A Time To Drink And A Time To Get Drunk

[Philomel]

Closed to Enigmatic Immortal ... and people who just want to jump into to this banterous quest. Just PM me beforehand.

Satyrs, fauns.

Was there any bloody difference at all?

Philomel lounged there, legs spread slightly apart as she drowned her sorrows in rich darkened beer. The wooden tankard in her hold had been refilled around three times over so far, each time paid for by a different ugly, grumbling, horny bastard. Leaning to the left she let her horn and straggled hair rest against the panelled wall as her forearms stretched out before her, both hand cupped around the curvature of the tankard. As she watched the terribly opaque, murky depths of the liquid she found her mind wandering.

Satyrs were simply fauns too, but by a different style. They were the brutes of the half-goats; those with more devilish horns than rams. They interbred a fair amount, and lived alone, seperated from the rest of society, preferring a life of being infamous highwaymen. It was said they took women and girls, of any race minus demons and angels, and raped them until they were weeping. This pub was named after this legend, being "The Horny Satyr." It was a perfect place for the faun of fake love and overwhelming blood to come, after a full night of assassination and bizzarre requests from her current employer - the troll monk Mister Draak.

So she slumped in the corner of the pub, thinking about the many things that had passed by in her life, her eyes glaring at the knots in the table. Quietly, she burped, then opened her mouth in a stuttering yawn.

Just as an argument arose in the next booth over; two orcs arguing over whose turn it was to pay for the round.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen felt that there was a certain joy in the amber liquid he had poured down his gullet. The way it strangled his throat, burned his lungs, and made his heart beat for the briefest of moments was a true elation not many would ever encounter in their dull lives. It was a draft of ale so potent and rare that to consume it was considered an honor. Or so the legend says. Either way Jensen downed the whole bottle in front of the nobles in one drought. He looked to the bottle, looked back to the nobles, burped lightly, and noticed their gawking eyes stunned by what they saw.

So Jensen did the right thing. He pee'd into the bottle again, refilling the amber liquid, and handing it to the servant of the house with his best regards from the Ixian Knights and moved on, zipper still down, pants still very open. He tumbled and fell, curled into a ball, and decided to sleep on the feet of the duchess; Lady Cunnigham. All was good. Or so he thought. Rudely the immortal was lifted up by members of his own group, tossed outside by orders of some Ixian Captain, and told to let rot until he sobered up. With a solitary finger salute Jensen lifted his trousers, turned lucidly to the next door, and walked in a straight line.

Should be noted, that line was anything but straight.

Drunkenly pawing the doors open he entered with great fanfare. He said hello to the tender, winked to the whores, and patted men on the back. It felt good to be in a place where everyone knew your name, and was always welcomed. He felt like cheering almost, but he didn't. Mostly because he had no idea who any of these patrons were. He ordered a round of beer, paid for three, and waited patiently for the tender to bring them. He took the whole tray, pushed it to the side, then got down to business.

"I bwant a god dem End Timers," he slurred in a drunken haze.

"I think you already are there, sir," the tender muttered.

"Bah, like you would have such eqsqui...eksqui...esquisi...really good taste!" Jensen pointed to him, his finger poking his shoulder. "Oh fuck...you work out." Jensen began to kneed the deltoid of this man. "Like...all the time...you cut wood?"

"It's my day job, yes." He replied, a little disarmed.

"Hmm, and with all the logs do you just jam them up your ass, or let your lumberjack friend help you?" There was a moment of silence. "What? Sharing is caring I once heard Sei mutter or something..." Jensen turned to his beers, grabbing the tray and looking around. He observed two orcs having a heated argument about a tab or something, the immortal didn't really care. But he did notice the small creature in the corner of the room, or center, Jensen was having a nasty case of double vision. He tip toed to her, one beer lost in the travels which he looked to, whimpered, and saluted before turning to the table, sprawling his drinks upon them. By craft or blind luck, one slid to the Faun.

"The name's Jensen, It was a pleasure to meet me, I'm sure," He said, looking her up and down. "You horny?"

[Philomel]

The thumping clattering of tankard upon wood caught her ears. They twitched back, and her head twisted with them towards the sound of the noise. Her eyes slipped to the orcs - one of them now siezing the throat of the other and demanding his companion pay - then angled up to the plain human before her.

He was drunk, out of it. That was very clear. His eyes were somewhat cross-eyed, and he didn't seem quite able to keep his balance. As he attempted some sort of militaristic salute he half toppled into the table, spilling his burden upon the table. What his burden was, was several pints in variety; enough colours to keep a mud-based rainbow going on for a mile of sky. She gazed at them for a while, spying first the blonde, then the same amber as was in her own drinking vessel. Rolling her eyes finally up to meet his own she waited until he found his flappy tongue and managed to stutter.

"Name's Jensen," he said, in a thick slur. "Pleasure to meet me, I am sure."

Fantastic, Philomel growled under her breath, A fucking egotist.

"You horny?"

The human seemed to find this amusing, and was even more pleased when he noticed one of the tankards was beside her wrist. The faun-whore curled her lip a little, raising her nose to sniff the contents. Dark. Floral. Slightly bitter.

She shrugged, and drowned what remained of her current beverage. Grabbing the offered one she gestured for the man to sit - Jensen, she remembered his name was - and leaned away from the wall. Taking a moment she considered his question, then answered it.

"I am a whore, I am paid to be horny," she nodded. "I also have horns as you can see."

Reaching up with her spare hand she tapped the lower curl of the nearest ram's horn that sprouted from the back of her head, near the thickest part of her skull. The hollow bone inside thunk-ed a little, right in time with the splosh-ing of her drink as she banged the tankard on the table simply for a laugh.

"I'm-a Philomel," the assassin-whore said, stifling back a yawn, "But you can call me Phi. Pleasure to meet me too."

[Enigmatic Immortal]

With the salutations addressed and filed into Jensen's temporary memory, he sat with the creature and lifted his tankard. The liquor dipped down his throat with a dissatisfying taste, and smacking his lips he tossed the tankard aside, looking closer at the woman before him. She looked as equally upset about the venue as he was, and the immortal wasn't sure why. Beer, soon to be a bar fight...all the hallmarks of a good place. But something....

"Hey, Tender Logger, you got a dry martini around here?" Jensen called out. The man sterotypically looked to Jensen like he was some kind of fool, and shook his head.

"Too fancy and uptight for a shit hole like this," he replied. "You'd need to do some fancy joint in inner city."

Jensen looked to the woman again, and saw that look in her eye. Well, he didn't, but he assumed she had that look in her eye, and for being drunk off his rock, that was good enough. "You said you were a whore-scort?" Jensen grabbed a this pants, realizing they fell past his knees, and lazily pulled them back up fishing into the front pouch. He continued to grab at himself for several seconds, starring at her, before he pulled out a few coins and dropped them in front of her.

"I want you to whore-scort me too...the udder bars! Until this date is over, you are on the clock with me to find the driest fucking martini that would make the deserts of Fallien weep...can you do that?"

[Philomel]

The assassin-whore raised an eyebrow, the goblet held poised between forefinger and thumb. To any man it might look like she was about to drop it, but Philomel knew the strength of her grip. So she was told by the men - and few women - who had commented as such. Albeit half of them were spoken mid-moan.

Delicately, like a grand lady mis-homed she sipped from the goblet. All the while she kept her eyes on the man, made him wait. In his eyes she saw an impatient spirit, a longing that was only accelerated by the drink he had already consumed. It was easy enough for her to rejoice in such easy pickings - but tonight she felt like teasing. So she fluttered her eyelids slightly, pouted as she placed the goblet down and pretended to be flattered.

"Oh my," she said in a light swooning voice, "Aren't you direct?"

She distracted him by leaning forwards, giggling slightly, pretending the drink was affecting her also. She even added in a topple, falling onto her elbow towards him, then snorted. As she spoke her spare hand snatched up the coin he had thrown down and tucked it into the coin pouch at the folds of her belt.

"I most certainly can be your escort, Mr Jensen," she continued in the same tone. He seemed the sort of proud, self-centered man to be overwhelmed and pleased by this type of girl. She giggled again. "If you will make sure I get home at a proper hour. I don't want to be late to my bed do I?"

[Enigmatic Immortal]

"Wut are you, twelve?" Jensen slurred standing up, eyes filled with a drunken haze. He observed the area he was currently in, looking towards the door when he felt his body shift orientation. He twirled from the impact of the sizable source of the collision and if not for his battle honed reflexes he would have collapsed into a heap of his own flesh. With fancy footwork he managed to rotate like a spinning top landing with back against wall, eyes alert for the first time in hours as he watched the Orcs attempt to stand from the vicious punch he received. "Aw come on guys, dare is a lady with presents," Jensen mumbled to them. Naturally the two were more focused on destroying the other than listening. So Jensen decided to be assertive.

He walked up to the ogres, prepared to lay it out in black and white what the two should do. He lifted his finger to accentuate his point, widened his stance to look direct, and even attempted a scowl. During this time one Orc ducked, another punched, a fist landed on face, and Jensen was sprawled on the table with his lady of the evening. He felt his jaw sting like fire itself was burning within him, and the sloshing impediments of the alcohol began to sober up as he closed his eyes, feeling his stomach gurgle. His fingers curled into tiny fists, nails raking the table and chest heaving up and down. His body moved in a spasm, writhing as if containing something dark within him that he tried to hold back. Yet Jensen was never really known to be one to keep things back.

With a riotous roar of laughter he righted himself, hands clapping as if he was a child in a puppet show, hooting with glee as he glared daggers at the two orcs, mouth rigged in a sadistic grin. "Which one of you two ladies is up for first for the dance?" Jensen teased, hopping off the table. The two orcs looked to him, back to one another muttering, before they both shrugged. Then they made a terrible, life altering mistake. A mistake that they would one day tell their ancestors, children, bosses, wives, and anyone else who would listen about. They had to warn the world never to make this mistake, for on this night it cost them a fortune.

They blinked, taking their eyes off Jensen Ambrose.

In one moment he was on the table, sitting and relaxed with a smug look. In the blink of an eye one fist was in the face of the right most orc. He teetered backwards, caught off guard considering Jensen was several paces away grabbing at the bloody mouth with the loose tooth. Jensen's fist rolled into his gut, catching a taught muscle and twisting his fist so the flesh of the greenskin would roll around his knuckles. The immortal dropped to a knee, vaulting upwards in a powerful leap with extended fist catching knuckle to chin. He snapped the orc's neck back, probably making the creature see stars as Jensen landed in a bow to the Faun at the table.

"And do you have time for a bit of a snack before we go?" Jensen asked her, ignoring the other incoming Orc as the one behind him fell backwards like a freshly cut tree in the woods. "One should always stretch before walking long distances they tell me," Jensen muttered with a cocky grin.

[Philomel]

Philomel's head tilted slightly as she leaned to inspect the remains of the orcs.

Truly, they were defeated. The uncomfortable, suffocated grunts and groans emanating from the pair were not dissimilar from an elderly couple trying, but failing, to gain to a climax. He at the forefront, the one Jensen had grabbed and hit first, was rubbing his jaw and blood was streaming from his nose. Her eyebrow raised slightly as she caught the direct eye-contact of one, who then failed an arm as if in an attempt to reach for her supple breasts. Quite deliberately she swayed to let the bounds of fat sway like pouches of water.

"Rather interesting way of dealing with the problem," she said in a luxurious voice.

Slowly she stood, the feign of being drunk no longer necessary. This Jensen, she could tell, needed no persuasion in gentle flirtation. He seemed entirely sober already, or at least not the type for "Bouncy and Giggly".

The faun whore did not look at him, using her hands to somewhat clear her loin-covering of the spilt beer. She stank a little of alcohol - that was to be expected. So righting herself onto her hooves, into a stable position, she reached into the folds of cloth at her bostirer and pulled out a small vial of perfumed scent. As she sprayed it over herself she flickered her gaze up to the human, and smiled in a way that did not hide her like of him.

"I know a fabulous bar, across the quarter, where the gloriest of dry martini can be found."

Placing her perfume back in its pouch she offered a hand and stepped forwards, letting her lips curl into a smile.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

He gingerly took her hand, spinning on the spot to meet his waist with hers as smoothly his fingers rolled up to her wrist, elbow locking with hers. He escorted her out, being the perfect gentleman, and opening the door when the time came. He winked to the faun, looked back to the Orcs, and then to the tender.

“Those two got my tab,” Jensen giggled, turning away from the shit stain that was a bar and looking to the night sky. A rush of blood sloshed the inside of his mind, the cobwebs literally washing away with every step. He was sobering up rather quickly after that little barroom scrap, and the immortal was annoyed at the revelation. He looked back to the Faun and actually decided to assess her.

Jensen began with her face, catching her giving him a sideways glance. He looked at her eyes, seeing a weight of experience and hardships behind the iris. Nothing new to him. One wink to her and he followed her eyes to her nose. It was a nice nose. The right shape, size, and look. But he could tell it was broken once or twice. A bruised nose never really healed right. Or did it? He was never sure with these things. Still, he mentally checked off cute nose. Which led him to her lips. Now there were a pair of lips that new exactly how to please a man, woman, and the space between. Pleasantly luscious red pushed out without too much makeup to overdo it. Her tongue darted out, ever so slightly to entice him, and his blood began to drain down from his brain.

Without even being discreet he gazed at her chest. He looked at her womanly assets. Not the largest by far, he thought with a grin. They were shapely, toned, not sagging; A plus in his book. When he reached her waist he took a double take. Somehow, despite knowing full well she was a faun, and knowing full well that meant she had hooves, he was surprised to see them.

“You have hooves,” Jensen giggled at some inside joke. “Hooves!” he said again, laughing lightly. His demeanor was not threatening in the way he laughed, not judging her at all. No, he fondly chuckled as he recalled a conversation with Zerith Dracosius a while back when they went to the Citadel to fight an undead Centaur. Both men were beaten to near death by his hooves. It was their bane that entire fight and a joke amongst them.

However, her faun legs were not much doing it for the enigmatic immortal. He concluded of all her traits, the woman’s face was her strongest, with those kissable lips. Satisfied with his field conclusion he nodded, linking his fingers with hers. “So, how much longer until we get to this joint? I lost my buzz and that’s not going to do at all!”

He lazily reached for his sack of gold, tapping it to ensure it was there, and feeling the weight behind the gold coins in it. “Cause I don’t plan to stop until we find the golden Dry Martini.”

[Philomel]

A soft laugh came from her mouth at his presentation. He seemed to have lapsed back into accepting the stupor that came with drunkeness. Allowing herself to be amused, and to even be aroused just that tiny bit that she was not ashamed to admit. It was something she regularly did not experience for all the times she lay with old, fat, rich men. Pompous idiots.

Somewhat eagerly, and simply willingly, she allowed him to take her arm. She held onto it gracefully, acting like a proper lady as he began to escort her from the premises.

"The bar is just a few streets away," she said, a slight chuckle to her tone, "Known as the Savvy Prince. I think you will like it."

The money in her pocket was heavy enough. Certainly she had already made a few in the previous nights to not try to get any more than a couple of gold from this man. He seemed not quite the type to completely hire her for the night, for all her talents. Instead, she presumed, he would just want drink. Jensen was his name, she reminded herself, and as her eyes flickered over his slightly stooped, happy but tall figure a sense of joy overcame here. After all, here was a man who wasn't just a boring old farting lout. He was actually fascinating. He seemed concious enough of his actions to still treat her with the respect of old-world ettiquette, yet also spontaneous enough to want to just find the perfect martini.

After a few paces of silence she found herself giggling, her ears picking up the rings of her laugh and the clops of her hooves on the cobbles around them. Safe in the alleyway there was a little more privacy than the bar and she could now say, act and be more of herself.

"Quite the charmer, aren't you," the faun said, lightly. She nodded over to a street corner, where a small shadow was pulling itself out from the darker mass. Glowing golden eyes gave the first sign of intelligent life, then a slight yap of sound. The swish of a tail and a glimpse of russet red fur told of a beast and the assassin-whore allowed herself to smile, naturally.

"Come, it is just around this corner. We will follow my friend."

And the gentle paws of the fox-spirit righted the beast and it scampered onwards, nose showing the way.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Fido knows the way, huh?” Jensen said, not quite sure what would happen. He gave the Faun a cocky grin, looking at her face for any signs she was going to take him to a back alley and sell his kidneys for gold. But there was a glimmer in her eye, something akin to amusement, but also genuine enjoyment. They walked in silence for a moment, before the dog… fox… spirit… thingy… showed them a light at the end of a street. Jensen released his hold of the Faun and greedily slapped his fingers against one another. “Oh yes, yes, yes…” Jensen moaned. “Almost there…almost there…”

He turned to the Faun, gave her a wink, and looked back at the door. “I’m not sure two can fit in that place at once.” Jensen began to pantomime his hands as if assessing the best way to enter themselves into the bar. “It’s gonna be tight. Perhaps one could go through the front, and the other the back. But I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about it.”

He looked back to his whore-scort and gave her a crooked look. “I’m not an expert on these things, but I suppose we both could just slam in at once,” he slapped his hands again brutally. “You know, come at the same time?”

“Or is this a classy joint?” he muttered scratching his unshaven chin. “Probably wouldn’t appreciate two in one go. Probably one at a time, after a bit of a breather…” He looked back to the Faun. “I’m not sure how we should do this, but oh well.” He offered his hand to her again linking his fingers with hers. “I think I got it. I’ll open the door, and you come first. Then I’ll come behind you!” He smiled goofily as he eyed the door handle. This was it, the point of no return.

“Remember my conditions,” Jensen said turning and standing sideways so she could walk in, his fingers leaving hers and trailing to the small of her back where he gave her a friendly pat. His other hand opened the door. “Drier than the fucking deserts of Fallien, or we look for another place!”

He fell into line behind her, hand resting on her back as the other lifted to the bartender, motioning to them both. The woman gave a nod of approval, her fingers dancing along two cups and flinging them into the air. She turned and snatched a bottle in one go, her other free hand grabbing glass A and slamming it down on the table. Glass B she caught on her wrist, letting it tumble down to a rolling state of either collapse or righting itself. She poured the liquid into the first glass, her hand touching the side of the cup as her eyes glowed a soft blue. Ice covered the sides where here hand was, and one flick of her wrist shot it down the bar ramp where another caught it and drank with a mighty thank you.

The other cup she poured into as it twirled, tossing the bottle behind her where it landed on the counter. She snapped her fingers that once held the bottle over the cup, and like a lighter it eventually caught a spark and ignited the drink, which she then rolled over to the man just o her side.

She then lifted both her hands to Jensen and Philomel and gestured to a two person raised seating table.

[Philomel]

The two beasts of earth watched with vague amusement at the ramblings of the man.

Now haing joined the company, Veridian was intrigued to see the catchings of the night. He had spent his entire life, after all, following in the hoofsteps of Philomel, aiding her in what little way he could. Despite his young years he had undivided loyalty to her, and was the only being she could truly consider a friend. Perhaps even love. He sat down upon his haunches outside the door to "The Savvy Prince." He curled his ivory-ended tail around him, tilting his head a little and watching with gleaming golden eyes as the human began rambling.

"Not sure if we're gonna fit ... not sure ... oh well, I am a fecking idiot. Look at me, I am drunk!"

Or he might as well have been saying the latter. The little jaws of the fox opened in a long yawn, revealing a snaking red tongue and sharp fangs. Philomel simply laughed, amused by the ridiculousness of the drunkard, and let him carry on. She said nothing, just letting herself be entertained.

Eventually Jensen seemed to sort it out. The faun-whore and fox-spirit exchanged a brief round of smiles before she was invited to go in first. His fingers softly wre placed on her back, like some gentle flirter. It was kind, and not to eager, a practised movement, and not usually the sign of such inebriation. Her eyes flickered back to the human, just to make sure that he really was as un-sober as he seemed. He was not smiling.

"It has to be dry!" he was demanding, "Otherwise we are leaving this place!"

The assassin-whore just shrugged slightly, then made her way over to their designated spot. The barmaid was doing some fancy magical shit with glasses - Philomel had seen better. She sat down in a low-backed seat, taking a step to get onto the dais. Jensen seemed to struggle a little in co-ordinating his legs into position, but before long he had joined her, seated opposite. A short pause, and a randy call, then the martinis were brought over.

Quickly, as fast as her hand could move, Philomel shot out and grabbed the one nearest to her. The single olive swilled around in minute rolling circles as she drained the glass, then slammed it back down. Her tongue snaked out, snatched the olive from the bottom of the glass. Then she sat back, satisfied, and watched the rather bizarre mix of expressions from the people around her.

"Yes, it is dry," she concluded, then looked to her client.

After all, the final decision was down to him.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

There it was…the martini that would be a gift from the gods themselves. It looked at him in a taunting fashion. Drink me, and know eternal thirst… Jensen licked his chops, eyeing the reflection of the faun in the drink. She had already disposed of hers, but he could see she awaited his approval with a smirk on her face. Jensen gave her a wink, lifting his drink to his lips, eyes fluttering as the olive rolled to face him. He plucked it out, leaving the round shape in his mouth, pushing the pit out with his tongue through the hole in the…

“Es an ahlive a frewt?” He asked through the hole in the olive. “Or es it a vehgable?” She gave him a confused grin and deciding to spend no more time upon the topic he swallowed the olive. It was tender in its caress down his gullet, but now it was time for the main course. He gingerly sniffed his drink, let out a giggle of anticipation, and let the smooth clear taste waterfall into his mouth.

He swallowed it, patted his chest, and looked to the faun. His eyes were upon hers, looking into those experienced eyes. He ignored her horns for a moment and gave her another assessment of her face, and concluded her eyes were definitely noteworthy. The immortal gave her a sardonic grin, whimpering into a laugh as he took the cup and spun it so the glass was upside down. He clapped once, as if deeply amused by something, and came to his conclusion.

“Like drinking the ocean! That wasn’t nearly dry enough!” He turned to the tender, gave her a dark glare, and flipped her the bird. “You hear me, its crap! I wanted a dry martini!”

“Fuck you too, buddy,” she said, not even acknowledging his direction as she continued to entertain those in front of her. Jensen didn’t like being ignored.

He was kind of a spoiled brat like that.

The martini glass shattered above her head, raining debris upon her hair as she covered her face and eyes. Two of the men looked up from their seats, the muscles of their arm twice the size of their neck. They cracked some knuckles and scraped the floor with an annoying screech, looking to the immortal and the faun. “Normally, I’d say ignore him, but tonight I want a treat. Get him boys.”

Jensen looked to the Faun, rolling his eyes and mumbling to her. “Just want a dry martini. That so much to fucking ask?”

[Philomel]

There was only one possibility in this situation.

She burst into light, ringing laughter, amusement in the form of tears bursting from her eyes. Standing up she placed a hoof on the seat she had been sitting on, and turned to the barmaid.

"Hoi, darling," she shouted, tossing her horns into the air. "The man asked for dry, not shit."

Her lips were widely curled into a large grin, and her hand gestured at the glasses on the table beneath them.

"This is not worth the piss in the chamber pot for what was in there. My friend here requires something less wet than a hot woman's cliteris. Much more like a spoonful of cinnamon! I demand you all go bring us something better than this water."

With that she sat down, her head nodding once. She folded her arms over her breasts, determined that it got the message across. The bar maid looked startled, if not deeply insulted - as did much of the room's erstwhile company. Some seemed faintly amused, some snorted into their drinks. Most just stared, wide-mouthed as they watched a faun with opulance say such words that were not repeatable in polite society.

Yet polite society they were not in. The relative, necessary point. Philomel heartily was in her element, and she thrived in it as a large uproar began. Where there were perhaps thirty people in the bar - the number was suddenly halved. The departed leapt to their feet and vanished into the night, all to search for the driest martini they could, on the orders of the fairest faun.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal watched the scene unfold with a gaped mouth of wonder. The faun was quite the little talker, and he gave her a sideways glance. There was much more to this woman than he thought; something he liked deeply on a professional and equal level. Kind of a shame she opened her legs for coin, he mused as he looked her over.

The bar had lost the wind of tension, the two brutes looking to one another and deciding perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to go to war with the two at the table. They mumbled some obscene threats, but they were as empty as his shattered drinking cup. With a heavy sigh, he looked back to the Faun and pouted. “I don’t think we’ll ever find it.” He looked to his hands, debating how to proceed. “One fucking miserable year,” he muttered running them through his hair, leaning back and laughing with a dark chuckle. “Jensen Ambrose, you deserve nothing nice,” he commented to her.

It was true the immortal had one hell of a nightmare year. The Night of Debauchery, the death of his fiancé, the loss of his father, the trouble brewing and the torment he watched his friends endure. Somehow though, he was constantly told that he had no reason to complain. People said others love you, but that never worked for him. It felt more insulting than anything. However, there was a point someone once made. People looked to the knight for strength when they were weak. The Ixian Knights saw him as the shining beam of defiance in a world that refused their ideals. With middle fingers waving in the air, smash mouth attitude in the face of despair, he pushed the limits that some didn’t even know they had.

He shook his head, standing abruptly. “Yes I do!” He shouted. “I’m the god damned Enigmatic Immortal! I want a fucking dry martini, I get one! Come Whore-escort! We have drinks to find!” He lifted a hand to the air, pointing to the sky. “We will search high and low, in and out, and possibly get a quicky in if I feel adventurous! Who the fuck knows or cares! I am not drunk, and this needs to be addressed right this fucking instant!”

“Good luck finding a place that makes them Drier than me, asshat,” the bartendress muttered.

“My farts make drier martini’s than you, but I do see the dilemma,” Jensen replied not turning to look at her. He stepped one foot onto the table, leaning forwards as he pondered the answer. He looked around the bar, then he saw the sight that made him change his life forever. “You, whore-tender!”

“My name is-“

“Whore-tender!” Jensen corrected her quickly, cutting her off. He snapped his fingers, pointing to a picture on the wall. “That fuzzy creature there, with the red pom-pom. There’s a drink in his hand, a martini glass. Who is this three foot tall thing?”

The woman glared daggers at him, fire and ice erupting on her head as two glasses shattered, but she peered over to the wall and saw the one he referred too. “That rat with wings? That’s Duke. He’s a muggle, or Moo-cow…a uh…Moogle! That’s it!” she took a moment to think things over. “He’s supposedly some top notch bartender at a bar somewhere here in Concordia. Nobody’s seen him in years. Some say he’s a damn myth. Everyone agrees not to touch the pom pom however.”

He grinned devilishly, looking to the Faun. “Then tonight we find a legend.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her with him towards the door. “We find this moogle, we drink his martini, and we end our quest or die trying!”

[Philomel]

Despite her request and the amount of men who seemed determined to find her a better martini, her client for the night wanted some form of adventure. In a way, she supposed, it made it more enjoyable and granted her a night of entertainment rather than sex. Sex was normal, killing was also, but going on an age-old mythical search was not. Certainly it would provide a restbite from her usual giving, giving, giving.

Obligingly she went with the wasted human, his eyes dull and half-closed but nevertheless determined. Her spirit was rather high and her soberity not far gone. After all, she was practised at drinking and knowing her 'limits'.

Whatever a moogle was, Philomel was only vaguely curious. Her interests in this night were more about the man she was with, and giving him his money's worth. If this excursion went on into the small hours she would ask for more payment, but until then she owed it to him to amuse his fancy. The rather bemusing portrait of the one they called 'Duke' spoke very little of the man himself. She had never heard of such a man, and that was rather odd as she knew many of the bars. Neither had she seen any being looking like that, unless they were of her own ilk.

At least she knew where to start. Basically in no place she had ever been to before. Which was not many places. The grander areas of the city disallowed prostitutes of her reputation. They were more ... courtasans than anything. If any noble man wanted her they came to a place she was, not she to them. It was not in her usual code to do private home-visits.

Unless the pay was particularly good.

"I know many of the bars," she said, "In this area of the town and know we won't find him there. Maybe 'Duke' ... maybe we can find him in the posher sector of the city. After all," her lips curled into a subtle smile, "The grandest of martini makers tend to serve those in the highest of places."

And she angled her body, thusly, towards the main street that led into the inner sanctum of Radasanth. Somewhere, up there, she was sure, would be the man who would satisfy her client's passionate thirsts.

[Roht Mirage]

As the two walked, the quality of the houses gradually increased. Yards became manicured. Lamp posts flickered in a lively manner more often than not. Even the cobblestone street was properly tended cobble, not that shrapnel the lower classes walk upon. However, there seemed to be a slight issue of cleanliness, for the street was coated in a sheen of grit that sparkled just slightly in the moonlight. If Mr. Ambrose wasn't hovering somewhere between 'sloshed' and 'not sloshed enough, dammit' he might have recognized the approaching presence. The sand shifted on a non-existent night breeze and drifted toward a side street.

“Kyla told you to behave,” came a sweet yet matronly voice as the figure appeared in the guttering glare of a lamp. She wore a cloak of forest green, though her desert-toned skin was not hidden. Sand wreathed around her feet like thousands of obedient children. “Jensen, when I hear about your evening from an orc just before his face swells too much for him to speak... that's not behaving.”

The immortal gaped. “Astarelle? What are you- Wait. That was like two bars ago! How'd you track me all the way here?”

She pushed back her hood, baring steely grey eyes and a strange mark over her brow that, thanks to a certain reporter -Bury you, Derdum Tome!- was recognizable over the entire blasted continent. Few knew, however, that the fabled Roht Mirage was a part-time babysitter. (Immortalsitter?)

“I almost did lose you. But, I was fortunate to run across a group of men who were... how did they put it? Seeking a martini as dry as the Fallien deserts so they could get laid by Mother Nature.” She gave only a short, disparaging glance to buxom Mother Nature herself, then approached them. “It's time to go home. We can't have you spreading bad Ixian publicity uptown.” The sand concentrated tighter around her, most of it somehow disappearing into the billow of her cloak. Then, she raised a hand with gem chips arranged against the palm and reached for the drunk immortal.

[Philomel]

What a rude interruption.

As soon as the other womanly voice arose Philomel felt a scowl rise upon her face. It was a very well-deserved scowl, for, after all, her work had been halted, her client told he was drunk and asked to depart "home" and she still had not yet received what full pay she could have easily gotten from this man. Her eyes snapped up to glare at the dark brown haired, grey-eyed tattooed girl suavely sashaying over towards them. In all spirit of her absolutely acceptable reactionary emotions the faun-whore raised her chin, tilted her head to the side and glared, as darkly as her own grey peep-orbs could justly do.

The the dread word slipped out - Ixian - and Philomel knew at once that she disliked this woman.

She unhooked herself from the recess of his person and took a hoofstep forwards, her vision rapidly narrowing as she taught this ... harlot the meaning of the expression "to glower". This was her client, her single night from the usual drunk, "uhhh, baby gimme all that bad stuff and shit," which this girl from those knights - that Philomel had only heard negitive things about - seemed to be wanting to take from her with the power of one word.

The Ixians, after all, from what Philomel knew from her mother, and those haunting tales told between assassins, were nothing but greedy buggers who were obssessed with their idea of righteousness. They respected nothing of the need to make money, and the need to end a life where it should be ended, they were all about bloodlessness and being boring and pretending to be angels when they were not.

They killed, after all, and they ended lives. They were just as bad in her opinion.

"Excuse me?!" Philomel almost shrieked, her voice higher than normal and her anger prominent. "What do you think you are doing? This is my client, not your lost puppy!"

[Enigmatic Immortal]

For two smoking hot women, well one human and a half human, to be up at arms for Jensen's attention was a sublime feeling. Most men in their lives would pine for such an opportunity, or only expierence it in their fantasies. If the siutation were a little less hostile, the immortal would have burst into laughter wnd clapped. He would cheer for his whore-scort to teach the cell winner a thing or two.

But the reason for her to come was what took all the fun out. Kyla told you to behave, was what the desert native had said. It was a growing, never ending irritation that was blooming since his fights in the cell. Jensen was losing his temper much quicker as of late, and for it he was placed into house arrest more than once. Yet never before had Kyla asked to keep tabs on Jensen. Or that was his impression until lately.

Matching the Faun's glare the knight stood behind his escort and bared his teeth. "So Kyla has you chasing me down? What an honor to have the winner of the Cell look for little ol me." Sarcasm oozed like venom from every word. "Go home, Astarelle, I paid this fine young lass to take me out and do something I havent done in forever; fucking enjoy myself instead of slave away for the Ixians and the great circle jerk of Sei Orlouge."

He let his body grow slack, leaning his head on the fauns shoulder and grinning like a mad dog. "Me and the whore-scort are on an epic quest. We're going to find the driest fucking martini, drier than your shriveled cunt. Suravani herself would weep her desert sands can't compare to this Martini," He smiled to het, a warmth of a friend in his eyes as he lifted one hand out. A weight was in his look, a burden of terrible pain one endures simply by the factvthey had no choice but to endure such agonies. It was almost as if he pleaded.

"You can join us, and be part of a legend, doing something for yourself instead of being demoted to a damn babysitter, or," his scowl returned. "Or I can kick your ass, leaving the Cell champion in the gutter as another stepping stone to my legendary deeds tonight. So what say you?"

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle closed her hand over the gem chips. The teleportation magic held within them resisted slightly, itched for release, then quieted. Like a line of ants, the sapphire points retreated into her sleeve. She considered his proposal, not because of the threat to tan her “Cell champion” rump...

Certainly, if he wanted to, he could kick her up and down the street until dawn.

She considered because he talked a lot of sense for a drunk Jensen; yet clearly not as far sloshed as she had anticipated. More surprisingly, he had a vigor about him that she hadn't seen in all his days recently moping around the castle. Perhaps the freedom and night air was doing him some good. Perhaps an orc's face had been just the stress relief he needed. Or, perhaps, it was that other thing.

Astarelle cast a judgemental eye over the Coronian harpy. She did know that the official name for the creature was 'faun', but she resolved to not let it pass her lips. A whore and a harpy, that was the woman's lot. The form was different than the she-beasts of Fallien, but that scowl was as vile as any she had seen on those old winged hags. You would lower yourself to this, Jensen? she asked silently, weighing her options, or rather steeling her stomach.

The moment of revulsion passed over her face like a cloud crossing the moon. Then, she was all jovial eyes and easy smile. “It's not like I enjoy following you around. It's just that if you get in trouble, I get in trouble. I'm the responsible one, apparently,” she said with an exasperated shrug. “So, I accept your invitation.” She stepped around Jensen to the arm that wasn't covered in faun-whore and lay her hand in the fold of his elbow. “I'll be your chaperone.” She gave him a wink, then leaned closer. “Can't complain, right? Two women. Or...”

She shot a catty glance across his chest to the whore that was -blast it all- taller than them both. “One and a half,” she laughed. There was a hint of venom, just enough that one might sense the deep, dark pit from which the venom welled.

[Philomel]

Philomel heard the snide comment about her genetics, she heard the poisonous laugh spilling from the bitch's mouth, and in response twisted her expression up into something macabre, evil, brilliant and malicious. Her ears pricked up slightly at the sounds of the various names - Sei Orlouge, Kyla, Astarelle - regretting slightly that she was getting herself into this fine evening. Ixian's were merchants, robbers and murderers, just like the rest of ordinary kind, and by usual standards she did not accept their company as civilised or desired.

But yet - yet ... this man, her client, had paid, and she most certainly was not done with getting out the well-deserved money from him that she could, and ought, to receive. Twitching her braid over her shoulder she held herself high, especially proud of those ram horns and hooves that gave her the boost of a few inches taller, the faun-whore let out a curse of faunish just to irritate the girl.

"You are a fuck-wit, a shit-bitch and a pie face. I hope you get raped by a donkey."

Of course, all the client-stealer would hear, as she took the other arm of the drunken Jensen, was a string of goat bleats. Albeit, it might prove her point of the half-humanity within Philomel, but it still meant that the faun could insult her with a great beam on her face. Rather smirking now she let them continue as a company, making no comment as man seemed impressed by both. As long as she still got her money that was available, she certainly would be happy. This man, this martini-obsessed lover was as useful as a handle on a door. Most useful indeed.

And Philomel accepted that he might need a babysitter, and accepted the fact that the girl might want to join them. But she was determined.

She would get what she could from him, and thus find his martini, for the sake of bitter beer.

[Kupo!]

“Kipo! We need more booze on table three!” The tiny voice came from a tiny creature, known as a Yan. A Yan is like a yellow sheep. He is friendly, and also slightly…slow…cousin to the more aggressive and highly deadly Yan’s of the normal crème sheep color. Yet he was also friends with the moogle, Duke, who happened to own this establishment, known as the Drunken Moogle.

“They need to pay their tab before they get another round, Kupo!” Duke shouted back, his tiny little wings attached to his soft three foot nothing body beating furiously as he mixed drink after drink behind the bar. A blond haired woman spun drinks around wrists, not so much as a show, but as a way to maneuver the bottles around herself to keep up with the rush of the evening.

“Kipo!” It should be noted Tim says Kipo, only because Duke, being a Moogle, says Kupo a lot. “They told you to shove it up your [KUPO!] and bring them a [KUPO!] beer.” Duke sighed as he watched the three men grumble while Tim carried a tiny tray on his back covered in tumblers. The door to the Moogle opened, and a tiny bell jingled as a man in a black trenchcoat, smarmy grin, and red tipped hair looked around, wetting his lips in anticipation.

“Hey Kipo! A queer walked in!”

Now it should be quickly noted, Tim is rather dim witted. So when he called Jensen Ambrose – What? I hadn’t established that it was him? Oh like you didn’t know! Who else would walk into the bar with that description? No go ahead, go find one, I’ll wait.

Got nothing? Thought so… - a queer, he really meant a man who played for the same team, if you understand that turn of phrase. Duke, realizing the error of this, did what he did best as his bartendress next to him collapsed laughing her ass off, realizing instantly who had walked into her bar from the Cell competition. “We’re so dead…” she chuckled.

“Not if I distract them with the pom pom!” Duke shouted flying forwards. “Hello, and welcome to the Drunken Moogle! I’m Duke! Will you please take a seat over here? It’s a nice little table with only three beer stains on it.” He smiled, his red pom pom dangling back and forth like a cat toy. Jensen looked to him, narrowed his eyes, and spoke in a deadly tone.

“Dry Martini,” he breathed. “Is it dry?”

Duke took a moment, blinking, which was incredibly hard to determine mostly because Duke squinted a lot. Then with a little moogle battlecry that went something like “Are you Fuc[KUPO]-ing kidding me!?!?!” And proceeded to wrap his tiny moogle paws around Jensen’s neck.

“Do I make a dry martini? Do you know what I have been through to get that recipe you sonova-[KUPO]?!?! I’ll kill you!” Duke shouted as he attempted to strangle the tiny creature.

“Astarelle? You gonna [Kupo]ing help me? Whore-scort?” Duke began to punch at him with tiny fists of furry fury. “GUYS?”

[Philomel]

She should have known by the obvious title. For the procession of much of the walk to the public house she had been concentration on showing herself to be the better female. Her hips swung like nobody elses' hips. Her full lips pouted like nobody elses' lips. Her breasts bounced like nobody elses' breasts, yet still she remained equal to the beast on the other arm. It was a depressing thought, a thorn in her side that she was being robbed of such easy prey. Easily, of course, she could have given up and gone home, taken what money she had ... but this was a battle of sorts, a battle she was determined that the Ixian bitch did not win.

Damn those Ixian's. Damn them to hell, the stuck-up snobs.

Ultimately, she would show this wench that any assassin or whore, aiming for the skies with her ambition, could do as good, or better, than an Ixian warrior.

So she kept her head straight forwards and barely looked at the name of the in as they strode in. Her attention was mainly on the girl called Astarelle, and on showing her what a real woman was, half-goat or otherwise. Body was her weapon, seduction her key to the lock of Jensen's heart - by daybreak she would have him fall in love with her or gods-be-damned, what was the point of being the Nightingale whore?

One second, one, was all it took for the disaster to strike. A single step it seemed into this pub, the many-hundreth of the night, and the client was promptly strangled. He was ripped from Philomel arm, and for a moment the world seemed to tumble. She paused, only thinking, 'where the hell has the bitch taken him?' and then she saw the thing there. The tiny teddy bear. The rat. The Drys-above moogle - finally! - throttling her man to death.

It was surprisingly difficult to transfer her thoughts from seducing to fighting. Dressed as she was for a night of whoring it took a moment to even remember she had two daggers tucked away in the folds of her skirt. For a moment she did naught but watch the tiny creature attack with vehemence, then her body climatised into violent action. Each hand found a mark - twist and flicker. Her body crouched, launching itself into defensive mode. Lowering her head in instinct she readied her horns to headbutt any incoming assailants, then decided to act rather than wait.

Palms filled with metal she bleated, loud and brutish in faunish, a string of babble not unlike what she had said to the Astarelle-bitch. Her head swung forwards, aiming with strength of a degree usual for a humanoid, right at the moggle's body. It would collide, slam, into his side, with hope. Blades flicked up. Full force attack.

It was time for the faun-whore to dance.