002; action;

[theirinurpants]

Who: Alistair and anyone who wants to get shitfaced.
Broadcast: Nope.
Action: Varric's bar on the Iskaulit.
When: Tonight. All night. PONY UP.
WARNING: Depending on how conversations go, drunk!Alistair may make vague references to child neglect/abuse, or possibly dubiously consensual sex. Other topics might include violence and extreme daddy issues. Let me know if you want me to specifically avoid any of that!

[ For all intents and purposes, Alistair feels utterly alone. Sure, there are several people in the fleet who know him, but he doesn't seem to know any of them, and so it's weird. And if he's being honest with himself, he was feeling pretty lonely well before he got here. All of the friends he made during the Blight, when they were all on the road together, pretty much left after it ended, after his coronation. Even Amell ran off somewhere with Leliana, leaving him to the tender mercies of his uncle, his late brother's widow, and the rest of the Fereldan nobility.

He's been keeping up a cheerful face - he doesn't really know how to do anything else - but what with being here, learning about things he probably shouldn't have learned about, and having a little bit of money from - somewhere, he's finally just. Showed up to the bar. Varric's is the closest thing to familiar he can find, so he's drinking whatever ale his money can buy. And he's not stopping until the money runs out or he is insensible on the floor. ]

Another. Please.

Comments

[theirinurpants]

I like bread! And anything has to be better than that mush stuff they had on the Marsiva, right?

[ He ate a lot of it but boy it was not very tasty. ]

[survivalistcookbook]

Maybe not anything. But bread? Yeah, definitely better. Be right back.

[He steps away, and is back moments later with a large, soft, salt-studded golden-brown pretzel, accompanied by the best dipping concoction he's managed yet - mostly cheese-flavoured protein with a little garlic powder and solid chips of bacon flavoured protein.]

There you go. One pretzel.

[theirinurpants]

Thank you.

[ Alistair is all politeness as he takes the proferred snack. It's certainly an interesting shape, but otherwise it looks mostly like a narrow kind of bread. ]

What do I owe you?

[survivalistcookbook]

[He gives a crooked grin, nodding his head at the man's latest beer.] Considering you're doing your best to buy up the bar? It's on the house.

[theirinurpants]

I got some money. On the station. Nothing much else to do with it, is there?

You know, I've never had much money of my own. Even since the coronation, it's not like it's really mine.

[survivalistcookbook]

[Eugene's about to start idling through all of the much better things there are to buy on the station than in his bar - which isn't good business, but hey, this is more of a hobby than a job - when one particular word catches his ear.]

Wait a minute. Coronation?

[theirinurpants]

[ Alistair just rolls his eyes, and nods. ]

Yes, coronation, no, I'm not your king, so let's just not worry about anything other than my name being Alistair, okay? I shouldn't have even said anything.

[survivalistcookbook]

Hey, you will hear zero complaints for me, Alistair-Who-Is-Not-My-King.

[He grins at the sudden and unasked for rant, leaning back in his chair contentedly.]

I've never had a king, and I'm not about to start leaning how I'm supposed to treat one now. So you're safe from any grovelling and honorifics from me, at least.

[theirinurpants]

Good. It's bad enough back home. Here it's just... uncalled-for, really.

[survivalistcookbook]

You seriously have people trying to give you the kingly treatment? In space?

[theirinurpants]

You wouldn't believe how many people immediately start with the Your Majesty's as soon as they find out, regardless of where they're from.

[survivalistcookbook]

Which I can see doing maybe - maybe - if you were really into being a king. But you don't seem that thrilled about it.

[theirinurpants]

[ Alistair gives a rather eloquent shrug. ]

Why do you think I'm here, drinking everything in sight?

[survivalistcookbook]

Well, man has never lacked for reasons to get well and truly trashed. But I've gotta be honest, when I see someone putting 'em away, 'is secretly a king and not very happy about that fact' is not exactly high on my list of suspected causes.

[theirinurpants]

But 'is miserable about his job and his life' might be?

[survivalistcookbook]

Oh, yeah. That one's easily in the top five.

[He sobers a little at that, though he doesn't exactly shy away. Forlorn kings are a new one, anyway.]

Want to talk about it? I can grab the next round.

[theirinurpants]

Ah, I don't need to dump this on you. You don't even know me.

[survivalistcookbook]

Well, no. But you are a patron of our fine establishment.

[He offers a little smile.]

Think of it as saving me from slaving over a hot stove, if it makes you feel any better.

[theirinurpants]

Are you sure listening to me complain is really that much better?

[ He's trying to make a joke of it, but even his smile falls a little flat. ]

I mean, sure, if you really want to hear my tale of woe.

[survivalistcookbook]

Hey. Do you think I'd be working in a bar if I wasn't up to hearing tales of woe?

[theirinurpants]

Well then, you might as well pull up a chair, because this might take a while.

[ Alistair magnanimously waves him towards a seat. ]