[Song's Rest]That's not what I saw! (Toph)

Azcan starts running his mouth, as all braggarts do.

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[Song's Rest]That's not what I saw! (Toph)

Postby Azcan on October 6th, 2018, 5:45 pm

14 Autumn, 518. 18th Bell.


Azcan relished in the convalescence of his body. The drummer felt the swell of breath in his lungs as he swayed from side to side. He weaved to and fro, his steps taken with care as the crowds of the evening hour slid past him. The drummer boy whirled at the congested mass of a trio of large, violent-looking men, his lips curved into a grin as he recognized the sight of them. They all had the presence of violent pasts upon them, the weary tell-tale marks of weathered souls that gathered together out of necessity. The Sun's Birth? The drummer didn't care to find out, and once he whirled past them he increased the tick of his pace. Arms pumped as his legs carried at a similar pace. The drummer kept note of his breath, the coursing rise and fall that surged strength throughout. He ran, sliding past individuals and seeking to avoid groups entirely. The city of Sunberth was a home like he'd never known, and his intuitive knowledge of the place helped him map out the paths to take in order to properly land himself at the Song's Rest.

Azcan's drum swung with him in each pace, his lips curved into a wide smile as the sight of the Song's Rest materialized in the distance. The distraction of his destination, however, caught the drummer off of his path and he found himself accelerating too quickly to stop safely. The tiny forms of two abandoned children stood against his pace, and the drummer immediately ceased his pumping arms. He threw himself to the side, and crumpled to the floor behind them. The drummer braced himself with his arms, cursing quietly so as to avoid letting the profanity spill into their ears. Of course, the children turned, and when Azcan found them the anger spilled out of him immediately. Their faces were somewhat sunken, obvious signs of hunger and thirst cast. There were no parents in sight for them and the drummer found pity rising from him in droves. He found his way to a seated position before he gestured for them to approach.

"W-we're sorry, sir. Don't hurt us..." spilled forth from their lips and the drummer was undone entirely.

"Are you alone?" he asked them, his light brown eyes searching the planes of their faces for an answer that never came. He offered his hands to them, rising to his feet before he corrected himself,

"You don't need to answer that. Here.. take this. Get yourself something to eat, please," he beseeched them. The drummer placed five gold-rimmed mizas in each child's right hand before he rose to his feet. Conflict arose in his features as he watched their eyes widen as if they'd never seen such treasure in their young lives. The drummer couldn't take them with him. His plan for the day was something else entirely, but the sight of them melted away at his coinpurse at the very least. He'd brush his fingers against the scalp of the older child, a young boy who clearly had his sister in tow. Azcan pursed his lips before he let them be, hoping his contribution might make their day a bit lighter.

When Azcan stepped through the doors of the Song's Rest, his gaze immediately brightened. The pity was forgotten, his frustrations that arose with his approach dissipated as the music poured into him. Lips curved into a vibrant smile as he faced the vaguely familiar visage of the bartender, Franco. Azcan placed a miza on the table, opening a paid tab for the drinks he'd let carry him through the day. He took his first pint of ale and found an empty chair at the table nearest to the musical stylings of the great Maurice. While Maurice wasn't so well-known as the enigmatic and over-the-top ensemble that was Desre and Desden, he was perhaps even more talented. The strings of a lute played, matched with the man's beautiful voice. He had talent that the drummer could only dream of possessing, and he dreamily stared at the man and his lute before his attentions were captured.

"You're the Boy Wonder, right?" the woman next to him whispered in his ear. The drummer didn't pretend to have a claim to fame, but the younger the woman was, the more likely it was that they knew him from his job. Azcan took a moment longer than necessary to answer, still caught up in his envy of Maurice before he turned. An arm slung across the back of her chair as he nodded,

"That's me. Azcan's my name, love. What's yours?" he asked, his lips curving into an easy smirk.

"Oh, I'm Zaeya," she answered, a flush carrying along her features. Azcan quite enjoyed easy prey, they dangled in front of him like the lowest, heaviest fruits of a tree. Azcan had to abstain from licking his lips as he breathed into her ear,

"A lovely name for a lovely girl. Tell you what, how about I tell you a tale, hm? A bit of the life of the Boy Wonder," he mused aloud. The idea seemed to resonate within her, and the drummer winked before taking another sip of his ale. the glass was half gone, and Franco wasn't so clueless as to leave the drummer without his drinks. Franco brought two glasses, frothing at the edge as Azcan began his story.

"Sunberth isn' the safest of places, eh? Bout seven moons ago now, I go into this bar, playin' my drum," he began, gesturing to the drum he'd slung over the back of his own chair.

"Some fool doesn' like the break of the quiet. Can't imagine why. He pushes me back, big, vicious brute he is. He's got to be seven feet tall and twice my weight. Blindsides me, he does, tackles me to the ground. But I use my lightning fast hands," he says, pulling his drum from the chair. He'd begin to play, adding a soft, steady beat to both his story and Maurice's singing in the background. The melody was pleasant, set to the Tune of Storytellers, a beat that every drummer learns as one of their first lessons. While Azcan couldn't attest to a traditional upbringing as a trained musician, he certainly caught wind of it on the Wayward Tabernacle. A practiced beat, the story seemed to pick up in rhythm,

"Bat at his face til he gets his grubby hands off me. I kick him off and he gets up. I gotta get out my sticks next, metal ones. I start drumming on his face," he continued on, winking at the woman before he took the last sip of his first glass. Two more sat on the table ahead of him, and he offered one to the woman before continuing the steady beat of the Storyteller's Tune.

Charity and Booze :
11gm to be subtracted from ledger.


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[Song's Rest]That's not what I saw! (Toph)

Postby Koroshtoph Ephael Petyr on October 8th, 2018, 12:00 pm

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Though he did not think of himself as a drunk and had in fact gotten drunk for the first time just days ago, Koroshtoph was quickly burning through taverns that he was willing to revisit in the near future. Only days back, The Drunken Fish had seen him down so many mugs of ale that he scarcely recalled what had transpired there that night. All he knew was that he had woken up the next day with a terrible headache and no idea on how to get back to his apartment. Today, he had a better idea of the city, though he still struggled to find the landmarks by which he could orient himself. One such landmark was the spot where the river forked in two directions at the southern end of the Castle Commons.

Heading back home, his sword unused at his side after the uneventful day he had spent at Killroy’s, it struck his restless mind to take a different route than usual. At the aforementioned fork, he would take a ferry to the western side of the city, to explore it, and perhaps to look there for an establishment where he might quench his thirst. Quenching one’s thirst not being such a simple matter in this city, he had not found a glass of liquid that he had trusted enough to drink throughout the whole day. With parched throat, he hurried past the bustling market, making sure not to pass the Pig’s Foot too closely as he rushed passed the gallows to the river bank.

The first establishment that he came upon when he stepped foot into the Gated Community was The Simpering Seacow. Being that Makutsi had not picked this day to withdraw her much-overstayed blessing, he chose to pass by the open air cafe. Instead, he strolled northwards passed The Scarlet Sanctum, which, though roofed, was guarded by two mean looking brutes who reminded him too much of the one that had embittered him towards the Pig’s Foot. Moreover, a couple of patrons whom they had let inside were dressed much above the common rags which the Syliran wore. It was only many chimes later, at the very edge of the gated community, that he found an establishment that both provided shelter and seemed welcoming to one of his station.

Upon entering, a beautiful song ushered him forth to the bar where, heading the lesson of previous outings, he asked for a mug of water in place of alcohol. The exceedingly friendly bartender handed it to him with a smile, cracking some joke which Koroshtoph greeted with an absent nod; through the sound of singing, a familiar voice reached him from the other side of the room. He turned around, mug in hand, to see if his eyes would confirm what his ears were telling him. Indeed they did. At the far end of a room, sat at a table close to the singer, a familiar figure was talking intently to a woman next to him. Taking a gulp of water from the mug, he sauntered closer, but so that their backs were still turned towards him.

"Sunberth isn' the safest of places, eh? Bout seven moons ago now, I go into this bar, playin' my drum...”

This ought to be good.

A frown came upon the Syliran’s face as Azcan retold his version of the events that had introduced Koroshtoph to the Pig’s Foot. It was a version so altered that the eight days which had passed since could not have accounted for the changes. Moreover, every detail was crafted so as to make the drummer the sole hero of the tale. No mention was made of the Syliran that had faced the whole tavern on his account, nor of the woman who had shielded him from the brute. No, those details would not have served Azcan’s blindingly obvious intentions. Koroshtoph’s frown turned into a smirk at the opportunity that presented itself. Maybe the drummer could be taught the virtue of honesty. In that aspect, the Syliran perhaps overestimated both his ability to teach such a lesson, as well as the Boy Wonder’s ability to receive it.

When Azcan made a pause in the story, passing a glass to his companion, Koroshtoph casually strolled to the other side of the table and sat down in the chair opposite to the pair. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and put on a very attentive look directed at the storyteller. But not before stealing a quick djed-filled glance at the woman, who noticed him only for a moment before turning back to the drummer.

The new guy knows something

The suggestion missed its mark with the little time he had to package it in the passing glance, but the Hypnotist did not worry overmuch about this. He believed himself in a position where dolling out a bit of much-needed embarrassment to The Boy Wonder should not prove too much of a challenge.
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