RP:I Drinks a Whiskey Drink

Sabrina arrives in Kelay after the voyage to the mainland. Before departing Rynvale she was dumped harshly, and without being given a reason by Eirik in his quest for power.

Sabrina pushed open the doors ingloriously and made her way to the keep with tired shoulders and shuffled steps. What she did manage to keep down on that god forsaken voyage was 151 or better and even still her metabolism was giving her a tough time of maintaining a proper inebriated state. Her hair is down, which is odd for the usually pristinely kept Elfess, and with that short stature and curves pronounced by an unbuttoned black captains coat with a thin white T beneath it, she looked like a very small -if not pink cheeked- human. Oh the shame, all her breeding gone out the window as thin pale fingers comb through black and salty locks to move the damnable pieces from her direct line of sight. Which was a bottle, dark and inviting, placed on the counter by the man of this fine establishment. “Thanks, Mesthak.” Oh to shudder at the slurred words, but it was not only alcohol that ushered such melodic yet tortured dialect from her lips. It was more of a pirate kind of Elvish, the old stuff of am intact Sylvan empire. Common is not her first language. Her attention drifts to the ball of a creature man on the floor, conversing with himself. A least she wasn’t that far gone, right? Her eyes roll and she takes up the bottle, dragging it along the sticky counter to cradle in her arms for a brief moment ofaffection before finally tipping it back.

Memodrix watches with mild amusement. 'I have seen dwarven women who couldnt manage that. I AM impressed. Tough day at work?.......Did...I...have a tough day at work? What do I do for a living?' He downs another rum. bealching fire afterwards. 'Beg pardon, miss. I suppose that would be less rude were i not in this form, but you cant quite fit a dragon in a doorway, so human will have to do.'

Sabrina shifts as the small purse thumps against her shoulder and settles on the floor. She looks at it, looks at him, and grins. “It is more difficult than it looks.” The Ardent healer had been tempting fate for years and as she sat all drunk and disorderly one would have to conclude she was not met with success. There were brief moments, times of companionship where she might have felt she belonged, those days were fleeting and only lingered long enough to prove there wasn’t a whole lot in this world worth living for… dying for, now there was the really point of wonderment. Was there anything worth dying for. She understood his misconception of her offer though. “I mean, there is a hearth, occupied by a Wyrm who doesn’t mind company in Frostmaw.” She slides the bottle away from her, lying her head upon the counter to view the contents at the level of its horizon. She is twirling it softly and picking at the label. Her mismatched gaze, one vivid mint green and the other a hazed and foggy grey noting this feature was blind and useless, only transfers to another ungratifying image as she is approached by a fellow patron and he states, “Next one’s on me.” Friendly? Maybe. Unlikely though. A new bottle is brought, hesitantly by Mesthak, and the lid removed. The Elfess looks to the bottle and back to the man. “So it is.” And subsequently the second bottle is tipped over the arm he has supporting his weight at the ledge of the counter he so leaned.

Memodrix begins wondering at why he is so cranky, deciding he doesnt care, as its probably the drow...wait. that's not right. Elf? yes. The drow is long dead. 'What is it with most races and thier need to get pissed drunk when life doesnt go thier way, anyway? You are born, you live for a while, you mate...normally anyway....you raise your young, and then you die. This is not a cycle that is optional. Well, most of it is not. It is how life propegates. How is it that dogs have a better handle on life than that of higher biengs?' Yes, now he is probably ranting, and this is concerning him, but as a scholar of all forms of life, flora and fauna, it bothers him. Also figuring out who in the lowest pits of Khah mountain is the drow he is thinking of. Sabrina smiled once more. She should do it more often, she was good at it. The saurian seemed to have an understanding that was long outdated about people and social intercourse. “Actually.” She drifted into Elvish, considering it was the easiest to be eloquent in when one did not have to search for words in some slathered tongue made up of accumulations of hundreds of other languages. “If you’re lucky, you have ups that outnumber the downs but when they down it is easier to drown the illogical and emotionally fueled trauma with this.” She holds up the bottle, drinks some more, and sets it down. It was enough, well maintained, to keep her dull but not belligerent. “I am an Ardent. I was born, I live way too long for my own good, I don’t get to procreate, and my testing of intimate relations has left me feeling inadequate at best… and then, I get to die. If I’m Lucky.” She finds it necessary to reiterate his last promise. “Sometimes, some things, they need a little push.” At what point did the dying come, exactly. “I do tend to hope it comes during times like these and not the more joyful ones. It’d be a shame.”

Memodrix seems to deflate a bit, still having a sour look on his face.'I still think that you think too much, or, perhaps, not enough. but tell me this, Dro...*cough*..elf, Wouldnt it be better to die during those happy moments? I'd much rather meet my end again.....again?' he blinks 'again it is then.....when my soul is at peace. Unless you WANT to see where your spirit gets dragged otherwise. [draconic curse that i cant be arsed to remember], woman. Im pretty sure part of me is stuck to a mountain somewhere. or...wait.....was that my father...' He decides that he has not quite had enough alcohol himself, but after he pulls another bottle of rum from his stash, as if to prove he puts it back, opting for milk, and perhaps some nice bits of raw meat.

Sabrina gives him a wave of hand. “You are too old to know if you’re coming or going. I am supposed to take advice from you?” Of the things, she’d seen there was no reason to assume that death would offer some unforeseen enigmatic moment of grandeur- or atticism- or drear. Death was death, cells break down, they repurpose their energy for other things, and the cycle continues. And Memodrix had earned himself the perception of senility.

Memodrix laughs, half hysterically. 'How short lived are your kind? Is 100 summers...(or was it 510...no, thats definitely my father) that short of a time? (Go to sleep you old bastard. If i'd known you'd wake up i'd have left the rest of you IN that mountain) ([and who should we blame for that, eh? I told you to drop me in the deepest lava flow under the mountain and let me to my fate, but did you?! No. Ignorant whelp.])' He closes his eyes. arguing to himself quietly for a second. Breathing deeply He opens them. 'I suppose seeing me as a senile old coot is the best explination, yes. but with that comes a certain wisdom.' He chuckles. 'Also, I should point out when you can no longer tell if you are coming or going, everything is an ADVENTURE!' He waves his arms for emphasis. ([I have sired a ponce.])

Sabrina laughs too, a bit lighter after this brief interlude. “My kind…two and a half centuries, give or take? I am barely over half a century, but that does not make me naïve when it comes to these… humans.” Oh she said it with disgust, didn’t she. Maybe this wasn’t as uplifting as she thought. She should have been married by now, at very least, coupled. She stands from the stool and takes the opened bottle with her. She salutes him. “Mesthak lets you use the hearth if you pay him under the table.” It was the least she could do, give him that bit of wisdom that would earn himself a warm bed for the night. She begins making her way to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, nature calls.” It was a common phrase she misunderstood too may consecutive times to learn better by now. She didn’t need to pee, she just needed to not be indoors. Nature was her comfort zone, not this atrocious shelter for the weak and wounded.