Drunkards & Drinkers

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"The Dog's Tears"
(A Residential District bar in Castle Town)​

• Faust Dragomir [Sinistrari]
• Abigail Cataphractoi [Cataphractoi]

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Faust needed a cigarette. Desperately.

An acquaintance - who liked to call himself a friend – had, just yesterday, described the place as a modest, respectable bar. Ha. Haha… Such bullshit. No matter how elegantly dressed the establishment itself may be, there was no such thing as a ‘modest, respectable’ drunk. That was the whole point of alcohol after all; to forget social restrictions and etiquette in favour of wild abandon.

Goddesses be damned he hated this place though. He really did. You could ask him to write it in his own blood and he would, the sick, tortured poor bastard.

The regret for even showing up here had tightened every muscle upon his bones to the point of uncomfortable aching. It was far too hot: but he didn’t have enough layers to remove. It was far too loud: but he didn’t bring any earplugs with him, though he was debating making a few out of those napkins. And it stunk. Sweat, ale and overpowering perfume had all come together as one of the classiest of Castle Town’s midnight, intoxicated concoctions. People were laughing more than they could breathe. Someone amongst the crowd was still roaring on about his favourite but recently broken vase. People tripped and tankards clinked almost as often as Faust blinked.

Suffocating: yes, that was the word. That’s exactly how he felt. And I swear upon all things holy and not, if that man veers over here and empties his guts on my lap, I’ll be swiftly planting my boot down his throat.

With a lethally sharp glare, Faust anxiously watched the promising drunkard in all his pale-faced, red-eyed glory of misbalance acts. Every time he spun a little closer, swayed towards him, quickened his approach, the rigid grind of the doctor’s teeth on his lollipop stick frightened into a hastened pace. It was a deadly game; one he had never wanted to put a bet on but was forced to participate in anyway.

“Well?!” Oh. Yes. Her. Shit. I was trying to forget about you.

Reluctantly tearing his paranoid stare away from the bumbling idiot, Faust tilted his head towards the subject of the high-pitched screech. His face flushed the instant their eyes met. A scowl nudged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t say anything. Din’s fire, he didn’t even know what to say! Women were hard enough to engage in conversation as it was, but this one had an almost amazing, honed ability of twisting absolutely everything he so much as began to utter into perhaps the bitchiest statements he couldn’t even begin to think up: and said a lot, for a natural jerk like Faust. So now he simply didn’t try any more. Instead he sat there like a blushing freezard, cranky and frigid, about to happily hiss frostbite in your face.

“WWWWEEEEEEELL?!” The blonde squealed once more. Her whole face splintered and cracked against the dried mess of wall-paint she’d pasted on two days ago, the red lips chapped and brittle, the cheeks sunken and her eyelashes falling off. Wasn’t the worst sight in Faust’s history books, but it still kind of hurt to look at her.

The ‘lady’s frustration began to claw into her fingers, knuckles whitening as the nails threatened to smash her glass right there and then. Faust was sure he could even feel the table quivering ever so slightly: but then, that might just be the minor earthquake from that Goron’s fart. Shit this was disgusting. “Do you really not like me?!”

“No.” Sudden, blunt, out of his mouth before he knew his tongue had moved.

Her face dropped and he almost felt a little guilty. A wet glisten appeared on her eyes that made his stomach curl and shudder. He looked away and pretended to sip at his lukewarm water, some of his taste-buds dying in the process, may they rest in peace. “W-Why…? WHY?! We only just met! How can you not like me already?! Did you set out to dislike me?! Are you just picking on me?! HowdoyouknowmetojudgemelikethatwhenIhaven’tevensaidmuchyet!!!”

Unlike the man Abigail hadn't noticed and wouldn't have known in the first place, she very much did consider this a classy bar. At any rate, the prices were higher, and the clientele were from the middle to upper classes. Some minor nobles here and there, merchant princes, Guard officers...and at least one member of the Royal Guard. True, in another society she would be more like a special agent, rather than a personal guard to nobility or politicians, but there was no such other service in Hyrule, and she did intend to work her way onto true Royal Guard duties eventually.

But, well, that was work. And Abigail was in no way here for work. Currently she was chugging some strong alcohol or another- she hadn't bought it herself, although she suspected the man who had bought it for her would be quite disappointed by her tolerance...and sexual orientation- and well on her way to completely plastered. So far, she'd never managed to get herself blackout drunk, in spite of significant, if incidental, effort.

Some might call Abigail a bit of a drunkard, but they would be wrong. A drunkard took any opportunity to get drunk, in public or private. Abigail, on the other hand, only got drunk socially, and only on rare nights off. Which didn't change the fact she'd already danced on a table once tonight, made out with at least one woman she had never met before, and left several challengers in drunken stupors, wondering how someone her size could drink alcohol like a damned fish. Through the haze, she was distantly wondering where her shoes had gone, and where she had obtained a cheap peridot ring, but the latter would probably pay for the former, so she wasn't overly concerned about that conundrum.

How she was missing an entire bra strap- while still wearing her shirt, and without losing the rest of it- was a bigger mystery. Where said strap had disappeared to, and, oh, minor questions like how that was physically possible were doubtlessly going to go unanswered.

Finally reaching the bottom of her tankard, she slammed it onto the table, insomuch as her minuscule strength allowed her to 'slam' anything. She stumbled to her feet, shouted something she really couldn't remember seconds later, and staggered off to find something else to entertain herself. A man chased after her, exclaiming something along the lines oh "Hey, babe, where're you going!?", but she waved one hand behind her and a pale purple barrier popped up in her tracks. The man bounced off it and fell to the ground, ego bruised worse than body, and having learned a valuable lesson: Abigail, even completely wasted, was still a powerful enough mage to cast spells. Offhand. And apparently with sufficient timing to pop him onto his ass with a barrier that lasts less than a second.

Curiously, he was nowhere to be found in the bar five seconds later. In all likelihood, he would not be the last one learning that lesson tonight.

It all went right over his head. Like a child adjusted to the raucous mess that was his crowded classmates, Faust naturally faded his blind date’s voice into the soft, unassuming hum of simple background nose. It blurred into everything else, the voices melting together as if they were liquids of the same breed: all unpalatable. So much discomfort. Far too much irritation. It was a natural defence mechanism to sit there in forced, ignorant ‘bliss’: as far as bliss went in this charming environment.

Why was he here again?

Just as Faust was debating just getting up and leaving – amazed that he hadn’t thought of it sooner – he choked on his drink. The stale water bubbled down the wrong pipe with all the delightful discomfort of lungs having a panic attack and a throat that’d rather suffocate you than fix anything. It was meant to be a laugh. Serves him right, trying to get a laugh in a place like this.

Instead the doctor was left coughing over his own insides, a fist at his mouth, brow crumpled, as the slimy lad scarcely managed to scrounge enough pride up off the floor to stand again. What a rebound. Those movements-! Ah! That was so perfect. A breathless tear gleamed in the corner of Faust’s eyes as they crinkled with strangled humour. He had to admit, he was impressed. Not every magically-inclined person out there could conjure such a flawlessly timed barrier at their languid disposal when so intoxicated.

“Funny.” Faust commented to himself, finally managing to recover himself enough to comfortably snigger into his fist.

“…Excuse me?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He turned just in time for the alcohol to hit his face.

“There we go. Now that’s funny.” The lady sneered, slamming down her empty glass as the sticky substance settled into Faust’s pores and dripped from his chin. It took him a good few, dragged moments to open his eyes and cringe with (secretly relieved) surprise as he watched her back storm off, consumed by the bumbling masses. Ok, maybe he shouldn’t be that surprised.

He adjusted his expression accordingly and with a sigh languidly grabbed the last living napkin in the bar to attempt to clean his face. It was fruitless of course, to do so properly with this rag, but he tried anyway. Shame he had to squeeze through an army of dying drunkards to get to it though.

“It can only get better, right?” He muttered disdainfully to himself. Hands pressed against the bar, back hunched with woeful defeat, the doctor silently nodded his head with resignation at the barman for whatever drink he felt like giving him. He grumbled a few prayers under his breath (lest he die from poisoning) then downed his first proper drink of the night to the bitter, burning delight of his tongue and chest.

“Don’t know why I didn’t do that earlier.” He sighed fire. Smacking down the tumbler he gestured once more with his head for another.

It was only then that he noticed how close a proximity he’d become to the suave, wasted witch from earlier: still shoeless and somehow still standing despite how healthily – or not so healthily – she consumed her own drinks. Unlike the rest of this sorry mob, Faust found within her presence an oddly placed comfort. The eye of the storm perhaps? Nonetheless he didn’t mind standing right by her, which was especially odd for a woman. He decided he’d probably stay here.

When her drink became empty he refilled it himself. For some reason.

Perhaps his own abandon of wild consumption was making him too soft-hearted for his own good, but nonetheless, as soon he spotted the error he was casually securing someone else’s bottle for her benefit quicker than his own recognition could follow. The liquid gushed freely from the neck yet still somehow managed to level out perfectly with a flick of the wrist before it overflowed.

“Oi mate! Whad’ya think ya doing takin ma dr-!”

“Oh fuck off.” Faust punched the poor fellow right in the face - knocking him out cold - and downed another of his own shots.

One bathroom break later, Abigail found herself back at the bar. The drink bar, not the bar-bar. She hadn't left that. She caught the bartender's attention and beckoned him over.

"Un of yer finniest whvbers..." she mumbled, incomprehensibly combining the words 'whiskey', 'vodka', and 'beer.' The bartender could have easily overcharged her, but Abigail was a good customer and one of his regulars. He picked a bottle at literal random, figuring she was actually too drunk to care by now, and handed it to her for the marked price.

His guess was completely correct. She downed the unidentified liquor without comment, noticing little more than the burning sensation it produced in her throat. That, however, was a familiar friend. Tankard empty, she placed it on the bar and looked around, utterly failing to notice as Faust refilled her drink. When she turned back to find it full, she just kind of shrugged and drank it without a second though. She did notice him punch someone out, though, and that produced a loud giggle. She crouched and poked the unconscious man in the face a couple times, then waved at the bouncer now standing over them both.

"Saltations, gud ser!" She shook herself violently. "T'would appear this man requires a healer. Or, merhaps, a bucket of chillied water. I would see to his care maself, how'ver I antsipate you are a bitter fet t' move 'em," she managed- and almost coherently, at that. Minus a few slips. The bouncer sighed and lifted the downed patron's leg. Apparently he couldn't be bothered to lift him, because he instead dragged his charge by the leg in the general direction of the door.

"S'not a party til' somuns on the ground. Party! Le's creete sum catatatastrophy! Ths fiiiin est'blishments clening stuff is dubtlessly up t' th' chllenge."

"Please don't," the bartender put in mildly. She gave him a bleary eyed glare, apparently forgetting what he was responding to in the first place. Abigail plopped herself down on a stool.

"It'ould seem I've fugutten wut I was 'bouta do. Pahaps anuver drink woulds asssits in reshturing ma mem'ry."

She pounded another shot, then appeared to forget she was even trying to remember something at all. Abigail shouted another cheer, apparently at nothing, and rested her head on the bar.

The woman’s handling of the bouncer was…Interesting, to say the least. Faust stifled his own laugh at the spectacle though it didn’t take much effort to smother it true and proper when the mention of a healer arose. At that point he awkwardly cleared his throat and signalled for a refill, stubbornly resisting all further eye contact despite the relentless itch of guilt that grated down his turned back. Just because he was a doctor didn’t mean he had to attend to every mutt and insect… Right? Faust heaved a strangled sigh and downed the drink to send his thoughts scattering in a blast of searing liquor. That was better. Ignorance is bliss as the honest bastards say.

A few moments later and the completely wasted woman was seated again, rambling a mess of incoherent nonsense - to the dismay of the barman – only to resign her head to the bar. For a second Faust believed her out. It was more of a surprise when he realised that she wasn’t unconscious. Impressive. In its own weird little way.

“Hey. You should leave.” The doctor this time spoke up. Faust waved a languid hand in front of Abigail’s clouded gaze to grab her attention, resolutely glaring her down until she acknowledged him. “You’re too fucked.” Someone should tell her, right?

"T'th cont'ry. 'm not fucked 'nuff!" Abigail exclaimed cheerfully. "Should prolly eat somethin' though. Barkeep! Food!"

The bartender looked over as Abigail slammed a rupee on the counter, shaking the glasses around it slightly. Somehow, she was never quite drunk enough to forget the prices, and he retrieved exactly enough money for a basket of fried potato slices. There were other things on the menu with the same price, granted, but when did she ever order anything else? He rang a bell, and the cook peeked out through the kitchen door long enough to see him gesture to Abigail, at which point the cook retreated and immediately returned with her order.

It was about that time, after all.

Abigail grinned gratefully and slowly began devouring the snack. The food seemed to restore to her some measure of clarity; with every bite she appeared just a little more coherent. Looks could be deceiving, of course, but although it would be difficult to gauge how much of her senses at returned, it was clear at least some of them had by the improving coordination with which she ate.

He should’ve expected that. When has a happily intoxicated person ever chosen to just go home? Faust withheld a sigh and shook his head. He almost regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips, silent mourning over the wasted breath and effort even if some little hopeful part of him still adamantly argued that it had been the right thing to do.

Oh well. That was my contribution to the good of her health. I don’t have to do anything else now, right? His brow crumpled and the cold, stained glass lingered at his mouth. The mention of food – let alone its scent – sent his stomach into all kinds of turmoil, imploding in a very vocal chorus of abrupt hunger. Embarrassed? More than just a bit. Faust gritted his teeth through the noise and the burn of his cheeks, praying silently that a keen sense of hearing wasn’t among the woman’s array of drunken skills. He shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat more than once in a desperate – but still trying to look somewhat cool – attempt to muffle the grumbles and roars of his gut. When it settled down enough he decided that candy should sort it out and swiftly unsheathed and unwrapped an almost worryingly luminous green lollipop that hurried into his mouth. He sat there in awkward silence for what felt like hours.

Now that he thought about it though…She was a Sheikah, right? If all those old books back home proved correct.

Coal-black, angled eyes slid back to the stranger in all her dishevelled but relentlessly joyful glory. The loose, flowing silver hair and bold red eyes both complimented and contrasted her pale skin. And if Faust were to place a bet, he’d guess she was a mage too judging by those embroidered robes of hers.

Forgetting all sense of decorum, not that he had much to begin with, the doctor leaned onto the dark knuckles of one hand and openly scrutinised Abigail with a thoughtful stare as she ate, a gleam of light catching the silver rim of his monocle as the one damaged eye strained narrow. All the while the head of the lollipop bobbed between his cheeks. Whether she took notice of him or not was of no great importance: he would’ve continued staring anyway.

“I didn’t realise Sheikah got drunk so often.” A confident statement felt certain by the way the staff here dealt with her. A small quiver of a scoff played with the corner of his lips but his expression remained motionless nonetheless. “I thought you lot were always too busy playing dogs.” It was hard to tell if it had meant to be an insult or not. There was no edge to his voice, only the standard low rumble as usual.

"Precisely," Abigail responded through a mouthful of food. She might have taken offense to the statement, but she was too far gone to comprehend its implications. Besides, she wasn't accustomed to hearing such things in the first place, and it was experience which built reflex-level reactions to racist comments. Most of the time, she encountered two kinds of people: those who didn't know she was Sheikah under her hood (which she was not wearing right now), and those who weren't stupid enough to tempt her wrath in the first place. The types that flirted with her or insulted her were distinctly rare.

"One must b' expected t' relax now'n'then. Some people knit...I get publicly intoxicated," she elaborated, somehow getting the words 'publicly' and 'intoxicated' out almost perfectly. " 's quite liberating. Fights! Make-outs! Singing! 'few more hook-ups than I am comfortable admitting!" Abigail managed most of that with minimal drunk-speak, but her tone was rather all over the place. Really, the challenge was understanding her with her mouth full. At least she had, apparently, recovered some of her ability to speak.

Somewhere behind them, a door impacted something rather loudly. Usually a good sign the 'fighting' part was on the way.

"Speaking of brawling, I expect I shall be having some of that in the not-too-distant future. To ensue once that one is sufficiently liquored up," she stated expectantly, nodding to the door.

Faust laughed, a languid, short chuckle of a thing that couldn't quite be bothered. In her own little way the Sheikah was rather amusing, all the more so because of exactly what she was. He almost doubted that anyone would believe him if he decided one day to tattletale. Not that it was a secret. This was far from a private place; though more than just a handful of overly-friendly acquaintances here appeared to think otherwise.

The pound of door swiftly caught his eye. In a moment's notice he was a tense and ready, glaring the ruckus down with an anti-social loathing that nagged at him once again about why exactly he was still here.

"I prefer stitching." He latched on absent-mindedly, not caring to explain that his type of sewing activities were far from the dainty little embroideries the noblewomen often spent their hours on. A little more rugged. A lot more bloody. It could be surprisingly calming though. But those small, charming thoughts weren't quite pleasant enough to tug his attention away from the door. His jaw turned rigid and the lollipop stick snapped tight like a vice between his teeth.

"I'll let you handle this one then." He growled, ever the gentleman. "Ladies first."

A coward? Faust didn't give a single damn if that was the impression caused. At the end of the day it was his neck on the line and he was more than happy to look after it. No good came out of playing with beasts or children, and this little brewing situation was a peculiar mix of the two.

As a grin spread across her face, Abigail grabbed an empty bottle. She had no intention of hitting anything with it, but she did need something to focus her magic, and a bottle was as good as anything. Keeping one eye on the newcomer, she strode around the periphery of the bar, albeit while bumping into just about everyone and everything between her and her destination.

The roundabout route- not to mention all the obstacles- gave the man in question time to knock back a couple shots. Fortunate, since that took a lot less time...and he appeared to be a lightweight. It soon became clear why he wasn't wasting any time getting drunk when he walked up to a man on a date, tapped him on the shoulder...and then promptly clocked him right in the jaw, sending both the unfortunate man and his chair to the floor. Something, something, cheating, etc. Not really all that relevant to Abigail.

In no time flat, the downed man had swept the other guy's legs out from under him, knocking over a table this time, and things sort of just went downhill from there. A small portion of the bar was now embroiled in a battle royale while the rest of the patrons backed away.

Abigail slipped into the chaos as if she'd been there the whole time. An Ice spell shot out from her beer bottle, unnoticed under the shouting and punching, and caught someone in the shoulder, knocking her back into the nearby wall and adhering her to it. The next punch coming her way caught her right in the jaw, shattered the ice, and dropped her to the floor. Thirty seconds to the next spell, but that was alright. She was all of five foot tall- literally the shortest person involved- and trained by Shiekah in stealth.

Okay, fine, she wasn't the best student in those classes. And may have actually been the worst. And, well, was drunk at the moment. But that was more than most people, damn it.

She took a chair to the shoulder right about then- aimed for someone else though it was- and landed right on her ass. That was...going to leave a bruise, but it wasn't broken at least. Nothing new there!

"Does this happen often?"

The barman grumbled something unintelligible under his breath in reply, much to Faust's dark but unspoken amusement. He held back the snicker, trapping the lips around the rim of his glass once more but no matter how potent the mere stench and airborne burn of the alcohol was it wasn't enough to tear his attention away from the commotion: for better or for worse. In one dark corner of his thoughts a strange kind of satisfaction tickled in his breast, in another he noted solemnly to himself that a few of those folks were his regulars. Shit. It'd be a busy day tomorrow.

Should he do something? Should he not? Was it already too late? Was there any point? Could he even...get in there? Just thinking about it all was exhausting enough.

"But still, if this carries on someone is going to get seriously hur-Ah. Well then." Faust's mouth thinned into a firm, solid line as Abigail fell to the floor accidentally - but nonetheless efficiently - seated. Hah pun. Every subtle crease of the doctor's face screamed a smug, 'I told you so'. Not to mention the poor lass that'd just been frozen mere moments ago. With a dangerously intoxicated but still marvellously charming and skilled Sheikah in the midst of such a widespread, hot-blooded brawl it almost made Faust want to do something about it.

...Should he though? Should he really?

"Don't you have people to sort this sort of thing out? Like that beast that dragged the brat out earlier?" He grumbled out loud in a last-ditch attempt of indolence. If reason were on his side he could remain seated here in relative peace of mind.

"Technically yes." The barman answered, those few little words sending a small sigh of relief falling from the doctor's lips. Unfortunately the stranger's own, far heavier, resigned exhale soon thwarted any such comfort: too quickly settled for its own good. "But not enough. I wait 'til they burn themselves out first and then collect their dues afterwards."

"Not worth it?"

"Not worth it."

They shared a second sigh, this time unified in both its tone and volume.

"I'm a doctor." Faust finally admitted.

"Oh."

The silently distraught healer lazily held up his glass tumbler and it was refilled without another word. A pat of his shoulder came soon afterwards and they nodded solemnly. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just became a maid instead. At the end of the day I'd still be cleaning up someone else's shit."

"But at least you'd have the indulgence of being fired." The barman interjected.

For a brief moment Faust stared right into the man's eyes with something that almost brinked on awe. "EXACTLY!" He finally breathed, mouth agape as far as decency could allow. Stifling a short laugh he wagged an eyebrow and muffled his next words in his glass, "This job's just an endless one. Doesn't matter how much of a dick I am they always come crawling back all guts and blood and whining 'Mummy', 'Ma', 'Mother', 'Mamma' while I pat their heads with a soft towels and wipe their arses."

"And yet you still do it."

"And yet I still do it." With a begrudging grind of his stool, Faust rose slowly to his feet and the two clinked glasses with a knowing look.

A long, dragged second later and the doctor's glass was abandoned at the bar, its once-upon-a-time owner reflected in its weepy, shining gaze as he strode towards the commotion like a soldier to his death. "Alright, kids. Time's up." No reply? No recognition?

"ENOUGH!!!"

A few people along the edge of the brawl noticed Faust's yelling. The others- at this point either very, very angry or very, very drunk- ignored him. Including Abigail. She kicked someone in the shin, unbalancing them just in time for someone else to punch them right in the gut. She couldn't even tell from here the sex of her victim, but that was rather irrelevant right now.

A huge, muscular man stumbled out of the scrum somewhere to her left, clutching his bleeding nose and obviously broken jaw. His assailant, an even bigger man, tried to chase him, but Abigail was on her feet by then and rebounded that man into a table with a barrier.

"Keep it in the ring!" she shouted down to the dazed man sitting amongst the splintered remains of a once proud table. He...probably needed to see a doctor. That vacant stare very much resembled a concussion. She kicked him lightly in the leg to get his attention. "Walk it off. And do allow the routed their escape. It is...the sportsmanlike thing to do."

People peeled off from the fight steadily as they were injured or their anger was sated. Abigail continued on with manic glee, casting her spells frequently and hitting people in the interim. For all hits from her were worth. She came out of all the excitement with numerous bruises, some worse than others.

As it ended, finally, she turned around and walked straight into Faust.

Dogs. All of them dogs. Everywhere dogs. Dogs fighting. Dogs bleeding. Dogs dying. Dogs sleeping. He was almost tempted to place a silent bet on his favourite as she barked around like the alpha (fe)male mutt, talking about boundaries but kept the blood pouring nonetheless. Fake morals. Hollow words. Her actions spoke far louder than any of her orders did.

A cheek twitched and Faust scoffed. Evading a wild, off-balance blow with a sidestep the sorry excuse of a laugh soon disintegrated into a sigh. The injuries piled quicker than he could count, the bodies slumping each in a condition worse than the last. It was a sorry sight that exhausted the doctor just by standing there.

He wasted no more words but it soon became apparent that he needed none. The fight fizzled its way into silence, burnt out, and the Sheikahn woman from earlier collided straight with his chest. Face-first. Couldn't get much classier.

A little bashful at first - his burnt cheeks admitted - it took Faust a while to stretch his jaw and its gritted teeth into something that could fathom words. With a growling clear of his throat, a firm claw of a hand grabbed Abigail by the shoulder and pushed her warmth off his own: away but not far, scarcely less than a foot of distance at most.

"Fun?" The doctor taunted, deep voice strenuous with silently boiling frustration. After a brief flare of his nostrils and a rising flick of an eyebrow, he leaned down to fix his eyes on hers - their noses almost touching. Even at this distance Faust's eyes appeared black and only black, too deep to read.

The vibrancy of the woman's blood-red made him narrow his sharpening glare. His shrinking lollipop rolled to one side of his mouth and halted there. "Are you ready to pay the bill? It's expensive."

She could probably land him on his arse right there and then, if not worse: Faust had witnessed it all well. But if you didn't have the bite than you at least had to have the bark. Knowing his dwarfed combat prowess but unable to accept his place, he stood firm and stubborn - not batting a single eyelash until she replied. Someone needed to tell her off and sod's law would have it only he had the guts.

Rather than angry, Abigail appeared thoughtful. As far as she was concerned, the fight was over, so smacking Faust out of the way didn't really occur to her. It was like...participating in a game at a festival. Fun while it lasted, but it came to an end eventually, and you didn't just go around trying to force other people to keep playing.

"I suppose that would vary by which debt you refer. Typically in cases comparable to this, one pays for their own medical bills and any destruction for which they are personally responsible. None of the participants in this melee were ignorant of the situation they were stepping into. A majority were regulars." She looked at Faust sharply, adrenaline sharpening her mind through metabolic stimulation, burning through the alcohol in her system at a slightly enhanced rate. She didn't need to be much less drunk to be coherent; her high tolerance meant even a fairly high amount of alcohol didn't impair her senses unduly, and that level had just dropped rapidly.

"Your misconception here is in assuming this was in any way a random brawl, as opposed to something of a tradition. I must infer from your tone that you are unaccustomed to scenes reminiscent of the one before you, but make no mistake: this was not wanton violence. This was mere stress relief to all involved, and I would advise you not to pass judgement upon affairs with which you are unfamiliar. There are rules here, limits imposed by the most able. Each and every one of these people will walk home tonight sore and return later in the week for more with no hard feelings."

"You have stepped into a culture you do not comprehend, and have not attempted to comprehend, and now seek to impose your own standards upon others." Abigail's eyes narrowed, a chill coming over them as her face transitioned into 'work' mode. She scanned Faust, not as a fellow drinker but as a potential threat. Behind all that she was still in party mode, but she intended to give Faust a glimpse of the killer beneath her merriment; a hint at the severity behind each and every word.

A message: this was not a fight. This was play, rather than the outright slaughter it might otherwise have become. Not simply from her hands, of course; a close look at the other patrons would confirm that. Knights. Trained nobles. High class mercenaries. Professional mages. Adventurers. A few, like the man spurned, were nothing of the sort, but they had entered a fight with warriors and survived, and that was not a coincidence.

Abruptly, Abigail's expression softened to a conspiratorial smile.

"Now, I would be happy to pay my own medical expenses, although I rather doubt I have accrued such damage that I may not simply sleep it off. Broken furniture...this was a given. I will not be paying down the debts of others, however, and if you do not know why by now, I expect you never shall. In any event, I will be purchasing another drink, and I suggest you do so as well. Perhaps we may discuss less heavy matters."

(Yep, totally broke out the synonym generator for that one. Abigail likes her big words and lack of contractions. I honestly wasn't sure how she would respond going in; this was really just me letting Abby take over. Sorry if it's overly aggressive or mean- Abigail is like that sometimes, and it's fun to write, in a way, since none of my other characters act quite the same as her.)

(No not at all! Never apologise for your characters, otherwise I’ll have to start worrying about mine too! Besides, it’d be terribly dull if everyone always got along.)

A small, crooked smile twisted Faust’s lips. While his eyes narrowed they didn’t harden, the crinkles in their corners instead betraying his hidden amusement. So she has the bite too.

The doctor silently admitted defeat and returned to his proper posture, releasing the young woman back into the comfort of her own personal space. Laughter danced in every subtle nuance of his expression but never made it out. His eyebrows quirked and he smirked. “Well said.” No retort? No criticism? No. If anything it was praise that lingered in his voice. He’d been taken by surprise by a well-executed counterattack but wasn’t such a poor sportsmen that he’d persist in having won himself. It was a fair win.

“It looks like they teach you how to talk well too. Not bad.”

Faust’s attention drifted to the background noise and its bloodied causes, a small sigh falling from his lips at the sight. Now he had two options. One: offer his services at the sake of his own health while expecting nothing in return – they possibly won’t even remember his face tomorrow. Or two: return to the bar, and with the Sheikah at that.

He felt stupid for even having to consider the choices, one so blatantly logical than the other. Yet a tightening in his chest and a rigid set of his jaw insisted otherwise. At the end of the day he was a doctor. As much as he may have insisted that the occupation was chosen simply because he was good at it, he…matched it well. Unfortunately. Those damned inclinations towards self-professed duties tugged him in all the wrong directions, for worse and poorer.

“You go ahead.” He finally breathed, practically hissing the statement of irritated resignation through barred teeth. He glanced once more at Abigail but this time could barely summon a smile that wasn’t snapped in half, limping and on the verge of death. “If I’m any longer than ten minutes then please drag me back to the bar.” It was an earnest request and he trusted that she was more capable of fulfilling it.

At that, and after a brief nod of courtesy, Faust strode grudgingly past the Sheikah uttering a few mature-rated curses under his breath.

His first victim patient was the buff man from earlier, laid in shambles amongst the wreckage of a substantial table and clearly suffering from a haemorrhage. He’d been trying - pathetically - to get to his feet ever since Abigail suggested that he should “walk it off”. A suggestion which wasn’t half bad, all things considered. The worse thing he could do was remain laid there and pass out.

All grumbles and grump, Faust crouched down and closely examined the stranger with sharp, scrutinising eyes and familiar twists and grips of his hands. Seeing nothing else particularly serious, he brushed away any threatening debris, unbuckled his jacket and rolled his sleeves up over scar-ridden flesh.

To work then.

First on the menu was some Revive. As two fingers pressed against the stranger’s neck, a rush of magic pulsated through his veins, throbbing harder and quicker as they permanently lured the man away from the brink of unconsciousness with the warmth of fresh life. The glossy haze across his eyes cleared. His breathing steadied. But before the suspected-Knight could utter any complaints of pride or ramble any nonsense, it was time for the entrée.

Bladed Healing wasn’t his favourite, but it was definitely the most common. Swallowing down that same old, familiar dread, Faust bit down hard on a thick roll of bandage from his first aid kit and forcefully tamed his rampaging heart. With the wilful strength only a selfless, stubborn man could muster, his pinned the stranger down with both hands and silently screamed. His brow crumpled. His veins popped. His breath came in hefty, struggled heaves. His vision started to fizzle and pop as the darkness dawned and his narrowed eyes struggled to keep the weight off.

A concussion halved and endured by two people would be far more manageable than a concentrated one.

Being good is so fucking exhausting.

"Very well. I will attempt to recover my..." Abigail trailed off as Faust moved off to see to the injured, but it wasn't that fact which caused her to. She smiled deviously as she spotted someone seating themselves at the bar. "Hm. Perhaps I may have an entirely different manner of fun tonight."

The woman who had just arrived was taller than she, but that wasn't saying much. Most people were. She was ever-so-slightly tanned, and she carried herself like a literal hunter- someone accustomed to carrying a bow and moving silently through the underbrush. Every action she made was completely, unconsciously silent, and though her gaze was attentive, she seemed quite determined to dull her senses judging by the tall glass of whiskey in front of her.

Abigail was no predator; she had no intention of taking a drunk woman home. Or, rather, any other drunk woman, because at this point it was practically a given whenever the two of them attended on the same night, and neither had ever regretted it. She approached her...acquaintance...confidently, taking the seat next to her without a word in advance.

"Liza. I confess I did not anticipate you in town this evening," Abigail intoned inquisitively. Liza practically leaped out of her seat at the sound of Abigail's voice, and her face colored in embarrassment.

"I'm, ah, meeting someone, actually," Liza replied nervously. Odd. That wasn't like her at all. Did she have a date? With someone else? Abigail was somewhat injured by the thought, although she knew it was silly. Their relationship really only went so far as the word 'benefits,' so who was she to cry foul?

"Meeting," Abigail repeated carefully. Liza only nodded in response. She tried not to allow her tone to betray her. "Does this person have a name?"

"Yes! A name. She does in fact have a name. It is a wonderful name. I'd go so far as-" Abigail cut her off with a chopping motion.

"You forgot her name already."

"...I forgot her name already," she admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. "In my defense, we met how many times before I got yours right?"

"I do not think that phrase means what you think it means. I suspect it means rather the opposite, in fact," Abigail jabbed lightheartedly. Liza made a waving motion with her hand, spilling some whiskey over the edges of her glass. "That would, however, elucidate the objective of that incredibly large glass."

Another woman sat to the other side of Liza, and Abigail was forced to suppress a grin. Liza did not know her name, but Abigail did.

"Oh, ah, I was just talking to my friend Abigail. Abigail, this is- oh shit why did I do that what do I say now-"

"*Monica*," Abigail coughed. Liza froze even stiffer than she had been a moment ago, and her neck turned woodenly to Abigail.

"You...know her. Why do you know her," Liza asked flatly. 'Asked', in this case, strangely overlapping with 'accused.'

"Oh, no reason. No reason whatsoever," she stated innocently. Liza glared and made a shooing motion, and Monica attempted to neutralize her expression before Liza could turn back. She failed.

"The best of luck," Abigail whispered to Liza and she stood to leave. So much for that plan. Back to the copious amounts of alcohol. She signaled a waitress.

“Just how old are you? Three?!” Faust growled through the sweat of his brow and a scarcely controlled look of disgust. An anything but pleasant concoction of medicated water, saliva, snot and blood dribbled over his hand at the old fart’s feeble attempts to drink from the raised flask. For the possibly hundredth time tonight Faust questioned his choice of profession but nonetheless gritted his teeth, bore with it, and with a tighten of his clawed hand at the back of the stranger’s greasy scalp, lifted his head closer to the lip of the container. The doctor’s insides threatened to turn inside out when he felt the lice scuttle over his fingers.

“Nay…Fifty-three…” He blubbered.

“Close enough.” The doctor almost dropped the man back down to the floor before passing the flask to another wounded who – to Faust’s overwhelming but silent gratitude – could actually lift the thing himself. But not bad, for an impromptu period of work.

The doctor surveyed the recovering brawlers around him with grim pride. A few had already decided they were now fit – and sober – enough to crawl back home safely but the rest were still nursing their fresh bandages and demanding more relief Faust couldn’t afford. His supplies may have lightened but his head and joints hadn’t. Any more self-sacrifice and he’d be right on the floor with them.

With an exhausted, bitter sigh he took back an empty flask and, for the first time since Abigail had left, looked back at the bar. Three women sat there now. The air about them suggested a shortly lived conversation, all awkward tight shoulders and sharp smiles snipping off their last few words. Faust had never expected the Sheikah’s social exchanges to be warm but the atmosphere around them surprised him in the strangest of ways. Was it familiarity between the three? Or jealously? Spite maybe?

Not my business. Unfortunately something else was.

After an awkward roll of his jaw, Faust resigned himself to the situation at hand and approached his new Sheikah acquaintance. Damp shirt open, jacket in one hand, flask in the other, with disheveled hair and blood splatters everywhere from his mouth to under his nails he looked every bit as shit as he felt. He smelt it too. Fluids both his own and not curdled on his dark, scarred flesh.

Stopping at Abigail’s side he demanded, loud and clear, “I need you to come back with me.”

…

Alright then. That was very direct, even for you, Faust.

“Strictly for business.” He quickly blurted afterwards, teeth barred and lips peeled over them in a marvellous show of awkwardly frustrated pearly white and flustered cheeks. In the midst of a social panic he decided it would burn less if he looked away: he was wrong. The blush intensified and he almost decided it would be better to just kill himself there and then. “My home is my business.” Oh great. Very smooth. It's not like prostitutes don't do business at homes.

He narrowed his eyes at some poor, uninvolved soul over the other side of the tavern and hissed with great effort, “You’re capable. I have a man here who needs further attention but it’d take me more effort than it’s worth to drag him back to mine alone. I won’t” correction: can’t “pay you for your efforts but you may name any other favour.” Within reason, obviously. Don't ask me something stupid. I'll silently hate you.

Abigail blinked.

"I rather understood that on the first attempt, yes. By this time you are no doubt aware of my preference in company, ergo it is reasonable to assume you had something entirely different in mind." She quirked an eyebrow and directed attention to her arms- they were covered, but she was making a point more than anything. "However, you do appear to have grossly overestimated my strength and endurance. Even in the event that, between us, we suffice to move this patient of yours, I have not the reserves of energy necessary to get him very far. Although..."

Now she paused, holding up a hand to forestall any interruption while she considered the problem. Even if Faust lived nearby, she was insufficient to the task. She was a mage and scholar, and although she was a field agent, she had already worn herself out earlier. Still...perhaps she could recruit Liza and Monica? Despite Faust's earlier assessment- which she was obviously unaware of, and which had no bearing on her decision making- the three of them were on good terms. While she did feel slightly jilted, that was mostly because she wouldn't be enjoying the other woman's company tonight. And the fact that Liza's date had already been with Abigail was somewhat amusing- to both she and Monica- so although the situation had been mildly awkward, it had been very humorous at the same time.

"Allow me to ask a favor from another. By myself, I am incapable of rendering assistance, yet for the right cause I could perhaps convince my friends to pause their date for a few moments." Without waiting for a response, she stood and crossed back over to her previous location. It took only a short exchange to get what she needed- the women were ready to leave anyway, and were willing to drop the injured man off on the way home. They were not specific as to whose home. While they prepared for the task, she returned to Faust.

"Either of them could carry him however far is required; between them they should have no trouble at all. I may as well accompany you to ensure your safe travel, but I have no favor to ask of you at this time in return. Perhaps one will come to mind in the near future. Shall we be off?"

'Preference'? A slight tilt of his head and a quirk of one eyebrow exposed Faust's ignorance, the words entirely lost on him. Despite Abigail's assumption the reality was in fact completely contrary.

He suspected she was slightly different, true. There was a peculiar comfort to her that had allowed him to stay in such close proximity and speak almost freely; a result of an instinct he didn't entirely recognise. Yet for all the blood on his face and the aged, grouchy cynicism of his general attitude, Faust was, in fact, very pure - innocent. You see naked people when you're a doctor, but anything past a slap to the face or an occasional knee to the groin was about as far as interaction with the fairer sex as he'd experienced. Oh, minus the remnants of the splashed alcohol from the earlier 'lady', which was still settling into his scalp in true, sticky horror.

He stood bemused, trying not to look quite so stupidly dumbfounded as he really was, as Abigail thwarted his plan in favour of a different one. (While she didn't look strong he had assumed she might have a spell for this or that to help him out.) And this plan-...this plan involved yet more women. His stomach twisted with nervous dread at the mere notion of it. Alas, he couldn't force out any words of objection. She was a wilful one and was already up and off before he even parted his lips.

Yet even if I dislike the idea I'm not really in a position to refuse it. He grudgingly admitted to himself, staring at the trio from a distance with a gnarled brow. His mouth sealed and his muscles tightened. Something hard and choking demanded a forceful swallow.

At least he wasn't forced into introductions.

Avoiding eye-contact out of bashful fretfulness rather than his usual rude disrespect, Faust simply nodded at the Sheikah and walked right past the other two women with his attention forced in the opposite direction. He tried not to look too cool or relaxed because that always ends badly. And, at last, after a painfully long period of being careful of each obstacle in his path, minding the posture of his walk, becoming suddenly conscious of his stench and trying not to puff at the annoying damp locks in his eyes, Faust eventually made it to his unconscious target. The doctor swung on his jacket - one arm getting stuck in the sleeve... - and finally brushed back that hair.

"A limb each?" He proposed, speaking out loud but not looking up as he hefted the torso of the man up by his armpits. “Or just one other at the bottom half." He added, suddenly remembering Abigail's own suggestion. "I live south, on the second corner. Building with a curtain instead of a front door.”

"I've got it," Liza declared, lifting the man by both legs, muscles tightening under the strain. Abigail and Monica, standing on opposite sides of him, caught each biting their lower lips at the display and had to hold in giggles. After a moment of admiring Liza, Abigail shook her head and took the lead, waving the others on behind her.

"Follow me. The location he speaks of is known to me," she stated, neglecting to mention exactly how well she could navigate the entire city. Anyone familiar with the Guard, and particularly the Royal Guard, might know know of that requirement, but it generally wasn't flaunted. No one needed to know quite how prepared they were for urban warfare...or how damn accurate their maps were.

As she stepped outside, she was suddenly reminded that her feet were completely bare. Abigail grimaced, but she would have to deal with it. There would be no finding lost objects in the bar at this point; not with all the wrecked furniture and other detritus. The owner would probably locate them later, and promptly pawn them for new furniture. They bought in bulk given the frequency of fights- all of which mysteriously seemed to escape the attention of the Guard- and yet, they seemed to take some perverse pleasure in profiting from their customers' misfortunes.

Ah, well. This would be dealt with soon enough, and then she could return to drinking. Or go home and prepare for tomorrow's hangover and subsequent shoe shopping. Either/or. She lead the procession in the direction of Faust's office.