Open [the silver silver tavern] dreaming of stars

[Patrigan]

63 of summer, 514 a.v.
just after the twenty-first bell

The air was rank with warm breath and something foul. It was a full house, the tables occupied, though by the sound of merriment rattling the walls one would think it were double — triple, even — than just full. Syna’s arid glare had moved on to younger horizons — horizons that remained unknowable to Patrigan — and the fishermen had come in to celebrate a good haul.

Without Patrigan, his table was otherwise empty. Patrigan himself, the sole occupant, sat with one arm hooked over the back of his chair, the other hand curled around a mug of ale. Patrigan held it fiercely, like someone could walk up and take it from him at any second — it wasn’t an unreasonable guess, if you knew Patrigan. He peered from underneath long, long lashes at the men around him — significantly older than and twice as wide as he — and downed his mug. It was his first one, and the night was still young.

He’d recently become irritated with his bland existence. There was no discernable trigger — as far as he could remember, anyway — but he’d woken up one day and thought, That’s it. He couldn’t be condemned for wanting to get away from Ravok, could he? Could Rhysol Himself hear his black thoughts right now, the ones that were unsatisfied with his life in Ravok? One could call him ungrateful (one called Naeri Llyoe more than others) and he would just stare at them because it was true and he couldn’t be bothered by the accusation.

He considered another mug.

OOC- 4cm (ale, mug)

[Piraen Saneka]

Piraen rarely ever drank. As a general rule of thumb, Pi found alcohol disturbing. It was like an invasive parasite. It slid into your body, and slowly took control from you. There was no mercy, no reprieve. Just a cloudy mess that needed to be sorted out in the morning. Thankfully, that was exactly what Pi was looking for.

So far, Piraen's Summer had been full of nothing but work. The tailor was determined to get his shop within the next year, and was working hard towards that goal all season. Some nights he didn't sleep, up all night sewing his heart out. If he did sleep the night before, he would still be too tired to function properly. He'd pricked his thumbs so many times in the last few days that the skin on his thumbs had begun to peel off.

He had reached his breaking point. Though he wasn't a particularly social creature, he still needed to see others every now and again. He needed to know that he wasn't the only one miserable in this city. This had led him to a place that he had scarcely been to: a tavern.

As he walked into The Silver Silver Tavern, Pi was greeted by a less than favorable sight: a full house. Pi wasn't completely sure how these sort of places worked, but he was almost certain that a crowd meant slow service. That, and there would be plenty of loud, startling noises. At least I got what I was asking for. Pi rolled his eyes as he dove into the crowd and made his way to the bar.

One excruciatingly slow wait later, and the tailor had his mug of ale. He turned to face the room. His obsidian eyes scanning frantically for refuge. At last, he found it. It was, with the exception of a young man, empty. Pi sighed a deep sigh of relief, then pushed his way over.

"You've got the only empty chairs here." Piraen stated as he wrapped his lanky fingers around the back of an empty chair. "Mind if I take a rest?" He only waited for a few ticks for an answer before pulling the chair out. It didn't matter what the boy's answer was; Pi was not going to stand in the middle of a group like some dimwit. As he sat, he placed his mug on the table and nodded a "thank you." After scooting into the table a bit more, Pi took up his drink once more. Casually, he threw his right leg up onto his left knee and balanced the drink on his right knee.

"What're we celebrating tonight?" Piraen asked, hoping that it was less of a celebratory drink and more of wallowing-in-self-pity drink. That'd make him feel much better. Either way, he'd listen to the man's story.

OOCHope you don't mind me hopping in here...seemed like this'd be fun.

Ledger: -4cm for mug of ale

[Patrigan]

He should have expected it.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he was offered company, but Patrigan’s sense of being was tightly tied together by the assumption that, like him, people weren’t all too willing to engage with a stranger — in Ravok, the sentiment was two-fold.

Indeed, his table was the only one with any available seating, and he nodded — more in agreement to the statement than as an invitation, but the man took it all the same, and he decided that he would be forced to dance this tango lest he be the crude-mannered man the visitor might think he was. And so he drew himself up and rested his chin on a propped-up hand.

“They sound to be celebrating a good haul,” he said. But why was he here? Certainly he wasn’t celebrating, and he didn’t think he looked like he was celebrating, either. He must have been guilty by association. “I, however, am indulging myself.”

In drinks or in self-deprecating pity, he didn’t say.

OOCNot at all. In fact, thanks for joining!

[Piraen Saneka]

Piraen had no right to call someone a child. He was only about five-years-old himself. It seemed hypocritical to label anyone in such a way. And, yet, here he sat, sharing a table with a child. Pi's eyes flicked to the aforementioned group. It was full of burly men, deep cheers, and beards. When his eyes came back to his company, however, he only saw boyhood.

Granted, Mizahar was a place that killed childhood. Especially here in Ravok, you had to grow up fast or die young. This boy was clearly on the right path, with what appeared to be lean muscles poking from beneath his shirt and hair threatening to burst from his face. Pi wondered what would cause such a youthful person to turn to drinking.

"Mm, well," Pi shrugged casually. "Can't argue with that." Piraen took a slow swig from his drink, filling the silence between the two men. When the glass rested against his leg once again, Pi continued.

"Though, this doesn't seem like the right time." Pi motioned to the crowd swelling around the table. All around them, people shouted and cheered. Laughter and cursing filled the tavern. If there was enough room, then there'd surely be a brawl. "Unless you like..." Pi motioned around them, his words failing him as he tried to find the right phrase. "This sort of chaos."

If this man did find this commotion pleasing, then Gods bless him and his never-ending patience. To Pi, the tavern's current state was maddening. The tailor tensed at the abrupt sound of a glass shattering nearby. Rolling his eyes, Pi sighed then slowly relaxed back into his seat.

[Patrigan]

“I don’t,” he answered, almost immediately; correcting the man’s assumption became paramount at that moment, because he, for all he didn’t care of people, would not be seen like the men in the far corner of the tavern. It sounded like they were having some sort of competition that involved a lot of belching and rude laughter. Patrigan fought back a grimace.

Something about the fair-faced man was making him uncomfortable; although, if you counted the number of times Patrigan had been unnerved by a stranger you would have enough mizas to buy the entire Noble District. But the man’s motives were hidden behind coal-black eyes, and Patrigan was arrested by the brief urge to get up and leave the tavern. In the end, though, Patrigan decided that the man was just that — a man, a human, no more capable of doing harm to him than the rest of Ravok, and Patrigan had lived with that since he could walk and talk.

He struggled to think: what was the polite thing to do? Continue the conversation?

“What,” he began, eyeing the man, “brings you here?” He realized, after a breath, that he sounded more like he was trying to interrogate rather than have a pleasant conversation, and that he hadn’t the tact to ask the man for his name.

[Piraen Saneka]

Pi shrugged. Was it appropriate to tell someone that he was searching for sadness? He imagined what that would sound like in conversation: "Oh, well, I'm looking for someone who has a life more miserable than my own so that I can be happy again. You know, the usual." Pi didn't want to sound that desperate.

"I needed a break from work." Pi said before taking another drink. It wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the complete truth. "Can only stare at fabric for so long before you start going a little crazy." Once again, he spoke only the partial truth. It wasn't so much the fabric-staring and the needle-threading that drove him crazy as it was his own voice. For the majority of the season, Pi had talked to only himself. Sure, there were the occasional runs to go drop off a garment or do a resizing, but, for the most part, he was alone in his apartment. Piraen didn't hate himself or anything; he simply felt that he was too predictable of a conversation partner.

"I'm a tailor," He explained. "and a tailor is only as good as his clients so . . . here I am. Meeting people, and . . . stuff."

[Patrigan]

“Right. I am sure the men here will be interested in your services.” He jerked his head in the direction of the loud group in the corner, where at least three men were looking red-faced and sly-eyed, and two more were laughing like they wanted to bring the house down.

Patrigan stared at him. The longer he sat in his company, the more he felt his tension relieving, taut muscles untightening, lips unfurling. The mere thought was more than unsettling; he clenched and unclenched his hands, and reminded himself that the man was unlikely to jump on him in broad view of the entire tavern.

Just in case, though, he would forgo the drinks. One was more than enough, anyway.

He said, “How long have you been working as a tailor?” Patrigan reclined in his seat, appearing to unfold; in reality, he was uncomfortable, and he figured putting more space in between them would alleviate some of his anxiety.

[Piraen Saneka]

Piraen nodded. He wouldn't deny that the aforementioned men weren't his "type." They obviously didn't require suits or ties, or any other luxurious clothing type. They would, however, require reparations. Truth be told, that was what the majority of his work was: sewing up holes, resizing old shirts, replacing buttons, tedious and boring tasks, really. But that was where the work was. Everyone tore a hole in their clothes at one point or another. When they did, Pi would make sure that they knew where to go.

"I wouldn't underestimate them." Pi shrugged as he spoke simply and through his glass. He took another sip. Piraen wondered if this man was new to the city. Had he not learned that people in this city, the city of chaos, were capable of anything at anytime?

"Officially? Two or three years. But I learned to sew when I was really young, and have been doing it ever since." Pi would leave out the part that "really young" was only a few years ago.

"And you? How long have you been doing whatever you're doing?" Piraen asked. By now, he had grown used to carrying on nameless conversations. He had met so many people recently that concealed their names that keeping his own name a secret was second nature now. As Pi looked at his nameless acquaintance, though, he was reminded of the stranger's youth. He quickly, yet nonchalantly, added: "If you are doing anything, I mean."

[Patrigan]

“I’m not doing anything,” said Patrigan. He was too young. Or, he thought he was.

He watched the man, skimming lines and edges with a bird-like gaze; he looked for anything that might tell him to get up and run. But, to his own twisted disappointment, all he saw was a normal conversation. And with that, the realization that, perhaps, if he looked at him from five different angles, he could deduce that, perhaps, the man sitting in front of him was a decent guy. And nobody likes to face the humiliation of being proven wrong.

“But I’m looking for work,” he said, because he was living alone and he could no longer rely on his mother to spoon-feed him his meals and nurse his scrapes and bruises. He could go for a quick patching-up if he ever decided to lose a limb, though, he supposed.

There was a long, drawn-out hoot from somewhere inside the tavern — Patrigan couldn’t quite place it; it circled the tavern like a snake and attacked him from both sides. He didn’t know why they were celebrating so hard — in his opinion, they should have been preparing for another hard day of fishing. The monster-in-the-lake — he suspected something less monster-y and more greed-y — had been doing a number on Ravok, and the fishermen shouldn’t be happy they’d miraculously chanced upon more fish than usual.

Patrigan drummed his fingers along the edge of the table. “Don’t know what I want. I’m asking around.” You can’t dive into something without knowing what it is you’re diving into. “Are you a tailor because you like to sew or because you’re good at it?”