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?

[bouchonne]

[ By shoots a slightly crooked smile over at Bastien. The lovely thing about the fellow is that the flattery isn't entirely fake. Or - maybe it is, but Byerly has always sensed a hint of earnestness in his friend, and he is generally quite good at reading falsehood. So either Bastien is earnest or he's really unparalleled in his abilities as a liar and either possibility is charming. ]

Why, my hands, of course.

[ He stretches them out before him - long, elegant, with veins running under the skin in a way that's quite aesthetically pleasing. ]

Now you. Features number one and number two.

[cozen]

[ Bastien twists his head on his hand to give Byerly’s extended hands with the serious consideration they deserve before nodding in agreement—earnestly, yes. If he were that good a liar, able to play everyone all the time with a persona crafted out of thin air, he’d be wearing a much nicer shirt right now.

Then he crooks half a smile, just enough to dimple his cheek, and taps said dimple with his finger. That’s number one. ]

And number two… My teeth. They are enormous. Like a horse. No one ever expects it.

[ This is not innuendo. He bares his teeth—only rarely fully visible in the wild, even when he’s laughing, because really he’s a bit bashful about them—to prove it. ]

[bouchonne]

Hmm. Fascinating.

[ Byerly, without asking permission or doing anything that a decent person would do in this situation, pokes his finger into Bastien's mouth to investigate more fully. ]

[cozen]

[ A properly-trained bard makes no unintentional moves—no flinch without a purpose for the fear, no twitch except to send a message—and Bastien might be tipsy and off-duty and out of practice, but opaque poise is still his resting position, maybe doubly so for how complacent liquor makes him feel, and Byerly's finger isn't exactly an incoming dagger. Which is to say: he lets it happen. Not even half a dodge for dignity's sake. His eyebrows furrow asymmetrically, like seriously?, and after a moment he manages, ] 'ere haa y'ur hands 'een today? [ through his brandished teeth, but otherwise he's the very picture of pliancy. ]

[bouchonne]

Masturbating and wiping my arse.

[ Cheerily, he withdraws his fingers. ]

Good teeth. You could get a neat price for them at market.

[cozen]

[ Well enough. That ass comment had him slowly working up the will to bite. ]

No, no. I will keep them safe until I die, and then I will have them donated, [ he says, and reluctantly peels himself partway off of the floor, propped higher by his arm, ] to some poor toothless horse. A final act of kindness to balance against my sins.

[ The peeling was to allow for reaching toward Byerly’s whiskey and giving his fingers a demanding wiggle. ]

You should consider it.

[bouchonne]

Do I look like I'm about to die?

[ By lifts his glass away. ]

[cozen]

[ Will the cruelty never cease, cries Bastien's dramatic slump back onto the floor as the whiskey gets further away instead of closer. But then, from the floor, he considers Byerly with fairly clear-eyed thoughtfulness. Does he look like he's about to die? ]

I don't know, [ he muses. ] You did just put your ass hand in my mouth. People have died for less.

[bouchonne]

The arse is more offensive than the cock.

[ A sip. ]

Fascinating.

[cozen]

Ah, Byerly. [ A patronizing, floppy pat is bestowed on his knee, since his head and shoulders are both too far away. ] You are so Fereldan.

[bouchonne]

[ Now, that - That takes him by surprise. ]

What's that supposed to mean?

[cozen]

[ Without the several erstwhile ales—or without the excuse they provide, at least—he might have demurred, or at least kept to genteel euphemism, but with them: ]

Fereldan cocks taste like shit. In Orlais the two are— [ a pause for a twitchy sort of suppressed snicker at his own joke ] —they are distinct.

[bouchonne]

Sorry, old boy -

[ He lifts the whiskey to his lips. ]

Are you lecturing me on how Fereldan cock tastes? One might as well lecture an Antivan about the tasting notes of their poisons.

[cozen]

Ah ouais, Monsieur Dégustateur?

[ He's eyeing the whiskey, from the floor, sort of like a cat contemplating a jump it isn't certain it can make. ]

You are the one fascinated by— [ the thing he was fascinated by, indicates a vague gesture. Too many words. ] Or is it that you find sex and excrement equally embarrassing? Such a charming people.

[bouchonne]

[ Okay, this is starting to get rather irritating. ]

Dear fellow, you know that I am generally considered barely Fereldan at all.

[cozen]

[ Delightful. Is he going to turn into a stinging insect?

But Bastien lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume. ]

Because of your mother?

[bouchonne]

[ Bastien pays closer attention than Byerly realized. - Well, no, that just makes sense, doesn't it, given who Bastien really is. ]

My mother, yes. And also - [ He gestures to himself. ] A Bann's nephew is supposed to be - Well, you know. We're all of warrior stock, and half-barbarian still. More tolerant of shit than we are of cocks, in truth. A fancy lad like myself is not beloved. Lingering trauma from our years-long occupation by fancy lads, perhaps.

[cozen]

Mm.

[ Bastien squints at his face for a moment. Searching for signs of barbarism, obviously. ]

Is that why you offered to show me Denerim instead of— [ a moment of circular finger-snapping to conjure the name ] —Dragonmount?

[bouchonne]

So impressive.

[ Byerly's voice is light and cheerful, even as he continues - ]

The Rutyers of Dragonmount are monsters and madmen. I assumed you'd prefer to have a good time, rather than lurching your way through a house of horrors.

[cozen]

[ After a deliberative pause: ] I would. Yes. Good instincts.

[ Mostly. Unsatisfied curiosity is in the running for Bastien’s likely eventual cause of death, and madmen and monsters specifically might be shaving a few days off his life. But he’ll circle back. He’s good at circles. ]

But I have been to Denerim—on pilgrimage, you know. [ Obviously not. It was for work. And the lie is meant for the other drunks still milling around the room, not for Byerly, so the accompanying smile is more sly than saintly. ] You will not be allowed to stand me in the market square and say, this is Denerim, and consider yourself finished. You must show me at least one place that requires a password to enter. Two would be better.

[bouchonne]

But of course.

[ He lifts his hand to his heart (the left hand, of course, the right being occupied with keeping the whiskey well out of Bastien's grasp). ]

All the holiest of sites. The ones they don't let the normal pilgrims into. Only a man as good and faithful as I is permitted to see these relics.

[cozen]

Andraste’s knickers, [ he suggests in his best Fereldan Hick accent, which isn’t very good. Or, like, it is good, but only at sounding exactly how an Orlesian mocking a Fereldan should sound. ]

You should have stayed in Orlais. We love so much to be occupied by fancy lads— [ eyyy ] —I am sure Reville thought he was giving Ferelden a gift.