driftfleet | Mirtul 18 1370 dr

Who: Syeira and YOU
Broadcast: Nope
Action: Varric's bar on the Iskaulit mostly
When: Directly after the shuffle.

She has been checking on the roster listing nearly compulsively lately. Things have just been rough for her. Losses upon losses. Regaining Anders, only for her friend to not know her. It piles up on top of everything else.

Everything else being Sam falling into a sleep only to wake and nearly do something horrible to Cas. And she got to take a lovely swim in Sam's blood for that, a delightful bonus to her kill deprived self. And then Sam is hurt, again, on her watch. Cas fell into a sleep immediately after. She's been ill from the planet nearly all the time. Coil had a melt down. Arthur turned into a tiny teenager. And of course, Robin revealed to her she not only had a Calibration, but when he was in it, he saw her murder her own mother.

She had asked Robin not to shut her out again. That was the mistake. She'd admitted her fragility out loud where Atroma could over hear it. She'd told him she couldn't stand to lose any more friends. And now he's just gone. Removed, like so many others. And she quite simply cannot take one more bit of horrible without doing something about it. But there's nothing to fight. She's not going to trash her room. The thing that's left is rather obvious.

She goes to the Iskaulit, to the tavern that feels like one from home. She has a small pouch full of credits. She managed to pull out enough that the pouch weighs at least five pound. There's a hefty amount of money in it. This she takes directly to whoever is tending the bar, places it purposefully down on the counter, and gives them a dead serious, almost empty look.

"I would like to drink, until I physically cannot anymore, or the money runs out. Whichever comes first." And by the look of things, the money won't be what runs out first. "If it's the former, please feel free to keep whatever is left over for your troubles." Because she imagines it will be annoying to shove her out into the hall when she's fall down drunk.

And with that, she will start drinking. There's dedication in it, because she wants to obliterate everything in her head. Blot it all out until all that's left is alcohol poisoning.

[ooc: Feel free to tag her at any time during this. And please note, she did not notice Zhas has returned to the fleet, and I request that no one tells her. Thank you!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Iskaulit was the closest the fleet got to a true common area - a crossroads where even in the bleakest stretches of space they could still meet in safety. Even still, there are many corners left unexplored or ignored in favor of others.

Felix doesn't usually walk into Varric's bar on purpose. He feels a bit more at home in Malum, when the mood to have a drink or two strikes. But the ship is still a small place, and the location of the bars more or less across the hall from each other makes it easy to spot Syeira's flame-haired profile from the outside.

He strolls in with a smile, not yet noticing she's a few cups into her intended binge.

"I might have to rethink my bar of choice, if this place gets so much patronage."

He won't, actually. But it makes for a good opener.

She likes Varric's place because it feels like her own world. Less sharp and clean, more rough and real. Beer and other alcohol would be spilled onto the floor here, and seep in, leaving a real mark of people passing through, bear the scars of life.

She looks up, hearing a familiar voice, and while Felix smiles, she gives him a very watered down version back. She's just not up for a full on pretense of being fine. Hence, why she's here, doing what she's doing.

"It's not hard to be popular when you're serving up distraction to a bunch of trapped, bored, occasionally miserable folk." Not that she doesn't like the bar here. But really there's a reason taverns usually do well.

It's true this place veers closer to the familiar for him, but in most cases Felix prefers to avoid memories of his old life, especially the part prior to his life in the Mirador. He didn't want to acknowledge his scars.

"It true. We are very much a captive clientele in that regard."

He leans against the bar and eyes her keenly. "Which of those three are you today?" he asks, even if the answer seems obvious. It seems a less direct way to ask what is wrong.

"First and third. Though the first is really just incidental to this moment." So she's in an occasion of misery, that much is easy and obvious to convey. "It's nothing to worry about. I just need to let it out. Or drown it, or something like that."

And drink.

He isn't oblivious to her misery, but asking has a way of gauging both her level of denial and her willingness to talk about the reasons. He's been guilty of pretending that the amount of wine he's had in one night was neither excessive or indicative of anything wrong at all. To do so would have been a gesture of weakness he wasn't willing to show, lest the metaphorical sharks start circling.

He's also been one of those sharks.

"There seems to be a lot of got going around in recent days. I wonder if they are trying to balance the scales after the masquerade. Can't be allowed to have too much fun," he replied lightly.

"The gods forbid." She's not really concerned about metaphorical sharks. Or anything other than her eventual black out. She has a habit of leaving herself open to potential trouble. It's probably something she ought to work on changing.

Just not tonight.

She puts her elbow on the bar top, props her cheek in her palm, and at him that way. "Felix, I can be honest with you, can't I?"

His first instinct is to ask Why would you?. He'd betrayed the trust of so many people in the past. It's something he isn't quick to forget. But that was an old insecurity, and time has taught him he can learn.

He returns her glance with more seriousness than he had before, one hand splayed thoughtfully on the surface of the bar. "I have a myriad faults, to answer honesty with honesty, but I promise that the ability to keep a secret is not one of them. Anything you wish to tell me won't travel further than this room."

It's not a bad question to ask. Her answer probably wouldn't be satisfactory, if he did say it out loud. In general, she trusts quick and stubbornly sticks to it. Even when others would advise against it, she would still give out her trust to those who's motives were extremely suspect.

"Not so much a secret. Just an exhaustion with polite manners. I am unhappy, and I want to feel unhappy. I don't let myself usually. I act as if everything is fine. As if I'm fine, but for once, I just need to be unhappy. I'm asking not to be cheered up. You seem a person I can ask that favor of and have it honored."

He considers her answer for a moment, largely inexpressive. He disliked seeing people succumb to the despair that this place could easily visit upon a person, but he understands. It was a release valve. There were always small ways to do it, and his were usually sex and alcohol, but nothing could ever do that job for long.

"Of course, my dear. I'm not unfamiliar with that dance myself." Mostly for political reasons. The court could smell weakness, and he always made sure to lash out rather than be caught limping, so to speak.

"Just assure me it won't go on too long."

Mirtul 18 1370 dr

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