up on that, and grabs instead at the arm of someone stood near him. Or someone passing him. It's hard to say, with the room a tumble around him.]

Fuckin', [mumbled, Nevarran, sloppy and slurred,] more wine. Getting more wine. Or m'brother's fi, finger bone. Little one. He's a fucking cheat. Always been.

[nonvenomous]

[ Functionally indistinguishable from the furniture that was pushed out of the way to clear the floor for this spectacle, Richard finds his arm caught up in the middle of a reflexive, defensive brush to deflect contact from more private and personal territory. This, probably, after the initial reach missed its more colorfully dressed and deliberately-intended target squeaking past in the opposite direction.

Dick was just leaving. ]

Hello, [ he says. Crisp. ]

I don’t think we’ve met.

[ He keeps his wrist elevated, steady please don’t touch me pressure against constraint. ]