Open The liquid state of things (Verin)

[Daegron]

Spring 7th, 514
late evening

Four days of nothing. It wasn't like him, cowering in a corner and waiting for a sign, for a moment of clarity or even the inevitable aftermath of whatever he'd done. Yet nothing happened. No one knocked on his door looking for him. No more memories resurfaced. There was no clarity in his thoughts nor truth, just a growing self-pity that ate him alive.

Whatever he did in Ravok and all the other places they visited under her influence was still obscured by a thick veil of confusion. Since the day they first met she meticulously played with his mind, that was clear enough, and he allowed his lust for her to make him weak against her charms. He cursed himself for being such a fool, but it was no use. He should stop wallowing in this pathetic state. A lot of precious time was lost. So he crawled out of his room and into the cool night.

His face twitched when the cool humid breeze hit him. He kept feeling it sore and numb and he knew the reason. He had probably used lots of faces all this time and the constant changes made his skin feel like rubber. Yet he could not recall any of those faces. It had proven useful though, and gave him a sense of relative safety. He'd have to keep working on faces, but in a more careful and methodical manner. He needed to study and practice. But first, he needed a clear head, or perhaps a way to forget his misery. And for that, he needed a proper drink or five..

The Ravosala glided gracefully through the canals, and reached it's destination before he could complete his train of thought: "The Malt House" said the sign. He'd asked for the best place to have a drink and that's where he was. Nothing like his usual watering holes. He paid for his ride and swiftly entered the place. The atmosphere felt warm and welcoming. He need not be on his guard here it seemed. No guttersnipes and thugs nor drunkards or any kind of scum. Such were the places that he used to drink and such people were his only company. Not tonight though; tonight was for letting go and relaxing. Or so he thought.

He walked straight onto the bar and sat on one of the tall stools. He eagerly tapped his hand on the counter and spoke to the bartender who looked rather busy..

"I need something good and strong..."
He tried to smile politely but failed; instead, a bitter irony was drawn on his grumpy face.

_

[Verin Rush]

As he mindlessly poured out some of the golden nectar into the half-pint that the punter had asked for, Verin's mind drifted, once again, back to the most recent execution he had attended - the one for the many members of the Rising Dawn. When the event had not gone as planned, Verin's own part in the aftermath was by no stretch of the imagination unimportant. Though he could not be sure if any of the Stryfe guards had seen the assailant from on high, it was Verin who had alerted those around him to the man he had spotted, it was Verin who had led the men through the alleys, bridges and paths that ran across Ravok unpredictably like a web. And it was Verin who ultimately brought to bowman down.

In those moments, climbing the ladder, Verin was sure that Rhysol had come to him, he was sure that the image of the Defiler had greeted him, and spurred him on to his ultimate victoryin brining the Rising Dawn sympathiser down. Yet those events had occurred at the very beginning of the Season of Winter. The watchtowers had since flared green, signalling the arrival of Spring, and the new year. Perhaps too much time had passed - Verin was growing restless in his menial work as a bar tender. “That'll be-” the man handed over the correct change before Verin could finish his sentence. He raised a brow briefly at the extended hand, but quickly schooled his expression into a smile and accepted the money, “thank you, Sir, enjoy your evening...” he trailed off once again as he was watched the man's fast retreating back, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

The Malt House saw an array of customers, from families and couples to single drinkers, from the privileged to those spending their last coins on something to help them forget. These demographics were not the key to understanding the customers; the only thing that mattered was quickly deciphering whether the customer took his drinking seriously or not. The man that Verin had just served was clearly the former, one who wanted kettle to do with a server other than to receive his drink and pay for it. He would have no companions throughout the night and he was comfortable with it that way.

With no one to serve , the blond bar tender bent down with a rack of newly cleaned flagons and glasses in order to place them on the shelves below and behind the bar. It was a mindless task, and Verin's thought drifted back to the 514th anniversary of the Valterrian. He had spent it with his brother, and the night had not remained sensible for long, as the copious amounts of alcohol had helped them both to forget about the tension growing between them over the past year or so. But the Valterrian meant a lot to both of the Rush twins, Venser because of Harameus, and Verin because of Rhysol. A year ago he had hoped that, by the turn of the year, he would be an Agent of the Black Sun. Alas, the Gods had not seen fit to bestow upon him such an honour.

As he finished placing away the last of the flagons, he pushed himself up onto his feet and placed the now empty rack against the back wall. A new punter was just seating himself down as he turned and rested his hand on the wooden bar-top. A green spread across his lips at the request that came and he nodded in understanding. “A simple pint of ale isn't going to do that for you, is it?”

[Daegron]

He met the bartender's grin and gray-blue inquisitive glance with a chuckle and an awkward smile. It made him look like a fool.
"Damn right it won't.. unless you have a spare barrel or two.." he responded, eyed the man from head to toe and fixed his gaze on his eyes. He seemed young, eager and strong while he himself felt weak, tired and old. Self pity at it's best. There was a subtle friendly warmth in the bar tender's stare. Whether it was genuine or a welcoming act used by a professional, Daegron would never know; he couldn't tell the difference and he didn't really care. For now, this man held the keys to the sweet land of intoxication and that is all that mattered.
"I am sure you can think of something... intricate with a good kick or a vile taste."

His tone was bitter and sharp like the sudden realization that he was but a puppet to some hag's plans. A hag with graces aplenty that offered him almost limitless pleasures. What made it worse was the fact that he could not remember a thing about what he'd done. Just some hazy memories of pleasure and beauty all turned and twisted by the cold truth into wild streams of anger. He wondered if the words he muttered were clear; his jaw was still numb and felt like it was in an awkward position, as if dislocated. The last thing he needed was to get ridiculed right now. The lad seemed to understand just fine though, so he sighed with relief.

His eyes ran around the room and he tried to relax; there was a lot of tension on his shoulders and heaps of unwanted thoughts cluttering his brain. These all were supposed to disappear soon and hopefully a few sips from whatever the bar tender offered would make a good start. He always kept himself busy in the past and now this inactivity, his sloth drove him mad. First of all he had to find an odd job or two to make sure his mizas would last for a while. That was easy enough in a corrupted place such as this. He was good with odd requests and could hold himself in a fight. Next, he should focus more on his talent. It was more than just knowledge and skill to him, it was a vice and an art, his road to perfection filled with indulgence and strange sensations of pain. He knew the toll was great both to his mind and body but once he learned how to shape his flesh, he just couldn't stop. It was his twisted celebration of life...

_

[Verin Rush]

There was something about the man that left Verin feeling something akin to pity. It wasn't uncommon that the Malt house would receive many patrons who had had bad days - men who might argue with their partners, or business folk who suffered a particularly bad session. Love and money was often the source of problems that customers would come to the Malt House with, asking for an ale, or something stronger, with which to nurse their woes. Working behind the bar, both Grayson and Verin, along with the other bartenders, heard numerous complaints and problems. Most of the time, each would listen with a sympathetic ear whilst they had the time, and offer the poor sod a new drink when they noticed that the vessel seemed to be getting a little empty. All in the name of gaining more money for the tavern, of course.

But, as a general rule, Verin never felt any sympathy, or even empathy, for any of these people. It was his job to take people's orders, give them their drinks, listen, and be a friend... and he was relatively good at it. Here, however, on this one occasion, the man had not broken into his tale of woe without any preamble, effectively forcing Verin to listen, as many punters did. No, he had come in and simply asked for a drink. It was possible that there had been nothing wrong with the man's day, that he was just a particularly cantankerous gentleman. Truth be told, Verin was not overly curious, but he was keen to live up to his privately made pledge to himself, to excel at gaining the trust of Ravokians, in the name of his God, Rhysol.

The blond bartender nodded, still smiling in understanding, as he turned around and walked down the bar briefly, raising his hand, his fingers fluttered in the air as he read the labels of some older bottles, placed near the wine. Finally selecting one, he pulls it down and ambles back over to the gentleman he was serving. “My own poison of choice, this,” he explained as he worked off the tight cork on the bottle, before reaching behind to pick up a small tumbler glass in which to pour the new nectar.

Venser, the brother, though that his job was particularly useless. No, the younger twin had never voiced that opinion, but there was something about his brother's eyes, the expression when such conversations came around. Venser was not the least bit impressed with Verin's current dead-end job as a bartender. However, whilst Verin had remained rather secretive about his hopes to join the Black Sun, he found it hard to accept that Venser would not be at least aware of the elder's ambitions to better himself, and join the elite group's ranks. This current job was little more than a way to allow a decent living, since their father had left them with nothing to their names. Yet he planned to use his uniquely useful position as a bartender to hone his abilities in interpersonal relations, and possibly even gain contacts.

Once poured, only about half an inch of the golden-rust liquid sat in the clear glass, yet it was stronger than any full pint flagon of ale would be for the customer. He slid it gently over to the man, “Ravokian Whisky, friend. 24 Seasons aged. Perfect time, if you ask me.” The man looked like an old-hand when it came to the drinking of alcohols, and Verin felt sure that he had already had whisky... and likely had his own favourite age, but the man hadn't specified, so it was his choice. Then, once again believing that all souls in Ravok should share the same patron, he asked, “So has Rhysol dealt you a trying day?”

[Daegron]

Oblivious to the rest of the world, Daegron watched the bartender as he gracefully picked a bottle of his choice. He had no reason to argue with it; the lad certainly knew what he was doing and what kind of drink was appropriate for this occasion. He nodded in accordance and watched the ritual with anticipation as the cork slid off the bottle. A clean tumbler glass stood before him and he kept staring at it ecstatically as the liquid was poured inside. Ravokian whiskey. He'd already sensed a portion of this city's dark beauty, and it was certain that it would extend to it's products too.

He grinned, raised his glass to the man serving him, shook it gently and slowly bringing it to his lips, he downed it at once. It's woody texture filled his mouth with a multitude of flavours that swiftly dominated his sense of taste. It flowed like liquid flame down his throat and the burning sensation along with the vapours running up his nose gave him a glimpse of sweet euphoria. The after-taste was bitter and dry and left him craving for more. He put the glass down forcefully and it's ringing sound was muffled by his hand. It was truly good.

He chuckled at the man's words. He never thought that deities were so keen on affecting people's lives, or even cared for that matter. His trouble wasn't part of a god's plan. It was human nature at it's worst; greed and the need to control their own and each other's pathetic short lives. Lust and the blindness of logic brought his woes upon him. The influence of a greater being was the thought furthest from his mind. Yet he had to comment..

"You think your god as a prankster ? Tormenting mere mortals just for kicks ?" That was borderline blasphemy, one of his favourite ways to open a religious talk. The man's reaction would clearly define how zealous, faithful or fanatic he might be. Then he softened his argument, in case the man took his words as an insult.

" I doubt he deems me important enough. I doubt he even cares to deal me trouble... Though betrayal and deceit.... hmmm... might be right up his alley..." He sighed and looked at him intently and then at his empty glass. He let a sinister grin appear on his lips as he spoke..
"Excellent season, this one... you got me hooked for more "

_

[Verin Rush]

*

The blond bartender grinned as he saw how much his customer enjoyed his personal choice in whiskies. It was expensive, yes, but it by did not by any means put most patrons out of pocket from a dram or two of the burning liquid substance. Even Verin, on his menial bartender wage, could afford this aged variety. “As it was your first taste, and you liked it so much, that one was on the house, friend.” Verin liked the man, and seeing as Grayson and the other bar staff would spend much of the later part of the evening swindling drunk punters out of more coin than they owed, The Malt House could afford to offer some drinks for free.

“But this particular age will cost you 7 silver mizas a dram. Would you like more? There are a number of selections I can offer you – the cheapest being a whisky that has not been aged, for 3 silver mizas. I would only suggest that particular whisky when you have had enough alcohol to dull your taste buds, though… it is definitely not sold for its palate.” He laughed as he offered his last piece of advice, preferring to speak of the alcohol and build up more of a rapport with the man before delving into the more dangerous topic that was the city’s patron God. From the man’s words, especially describing Rhysol as ‘your’ God, Verin could only assume that the man did not share the beliefs that they majority of the city did.

Glancing around, he was glad that The Malt House was still reasonably empty; if some of their regular punters had heard that, this customer would have been dragged outside, or even left where he sat and beaten there. “It would have been too much to ask for a quiet evening tonight…” His options were to either ignore the comments and hope the Definler was not brought up by the man again, or to respond… and Verin’s loyalty to his God was strong enough that he couldn’t resist the opportunity to turn someone towards the chaotic ruler of the city.

“I think of the Defiler as far more than a lowly trickster – he brought our world to its knees… or have you forgotten?” It was a sly way of reminding the man of Rhysol’s awesome power, but one that often worked. “The Gods have been dabbling in the lives of mere mortals for longer than recorded history can share with us. To say that you think you know better than Rhysol, or any God, that you are not worth their attentions, for good or bad, would insult them. They decide whether or not they wish to involve themselves in your life. Not you.”

Glancing up, Verin noticed a couple of regulars entering the tavern, and he raised a hand in greeting before turning back and resting his pale blue gaze on the man, “It’s a very narrow outlook to believe that, had Rhysol affected your day today, he only did so ‘for kicks’. I’d wager he would have bigger plans for you… if he interfered today, that interference could be the catalyst to start a war… or stop it. Just because he changed something seemingly insignificant in your day.”

Verin pulled out his own flagon from beneath the bar top, a drink of ale that had been the first pull of a new cask that could not be sold. Taking a long swig of the overly-frothy alcohol, he grimaced a little. “Or maybe he might have been messing with you. The point is that you and I, as ‘mere mortals’, cannot fathom why a God might wish to interact with our lives. But they do.”

OOCSorry it took me so long... exams and essays and all.. and then I forgot this thread was waiting and thought that I was waiting!
*

[Daegron]

_

oocNo worries mate! after all, you did buy me a drink


"Thank you, friend. I'd like my taste buds to keep savouring the best spirits you have. It would be a shameless torture, to have this bastard that sits before you hooked into a pleasure so exquisite, only to take it away from him. I think I'll trust your choice of poison for tonight."
His constant angry frown seemed to soften up a bit as the words flowed out of his mouth. As rude and blunt he usually was and cared to be, one wouldn't call Daegron an uneducated ape. Despite being the black and clearly unwanted sheep of his "family", they did provide him with enough education. He was more than able to polish his crude ways, and to coat his tongue with silver if he fancied to. And this kind of conversation was worth it.

The bartender evidently was a faithful follower of Rhysol. Most of the residents of this place were, but this particular man was not the kind of sheep that followed blindly out of fear, obligation or habit. His first phrase was one of zeal and dedication. The way he went on, it showed that there was depth of thought behind his beliefs. He did not try to resort into those long monotonous and pointless monologues that preachers favoured; about how mighty and important their deity is. He clearly believed in the impact that all Gods have on mortals' lives and then focused on the one he believed. He was knowledgeable and his faith had a solid base. The Morpher had just stumbled into a well of information, and would use as much of it in order to learn more about the power that ruled the floating city. There was no reason nor point to instigate any more reactions.

"Forgotten I have not, as there is no way for us to remember how the world was brought to it's knees. All we have is the experience of this world as it is now, and conflicting accounts and scraps of obscure knowledge. We can only guess what really happened. I do not doubt that greater forces were at play."

He pushed his glass towards the blond man and grinned. This discussion required abundance of alcohol. and his throat was already parched.
"I do not claim to understand the reasons that Rhysol or any other god decide to dabble with or guide our lives. But accepting their influence as a fact, can also imply or hint at our importance to them. Our faith and belief and how they affect our actions and lives is a significant part of the gods' power and influence. Theirs is the decision, but a great part of the action is ours. We are no mere puppets, but have a will; easily shaped, but our own nonetheless."

"I have witnessed only hints of Rhysol's dominance and protection over Ravok. I can see you are no simple follower. Please tell me more about him.."

That was a sincere question. He was determined to stay for a long while in this city. He needed to know more...


_

[Verin Rush]

Verin smiled, pleased that, for once, he could serve a man who drank for the enjoyment of alcohol, rather than to waste himself on the powerful stuff. Sure, Verin had enjoyed many a cheery, drunken night in the past with his brother, but he also knew how to appreciate a good drink. Many patrons did not, and were content ordering the cheapest drink they could in order to get drunk as fast as possible. He took the tumbler off of the man and refilled it with another dram, and a few drops more, of the whisky, and pushed it back for him. "I’ll start a tab up for you for the night, and we’ll settle it before you leave."

Even if the man did get too drunk, there were enough people here to ensure the tab was settled, and Verin had his own gifts. He picked up his own flagon and had a swig, grimacing as he received more froth than liquid in his mouthful. The drink wouldn’t taste as good, that was the reason why it was not being served to the actual customers, but Verin still wondered whether or not it was worth it. As he put the pint down, he listened carefully to the man’s words about knowledge and the guessing-game that everyone with enough of a brain went through each day.

He nodded, mulling the words over in his mind and deciding that he agreed. "But that is exactly why we call it ‘faith’, friend. The Gods are not always around us, or as concrete as the stool you are sitting on, for the most part. We cannot know for certain what any of them did in that fateful time, five hundred years ago, we only have our faith and beliefs to guide us. I have never met Rhysol…" Verin believed that he had, that Rhysol had come to him, once… but not even his brother knew about that, "But it is my faith in him that keeps me loyal. I cannot know anything, and if I did, the God’s hold over us would be much stronger, but our loyalty would not mean nearly as much."

Glancing to the left, he noticed that a couple were waiting, and murmured to his conversation partner that he would be right back, before heading over to them, plastering a smile onto the serious expression that he had had when talking to the man. The couple ordered two meals of trout and two glasses of red wine, to which Verin suggested that the white would complement the fish much more. One, apparently, didn’t like white, but the other accepted. Verin’s smile grew in approval and he reached for two glasses and poured the red first, then switched bottles and poured the white. The man exchanged monies with him as Verin said that their food would take a few chimes, and suggested they take a seat and wait.

When he returned to the original gentleman, he apologised for having to leave and took a second swig of his ale, "Where were we.. oh, yes, you wanted to know more of The Defiler… well there’s so much that I could tell you, I have no idea where to begin." At the beginning would be a good place, he thought, possibly to try to answer some of the man’s inferences about the protection that the city has… it occurred to him that the pair were entering a much deeper, philosophical debate than he often encountered when working behind the bar, especially with a man whom he didn’t even know the name of. He stuck out his hand, "I’m Verin, friend. Verin Rush."

NotsI'm soooo sorry, I honestly thought that I was waiting on you for this thread -.- slap me if you wish!

[Daegron]

"I’m Verin, friend. Verin Rush."
The outstretched hand was a gesture he had almost forgotten about. Those were unnecessary pleasantries most of the time, and sharing pleasantries with his usual ilk would be ill-advised to say the least. Manners were not appreciated amongst cut-throats and thugs, instead they were shunned. But things had changed it seemed and this man, Verin Rush, was not a common guttersnipe. And certainly, there was nothing to be lost by a simple handshake. He wasn't dangerous; though the way he managed to switch expressions back and forth, when customers demanded his attention, incited a hint of suspicion. He finally gave his hand and gripped firmly as he spoke.

"I am Daegron. And this is the friendliest meeting I've had these last few days, so please forgive my apprehension."

He looked around his shoulder, a habit he could not remove and one that had saved him quite a few times. There was nothing that could register to him as a threat. Still, he thought that cautiousness was needed. Identifying himself as an outsider could prove fateful, even in a more "family-friendly" environment such as this. He turned and smiled awkwardly, trying to hide his paranoia. He raised his glass a couple of inches and stared into the shades of honey that stirred. He savored the moment and brought the glass on his lips, pouring the nectar down his throat. He left off a muffled grunt of pleasure and stared back at those pale blue eyes, still grinning.

"I do not need a sermon, friend. I don't need to hear from you something that I can hear anywhere else. Instead, I''d like you to share with me, if you are willing of course, your personal view of Rhysol."

Perhaps he was asking too much. No stranger would be eager to start pouring out such details. Especially to one that had Daegron's sinister looks. But he had a good reason. His interest was genuine and he tied his best to convey that message.

"I am a firm believer that the only way to find the truth about something, you have to examine it from every available point of view."

He hoped that this good-mannered young man wouldn't mind saying a few words. He couldn't quite read his expression.

"Don't talk to me of religion, friend. Instead, tell me about Faith."

[Verin Rush]

Each of the pair took the other's hand in a firm grip and shook, “Daegron. A pleasure.” The man's quick explanation as to why he was, apparently, apprehensive, was waved away by the young bartender, who continued to smile, though the smile began to seem more genuine, even travelling to the eyes, rather than being forced into place by the need to serve people. “Some arrive in Ravok and see its beauty and wonder. They think that all inhabitants must be the same. Sadly this is not the case - we are a safe city, protected by our God and his trusted servants, but no matter how perfect a dwelling might look, it is always built upon mud.”

After he said it, it occurred to him that Daegron would not understand the metaphor... but he said nothing more, preferring that the man not understand it to insulting his intelligence by pre-emptively rephrasing it.

“I think you are still missing the point, friend,” he spoke gently, careful not to patronise the man as he picked up one of the recently cleaned flagons and a cloth and began to dry it. “You are still looking for truth. If we could talk about the Gods in terms of facts, we would not have faith. It would be science. In simple terms, this city adores the Defiler because of his divine protection. Temperate weathers, good crops, safe water... we are never left wanting. The majority of citizens are sheep, however. They are ignorant and easy to manipulate. Livestock complacency.”

Bending down. He placed the dried flagon on the bottom shelf beneath the bar top and reached for another, which he also began to dry. His movements were methodical, absent, and the muscle memory allowed him to concentrate on what he was saying. “These people... I don't know, perhaps the reason they are so complacent is because they believe all of Rhysol is fact. Maybe they cannot believe that there is another way, or maybe they've never given it a second thought since their parents told them how the world works. But the point is that life is easy for the people of Ravok, so why would they question what they were told to believe?”

“But that is the problem, you understand. Their unquestioning 'devotion' is meaningless, because they have never questioned it.” Another flagon dried, put away and a new one picked up. “I have only left Ravok a few times, and for not more than a few seasons at a time. But my father was not Ravokian, and he took great pains to introduce me to his Gods, trying to sway my Ravokian allegiance. I thank him for this, because he gave me the opportunity to truly think about why Rhysol had to be the one true God, and why he deserved my devotion.”

“Now, as you say, I could stand here and preach to you until Syna has passed over our heads thrice over... but I won't. Finding religion is not something that I believe can be forced or indoctrinated into someone... but only because I cannot consider the result to be genuine adoration for Rhysol. Those who have thought and wondered and questioned and found their answers are the ones who are destined to become the most valuable servants to Rhysol.”

OOCI'm so sorry about the delay life got in the way!
Anyway... LOTS of talking in this one, but it was the only way I could think of to do it properly... Naturally there would be many words!