Solo One Drink

[Ambrosia Alar]

Spring the 31st, 519 AV One drink after another after another after another… Some nights were just like this. Tonight had been particularly busy at the Silver Sliver Tavern, and that was all the night had consisted of, serving one drink after another after another after another… Ambrosia hadn’t even seen the faces behind them. They were just drinks being ordered, and it was almost as if there weren’t even people to deliver them to. Each one’s identity was lost and became nothing more than the drink they ordered. This one was an ale; that one, a wine; another, a silver sliver. Another ale, another ale, another ale. One drink after another after another after another. The night had been a rush, a blur, and for that much, Ambrosia had to be thankful. The time had flown by with Ambrosia totally unaware. There was a monotony to this job, but there again, there was a monotony to everything. Monotonous was the way of life for a slave, but Ambrosia imagined it wasn’t just slaves stuck in a cycle of repetition. Everything had to contend with monotony. Nothing was free from its grip. It made these days easier to deal with if Ambrosia handled them one drink at a time, one drink after another after another after another… Just drinks, not people. Nobody meant anything. For all Ambrosia cared, the Sliver could burn to the ground and kill everyone inside, and she wouldn’t be heartbroken. Well, she wouldn’t be heartbroken as long as she wasn’t inside. She liked herself. These people here, though, didn’t have the same meaning, the same attachment, that the regulars at the Rear had for Ambrosia. She hadn’t known them long enough to form real connections, real friendships. In the short time she had been at the Sliver, Ambrosia hadn’t managed to learn much about their personal lives. They were familiar, but tonight, they were just faces, faces attached to drinks, drinks that had come one after another after another after another. None of them meant anything, so all of her regulars went unnoticed. Sean was just another ale, though he had greeted Ambrosia exuberantly. Luna, Ambrosia favorite perpetually wine-drunk beauty, was just another wine. Even the Marshall, a one-time employee of the tavern and Ambrosia’s favorite customer by far, was just a bottle of Silver. There were more, regulars and not. Ravosalamen had made the Silver Sliver their tavern of choice, especially after they had met Ambrosia who had always enjoyed the kind of men and women the working class produced, but all of them were just one ale after another. A lot of ales, one right after the next. Newcomers had always been what excited Ambrosia the most about her job, because it meant people she didn’t know with plenty of mystery and stories to be discovered. As with everything to tonight, she was unaware. She saw them and served their drinks but sought no stories from them. A trader in from who knows where was just a bottle of wine. He had tipped handsomely but not as much as everybody’s new fascination for the night, everyone but Ambrosia. This newcomer had ordered drinks, expensive drinks, for the entire tavern, and she had tipped Ambrosia particularly well. If she was paying attention, Ambrosia would have been impressed, but she wasn’t. As it was, the woman was just another Sliver. Regulars or newcomers, it didn’t matter. They were just one drink after another after another after another. That wasn’t to say that Ambrosia didn’t make them feel welcome. Her smile was always at the ready, and though she wasn’t truly paying attention, her response was always appropriate, the act never quite obvious enough to give her away. Her smile was jovial at times and, at others, suggestive. She laughed at jokes but only when they were good. At the end of the night, though, she didn’t remember a single bit of it, except one drink after another after another after another.

[Ambrosia Alar]

The night had been nothing but one drink after another after another after another, and the drinks at the Silver Sliver were nothing to boast about. Sure, they weren’t awful, but they weren’t anything earth-shattering either. The ale was nothing to write home about, though if Ambrosia had found the time and the means to send a letter home, she was sure ale wouldn’t be what she was discussing. That didn’t mean it wasn’t the most popular drink in the tavern. Regardless of where one went, that always seemed to be the case. It didn’t matter what the beer tasted like. It was cheap, and it got people drunk, and those were things to be appreciated above the way something struck one’s palate. No matter the night, no matter the occasion, ale always sold the most and sold the fastest. Tonight was no different. Ambrosia poured and served one ale after another after another after another… The house wine was not impressive either. On Ambrosia’s tongue, it was too sweet. Perhaps it was her love for liquor, but she was used to something with a little more bite. It was probably more of a personal preference, but she seemed to have an equal number of people who loved it as those who could care less. It was still alcohol, and it hit a little stronger than the ale, so it too was relatively cheap and still got people hammered. It was pricier enough that she rarely served two wines in a row unless it was to a group sitting together with similar tastes in alcohol. Another ale, another ale, another ale, a wine, another ale. And another and another and another. The tavern’s specialty and the drink that gave it its name was the Silver Sliver, a tart and silvery drink with a heavy alcoholic bite. One mug was sure to get all but the most accomplished of drunks at least a little tipsy, but for the same price, one could have a dozen ales and then another and another and another… It was rare that Ambrosia served one of these, but the Sliver did have its more discerning patrons. It was expensive enough that it wasn’t a nightly occurrence, but it still happened from time to time. If she had been paying attention, Ambrosia would have noticed that there was one person in particular who had ordered one of these. And then another and another and another.

[Ambrosia Alar]

Just one drink. That was what Sean had said when he had first arrived. Apparently, he had important work to do tomorrow for the Black Sun, and he was determined he’d be sober for it. But one drink turned into another. And another and another and another… In fact, Sean had had enough that he had been brave enough to ask Marianne to court him. Marianne had denied almost every man in the tavern. Those she hadn’t had only remained that way because they hadn’t been brave enough to ask. If one could die of a broken heart, Marianne would have slain a couple hundred men or more with their own unrequited love. Rumors were that Marianne fancied women. With the looks Ambrosia had caught Marianne giving her from time to time, she didn’t doubt it. But Sean had had enough drinks to be brave and then another and another. When Marianne turned him down the first time, he didn’t take it to heart. Instead, he had taken his time and come up with more inventive ways to ask again. He tried another time. And then another and another and another. Each time the result was the same. Finally, Sean had asked if he could at the very least steal a kiss. Marianne had told him he could have the first for free, but any beyond that, he’d have to steal. Sean had taken his free one, then stole a second right after. Through the night, he stole another and another and another. For those counting, he had stolen seven by the time the night was wrapping up. Having not been paying attention, Ambrosia hadn’t known there was anything to be counting. When the night came to its close, Marianne didn’t go home with Sean, sparking some futile sense of hope in all the other men who had been present through the night. Sean was an optimistic sort though, and once again, he didn’t take that to heart. To him, it was just a reason to try harder the next time around. Eight kisses from Marianne was a victory in any man’s book, and he was a happy to have had even one. But that was not the only first of the night. Hector had turned down a drink. To anyone unfamiliar with the Sliver and its patrons, this would be no miraculous event, but to those in the know, this was a once in an existence happening, much akin to the Valterrian. Hector Hai had been a fixture of the tavern since he was twelve, and even then, he was drinking seasoned alcoholics under the table. Eventually, he issued a challenge to the regulars there that he could drink any amount of alcohol they put in front of him, that he would never pass a free drink up. Eager to put the young man in his place and teach him humility, many had put him to the test, and Hector had prevailed every time. But two people had been in the tavern that night who were buying everyone drinks, an influential looking woman who seemed to be able to hold her liquor with the best of them and a man who was some sort of trader stopping in Ravok to make a deal. Somehow, Hector’s challenge had made itself known to them, and they began to both put drinks in front of him. In the end, their pockets were deeper than his resolve. Finally, the woman put a silver sliver in front of him, and all Hector could do was shake his head. In her general distraction, Ambrosia had not taken notice and had set several another drink in front of him after that, only adding to his shame. And another and another. Fortunately, the Sliver had its fair share of drunkards, and none of the drinks went to waste.

[Ambrosia Alar]

Despite how well she had been doing responding appropriately to the world around her, when all the Sliver’s patrons were gone, her façade crumbled. While they were still cleaning and drying mugs, Ambrosia managed to say goodbye to Jeb on at least four separate occasions, though neither of them was leaving. “You even here tonight, Ambrosia?” Realizing she hadn’t been all night long, Ambrosia sighed, shook her head, and looked deeper into the bottom of the mug she was cleaning, hoping she could escape into it and avoid Jeb’s questions. Monotony was only partly the culprit for her distractions. The rest was thoughts of home and not the one she had made here. They were thoughts of her sisters, one dead and the other probably suspecting that she was the surviving sister. Jeb’s voice wasn’t angry, though how Ambrosia could tell, she didn’t know. It always had a gruff sound to it, no matter his emotion. Somehow, in the few seasons she had been with the tavern, she had learned the little nuances in his voice that let her know one way or the other. “I didn’t think so. You’ve been cleaning the same gods-damned mug for the last half bell.” Swiping up a dry bar towel, Jeb held out his hand for the mug. Pulling it out of the water, Ambrosia rinsed it off in a bucket of fresher, cleaner water and handed it over, looking at her now pruned hands and wondering how long she had stared blankly at the water. Jeb’s scarred face took one skeptical look at it, and he handed it back to her. “And you didn’t even do a good job at it.” With another sigh, Ambrosia took the mug back and peered down into its bottom, actually looking this time at it and not beyond it, not at the promise of escape it might carry. Sure enough, there was beer still in its bottom. It was probably a mug that had escaped being washed from much earlier in the night. Soaking her rag, she shoved it deep into the bottom of the mug and twisted vigorously several times, rinsed it, and repeated the act one more time. And another and another and another until she was satisfied it was clean. Handing it over, she grabbed the next mug, emptied the last dregs into an empty bucket, rinsed it once, and began to scrub its bottom as well. “D’you care to talk about it, whatever’s on your mind?” Ambrosia shook her head, and Jeb didn’t push any further. She was another dozen mugs along when Jeb asked another question. “How much of tonight do you even recall?” Ambrosia shrugged, thought back to see if she could recall anything specific, and shrugged again. “Not one damn bit. Ain’t a single thing I remember about it,” she admitted. Jeb nodded. “I kinda thought so. There were a few things you missed.” She finished with the mug she was on, rinsed it, and handed it over with a shrug. There was always something that got missed during a night, but most of them weren’t of any consequence. “Anything big?” Jeb shrugged in return as he began to dry the mug. “Not much. Mari was kissing Sean.” “Marianne?” Jeb nodded. Ambrosia laughed, trying to free some particularly sticky wine from a glass. “Well now I know you’re pulling my leg. Marianne ain’t ever kissed a man here, and she ain’t ever gonna.” “I swear it happened.” “You swear it? I ain’t gonna believe something just because you swear it.” “I swear on our scars.” Ambrosia had to pause and consider that heavily. She didn’t believe Marianne would kiss anyone, but she knew Jeb took his scar seriously, even though he made up varied stories on how he got it. She shrugged again. “If you say so.” “I say so.” “Anything else?” “Hai refused a drink.” “Petch. Did I miss everything?” “Apparently so.” He stopped and looked at her. “You really don’t remember the man and the woman showing interest in you, do you?” Shaking her head, Ambrosia went back to the washing. “Well, they were interested. And they were throwing money around to impress you, a lot of it. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen a night as good as this one. They were buying drinks left and right, making a big show of how much they had to offer, and every time one one-upped the other, they looked over to see if you were watching. There’s opportunity there, Ambrosia, if you take the right steps. The man’s a traveling trader. The woman’s a local, though I don’t recognize her well enough to know who. Like I said, opportunity. I just hope they keep coming around.” Ambrosia tucked that into the back of her mind as she stared back down into the bottom of another mug. She wondered if it ever tired of the monotony of its existence. It’s whole purpose was nothing more than one ale after another after another after another…