RP:What Good Can Drinkin' Do?

Synopsis: After spending the last several weeks holed up in her cabin, Aira emerges from her 'hibernation' and celebrates with hunting some game. She decides to visit her old stomping ground at the Frostmaw Tavern where she shares a drink (or two or three) with Gorehilt.

Frostmaw Tavern

Gorehilt has been milking his tournament leave for some time now. A perfect cadet might have gone home to resume his training as soon he was eliminated, but Gorehilt knows better than to waste a perfectly good excuse. He's been working hard at the academy, and it's high time he took some well-earned recreation. A cadet's wages aren't much, but it's been enough to keep his glass full of ale every night for some time running. Gorehilt sits at the bar. Most nights, he'd be singing drinking songs or playing darts, but it must be a off night. The patronage is scarce, and those here already seem to have brought their own company. Well, that won't dampen Gorehilt's spirits! He's got a tall mug and his own thoughts to keep him busy. Vacantly, he stares down into the ale, and his reflection stares vacantly back, wreathed in foam.

Aira kicks open the door of the tavern unceremoniously, the vixen stepping into the bar in a gust of wind and burst of snow. She maneuvers her leg so she can close it with her booted foot while her fingers work at tugging down her hood to reveal a fairly young looking...vixen? Her features mimic those of the haughty high elves of Rynvale but she lacks the usual pointed ears and instead sports a pair of russet colored vulpine ones atop her platinum blonde hair. She tugs her bow over her head as she meanders towards the bar; while snow dusts her shoulders it is not flakes that flank the floor trailing after the huntress, but rather steady drips of blood seeping through the game bag at her hip and staining the wood. Drargon sees this and scoffs, fixing the huntress with a scowl which she meets with a sarcastic grin. "Miss me?" She had been holed up in her cabin for most of the winter so she hadn't been able to properly patronize the establishment. "I brought you a present," she adds, slinging the game bag onto the counter where the body of a dead rabbit rolls out and lands next to Gorehilt, its left eye oozing after being shot through with an arrow. If the thud of the bag is any indication, that wasn't the only critter she had felled that evening.

Gorehilt feels the blast of cold air from the door, but he doesn't look up until the smell of blood and game tickles his nose. A vixen? Gorehilt has to rub his eyes once or twice to make sure this isn't delirium. He doesn't think he's had *that* much to drink, but he's also never seen a creature quite like this before. Drargon seems to think she's real enough. He likes the dead rabbit in the ribs. Well that settles it. "What, you can pay with rabbits?" He sounds a little indignant. If Gorehilt had known this sooner, he could have been spending more lavishly! The half-orc's mouth bends in a small frown that somehow gets lost behind the two tusks protruding upward onto his cheeks. His orange-red eyes sweep Dragon up and down, then click over to Aira. "That's what you're doing, isn't it?"

Aira doesn't apologize to Gorehilt for her dead game nearly knocking over his ale, nor does she make any move to retrieve it. She slides onto a vacant stool and fixes Drargon with that eerie, unblinking gaze before he huffs in defeat and turns his back on her; however, that ghost of a smirk wasn't lost on the huntress! She quirks her head towards the half orc as he frowns at the rabbit carcass, and arches a brow as he laments not being able to pay in game. The barkeep turns back to the counter and slides a glass of beer towards the vixen before he moves to grab the game bag. "-Mammoth- slayer gets t'pay with rabbits," he corrects Gorehilt, inclining his chin towards the huntress. Aira adopts a smug expression before lifting the ale to her lips and draining half the glass in just a couple of gulps.

Gorehilt considers this explanation for a moment, then he he lifts his mug. "Fair enough." He swallows a mouthful of ale and his indignation along with it. Gorehilt may have nerve, but not enough to lie his way into the mammoth slayers club. Well, not tonight, anyway. "To your good health," he extends an olive branch after making his less-than-cordial first impression, intending to toast Aira before realizing, belatedly and a little amazedly, that she's already drained her glass. "Hell's bells, warn people first if you're going to drink like that." Gorehilt fishes up some coin and slides it to Drargon. "Well she's got to have *something* to toast me back with."

Aira didn't like to brag about how she had slain a mammoth--partly because it hadn't been some heroic or glorious slaughtering but rather a bit of a haphazard albeit lucky shooting. Still, she -had- killed the thing so she didn't feel guilty at the title. Drargon disappears briefly through a door in the back to deposit the game (most likely for tomorrow's stew), before returning behind the bar and throwing the bloodied game bag at the vixen. She bats it away with her free hand as she tilts her head back and polishes off the remainder of the ale and slams down the empty glass with a thud. "It's not my problem you can't keep up," she sneers at the half orc, but she's not about to turn down more free booze. "You ever have grog?" she enquires, shifting her body slightly to better face Gorehilt. "Much better than this stuff," she murmurs out of the corner of her mouth. "I heard that!" Drargon roars, placing two fresh mugs of ale before the pair, sloshing some of the contents onto the counter. "I meant you to!" she calls back with a grin.

Gorehilt had just made up his mind to make nice and behave when, of course, Aira has to challenge his pride. "Can't keep up?" Gorehilt knows he's the out of towner here, but in his defense, he's been as much a regular as circumstances might allow! I mean, honestly, he's been here most nights for... two... three weeks? He has to have earned *some* reputation by now. "Now jusht a minute." Gorehilt wags a green finger at Aira. "I've had grog," he thinks, probably, "and I'm not shcared of it, either." He pats the bar. "So I know I haven't killed any mammoth, but I'm not about to uh... get uhm... outdrunk," is that a word? "that easily." Feeling he's made his point, he takes a long, slow sip and watches this vixen creature over the lip of his freshly-filled mug. Foam drips down his chin. Your move, lady.

Aira seems pleased with herself at her rib towards the half-orc, she had obviously bruised his ego a bit with the way he is wagging his finger at her and denying her comment. Her vulpine tail, hidden beneath her cloak, gives an undulating swish at the challenge. "That's it? A slow sip and a bit of foam dribbling down your chin? I've seen an infant suckle his mother's teat with more composure than that." Aira might not seem menacing. She's a bit taller than average, and not bulky with muscle--but she is strong. Her time in Frostmaw under Orikahn's tutelage has given her strength and stamina. She also has a penchant for drinking (I mean, what else is a vixen to do in the dead of winter when game was scarce?). The huntress gestures towards the ale. "This is barely a step above water. Drargon!" she calls out before pointing towards a bottle of dark liquor. "Two shot glasses please. Let me acquaint our friend here to how we really like to drink up here in the north." The barkeep hesitates for moment, narrowing his singular eye on Gorehilt. In the end he shrugs and does as the huntress says. Aira picks up the smaller glass, lifts it to the half orc in a silent toast, and downs it easily. The stuff was strong, enough to burn her throat all the way down until the heat bloomed in her belly. But for its harshness, the huntress shows no sign of pain.

Gorehilt could have choked on his beer. He doesn't! But he does have to stop himself from snorting out a noseful of it out at the utter shock of Aira's jab. His mother's teat?! "For one!" He starts speaking before he's finished swallowing, and this time he really does choke. One brief spat of coughing later, he continues. "For one! I'm an orphan. And for another," he wipes his chin clean on the crook of his sleeve and nods with sudden, steely resolve. "You're going to drink your words." Famous last words. Whether or not Gorehilt remembers what happens next, the course of his night has likely been decided. And the course of his morning, as well. Hopefully Drargon knows a good hangover cure or two.

It seems as if Gorehilt is successful in at least one thing this evening, and that is that he manages to get Aira to crack a smile. A genuine one that is neither ruled by ego nor snark. It is even genuine enough to show true amusement in her copper gaze. She tilts her head back and guffaws heartily when the man practically chokes on his ale and refutes her jab by claiming he is an orphan. The huntress was, as well. Although hers was more of an emancipation than anything else. The vixen doesn't regale him with the tale, however; some memories are just too painful to revisit even for someone as seemingly ruthless as Aira. She pours herself another shot of the hard stuff, clinks it against the half-orcs glass, and properly drinks him under the table with ease.