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. ]

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. ]

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. ]

[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?

[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. ]

[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. ]

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]

[ 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.

[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. ]

[bouchonne]

Do I look like I'm about to die?

[ By lifts his glass away. ]

[byblow]

Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure we can take you.

[ Both demanding hands are grasped and pulled, with all the steady gentleness he can muster. He does, you know, sort of like her, and beside that doesn't want her to vomit on or murder him. ]

Especially like this. Did you place?

[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.

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? ]

[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]

[ 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?

[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?