Josh and John Drink Scotch

((Original thread here.))

“See you in the morning, Stacia. Sleep well and feel better.” Breaker closed the bedroom door and paced silently out of the plush suite. He and his friend Anastacia Alliendra had come to Scara Brae for a ball that would be held in the queen's honor the next day. They'd planned to take a tour of the city walls beneath starlight but Stacia had come down with a paralyzing headache, and so they'd returned to their rooms at the Peaceful Promenade.

Joshua “Breaker” Cronen stepped into the hall and locked the door with a large brass key. He hoped Stacia would be well enough to attend the party. He felt awkward attending such events alone, or at all really. Even so, he knew the ball would be a perfect place to sew the seeds of his ideas for a tourny in the minds of the social elite. He descended several flights of stairs to the inn's noisy common room.

Humans, elves, dwarfs, and a small group of goblins filled the tavern. They sat around tables drinking ales and wines, some laughing boisterously, others conversing in hushed tones. One couple danced to the plucking of an off-tune guitar while another huddled in the corner, faces hidden in their hoods. The smell of sawdust and cheap alcohol saturated the place, providing a comfort Breaker found he needed every so often.

The demigod paced to the bar, long legs flowing, trim waist whispering, black sifan shirt hanging squarely on broad shoulders. Patrons packed the long counter but a smile and a nod saw space open up for the stranger with Y-shaped scars on his cheeks.

“Scotch,” Josh ordered when the bartender found time to serve him, “Yurik's Firewhisky,” he specified a favored brand, pointing at the top shelf. The tender nodded and wiped sweat from his brow with a greasy rag. He reached the bottle down and poured a double shot into a tumbler glass, exchanging it for some of Breaker's coin.

Cronen wound his way through the occupied tables and booths. Only one remained empty, a small table with two chairs near the back of the room. One of the chairs was strangely oversized. Josh sat with his back to the wall and sipped his scotch, savoring the smoky sensations of the aged liquor. He leaned against the wooden wall and stacked his black metal boots on top of the empty oversized chair. His spine popped from tailbone to skull as he arched his back and allowed his hazel eyes to sweep the common room.

With Stacia sick, he considered, I've really nothing to do but drink.

Fortunately, the Peaceful Promenade stocked the good stuff.

The promenade was usually pretty full this time of night.

And yet somehow my seat is always open, John thought, lighting his cigar and drawing the rich aroma into his mouth. Well, empty every time except the evening two drunken ladies had curled up on it, and made mockeries of themselves in general.

But all the same, he went to the Promenade, half because the whiskey was good, and half because they had his chair. It better be empty, I had to make the damned thing myself. I should be allowed to sit in MY chair, I think. A smirk touched the edges of his lips as he realized he was suddenly sounding like an old man.

The night was cool, but not quite biting as he stepped into the Promenade, ducking his head under. Any given day you'd see a noble and a beggar in this place, not sharing a table mind you but sharing an experience nonetheless. The Promenade had grown from shack to inn to full-fledged nexus of activity. Not everybody knew the ins and outs of Radasanth, but everybody knew about the Promenade.

Seemed fuller than usual today, with dwarves at their short tables, and a few elves sitting in the back, no doubt talking trash about everyone else. He sucked on his cigar again, and caught the eye of the barkeep. He held up a single finger, and mouthed 'bottle'. A quick, frowning nod was his reply, and he turned around to snatch a fresh bottle from under the counter.

Now, who's in my chair, the half-giant thought, lumbering over to a sturdy and oversized chair, noticing a smaller gentleman relaxing with his feet upon it. He fixed the boy with a neutral gaze as he placed a hand on the chair's back.

Well, as neutral as the eight foot man could manage under the circumstances. Jamie still told him he needed to smile more.

Between boredom, damn fine whisky, and a lack of anyone staging a stick-up in the Promenade, Breaker had settled into an old habit. He'd leaned back in his chair, boots still stacked, eyes closed, and eavesdropped on every conversation in the place. A woman by the bar had recently learned of her pregnancy. Two men by the entryway were considering robbing a transport of the queen's gold. And a giant had recently walked into the bar.

Josh had not thought much of it. No one had reacted in horror, so clearly this was a friendly giant. And rather a small one at that. Perhaps a half giant, or an ogre, although that was not possible. Breaker would have smelled an ogre. Overall, it did not appear a matter for concern until the giant lumbered up to Breaker's table.

Right. The oversized chair.

The demigod opened his eyes with a broad grin on his face.

“This must be your chair,” he said, looking way up at the enormous man. “My apologies.” He unstacked his boots and dusted the seat with his palm, and then gestured at the table. “Please join me.”

The look on the giant's face said he'd expected to be feared, but Josh saw only another patron, albeit one thrice the size of himself... a mighty man, by mortal standards. Breaker had slain mauls in the Red Forest of Raiaera, had grappled griffins in the arid deserts of Fallien, and knocked out native drakari in the jungles of Dheathain. Sharing a table with a likely half-giant made a decent story in Breaker's mind, but only a decent one.

Still, one never knew. Perhaps the big fellow would share a good yarn or two of his own. He certainly looked like he had seen some battles, and perhaps some other horrors. He carried himself with a strong man's pride, and seemed peaceful, but his movement spoke of one capable of sudden violence.

“What's that you're drinking? And what's your name? I'm Joshua Cronen.”

(sry4dw8fam)


John dragged the chair out and sank into it as a pretty little barmaid came round with a pint glass and a bottle of the firewhiskey. As if he needed the man's permission to sit down in his own chair. A silvery tendril of titanium snaked its way from the thick plate on his back and down his arm, coating a finger in the metal. Slowly, a corkscrew began to form at the end of his thumb, and he shoved the bottle into it, turning as the man offered his query.

He yanked the cork out, holding the bottle up in response. 'Yurik's Firewhisky' was embossed in the bottle's glass. He poured the pint glass full and leaned back, draining roughly a third of it in one sip. It usually took a little more drink (and coin) to get John drunk.

Just as quickly, the metal retreated, and he pointed the now-bare finger at himself.

"John."

Hopefully his new drinking companion wouldn't be too talkative.

“Now isn't that a coincidence. I'm drinking the same.” Josh held his glass up and swirled the amber liquid around in a small toast. He sipped the scotch sparingly, enjoying each trickle of flavor that traipsed over his tongue.

John, as the giant introduced himself, clearly didn't desire much conversation. It begged the question of why he bothered coming out to a tavern to drink. Yurik's could be purchased directly from the supplier. Josh had looked into that.

The noise of the bar swelled around them, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. The pregnant woman at the bar was hoping for a girl, much to the delight of the circle of friends surrounding her. The pair of would-be brigands near the door had been plotting the whole time, and their plan was absolutely terrible; it involved a a juggling dwarf and far too much play-acting to have any chance at success. Most likely, they'd be killed.

Mention of the dwarf made Josh think of his friend Throld. The stout fellow always knew a good story or six, and had a knack for extracting the tales from everyone he met. What would Throld do, Josh asked himself. Probably say something about Skyknights or Blackcloaks and give a clever wink. The demigod quirked an eyebrow. He could work with that.

Judging by the amount of soot on John's shirt, he was a blacksmith. Josh had already deduced he was too large to be a chimney sweep. The demigod regarded the massive smith over the rim of his glass, examining the scars that spread across the man's arms in vein-like streams.

“When I visited Fallien to recruit cavalry from Suravani's Oasis, I met a man who had scars similar to those. He spoke a different dialect of the language than me, so I could not ask him the story behind them. May I know how you got yours?”

John glanced sideways at the man, sizing him up for a moment before responding. It always felt odd, talking to people, especially after he had spent so much time doing the things he regretted. Sometimes it felt like he was being watched, like there was this 'other' John, waiting, breathing down his neck, just itching to set fire to the world.

It always hindered conversation.

He sighed. Then again, Vincent and Jamie are always trying to get me 'out of my shell'. Whatever that meant.

He took another swig of his liquor, breathing out as the spice tickled his throat. He eyed the cigar at his fingertips noting that it was nearly spent. He'd have to get a new one soon. As for Joshua's query, it was easy enough to answer. He set his glass down, raising his hand to his shirt, unbuttoning the ones on his chest, pulling the fabric to the side slightly to expose a chest full of hair, scars, and whipcord muscle. As he did, he willed the armor on his back to adopt the same flowing posture that it had the day he laid low the dragon Sunwing. The armor flowed upwards along the scars on his chest, the silvery metal covering his burn scars and moving down his arms. He reminisced for a few seconds, tracing the armor, remembering the pain and triumph as the metal burned him and he slew the beast. He looked up at Joshua, laying the cigar down in a small ashtray.

"Long story short, I beat a dragon to death with a hammer. I had help, of course, but still. This metal shielded me from the dragon's heat, but then forming it into a weapon gave me these scars."

He snapped his fingers, and one of the rings on his left hand glowed slightly. A small pop! followed, and another cigar appeared in his fingers, end slightly red.

Josh raised his eyebrows. “Impressive,” he said as John demonstrated his scars and skills and told his story. “That's a neat trick, too.” he gestured at the ring that had produced the cigar with the hand holding his glass, swishing the scotch about but not spilling a drop. He took a deep sip and sighed. “Nothing beats Yurik's eh?” He placed his tumbler down on the table and rolled his broad shoulders.

“I've never fought a dragon before. I did grapple a griffin once, though. In Fallien. It attacked me, and I dislocated its wing and got it to fly me to the oasis in exchange for fixing it up. Turns out griffins have a strict warrior society.” He chuckled at the memory of the lion of the skies, with its throaty voice and archaic mannerisms. The great beast had always seemed a bit silly to him, but honorable in its way.

Breaker stopped a passing server with a hand on the young woman's elbow.

“I'll have what he's having,” he said gesturing at John. The server crinkled her forehead.

“A whole bottle sir? Are you sure?”

“I can afford it,” Josh chuckled, “just put it on my room's tab.”

“That wasn't what I... never mind.” She took his empty glass and sidled through the crowd to the bar and back, bringing another bottle of the firewhisky. She uncorked it and poured Breaker's first glass for him. The demigod sampled the scotch anew and smacked his lips.

“To think I used to play drinking games,” he mused, “mind you, they had some interesting ones in Alerar and Salvar. Have you ever played Salvic Pressups?” He looked up way up, uncertain whether his companion was even listening.

"Salvic pressups? No, I was always better at the more...active...games." John said, pouring himself another glass as the barmaid wandered back from their table, leaving the bottle and muttering something about drinking them dry.

He was wary though, and looked the man up and down again. If he was a bounty hunter come for John, he would need some friends. The price for his head delivered was nearly a king's ransom, and though it had been nigh on ten years since the massacre, the reward for his head was still offered, optionally attached to the rest of his body.

So I have some conversation, or knock some heads, then.

Either way was good.

"Like drunken fists, that was always my favorite. Never lost but once actually."

“Drunken fists? Yes I suppose you would be good at that one,” Josh chuckled around a small sip of scotch. “I tried playing once, but they told me I couldn't continue because my face broke a few fists.” He stroked the stubble on his adamantine jaw and leaned back in his chair, taking another drought of whisky. The liquor warmed his lips and carried heat all the way to his belly, like a personal campfire.

“How long have you lived in Scara Brae?” Josh inquired. He assumed the giant was a resident because, well, the man had his own chair at the local tavern. “I'm just on the island for a few nights myself. Attending the queen's royal ball with a friend tomorrow.” Breaker patted his stomach contentedly and poured himself a fresh tumbler of scotch. The amber liquid embodied the shape of the glass, glowing in the lantern lights of the Peaceful Promenade.

John smirked a little through his cigar, that's funny, my fist broke faces. Another sip of whiskey down, he spoke. Hopefully the liaison for his sword would be along shortly.

"I come into town for business sometimes, I live on the main island. Sometimes someone out here gets wind that I know my way around a forge, and I make them a knick-knack or two. You?"

Maybe conversation wouldn't be too bad. The whiskey was slowly doing its work, and after a day of walking it was nice to have something warming besides the fire. He tipped the bottle again, letting the whiskey slosh into his glass.

He'd need a new bottle soon.

“Like I said, just in town for the ball,” Breaker chuckled. Either the giant was hard of hearing, or the man's constitution did not match his frame. “My date wasn't feeling well this evening so I decided to have a drink while she gets some sleep.” He swirled his next mouthful of scotch around in his mouth, enjoying the warming sensation in his mouth and the distinct flavors on his tongue.

“I'm a prizefighter and martial arts instructor by trade,” he said, “but what you do sounds far more interesting. Do you have much experience infusing metals with magic or say... fusing a pair of bracers to a man's arms?”

Josh was thinking of Flint Skovik, the boulder-shouldered Salvic native he'd faced in Sei Orlouge's cell. The man had worn a pair of heavy vambraces that clicked and whirred with alchemic integrity. Breaker had always wanted to understand what had gone into the construction of such devices.

“Depending on the kind of knick knacks we're talking about,” he continued, “I may be able to bring some business your way.”

John stared blankly at Joshua for a long moment at his comment . More than a few of his years of exile from his home country had been spent in study of armor and the possible magical properties that could be applied to them, but none had ever gotten him close to deeper understanding of how his own armor was bound to him, much less what the strange liquid metal was made of. Flashes of memory tugged at the back of his mind, distracting him. The armor was cold, suffocating, dark. It had covered his nose, eyes, and mouth once, a quicksilver hood that had nearly killed him twice. Despite its obedience in recent years, John was now intensely aware of its capacity to harm the weilder. He took a deep, calming breath, forcing himself to pay attention to Joshua. One could kill oneself with a sword, just as easily as he could with this armor. It was no different. He took a large gulp of whiskey.

"I uh," he began, gaining momentum as he spoke, "I've been a smith by trade for some years now, magical and plain work both. Most of my infusing is done with sigils, I don't have much talent for raw magic. It's easier when the shapes are already there, and just need to be filled with power."

John looked down to pour himself another glass. he wet his whistle and continued. "I was a fighter for money once, but I'm a little too old for it now. Though sometimes I do get down to the citadel and have a go. As for fusing metal to man, I haven't found a remedy for that yet."

"not for lack of trying," He finished with a mumble to himself, and drained his cup. he held up his almost-empty bottle, hoping someone over at the bar would get the hint.

"I make nails just as much as I make magical breastplates, any intriguing smithing business out there in the world?"

John stopped himself from cringing. 'intriguing smithing business', yeah that's the best way to put that for sure.