[AW] [M] What Do You Do With A Drunken Servant?
AW for one. Late night in The Ruins.

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: alcohol usage, and it's Amos.

He had spent probably close to an hour scouring the decrepit walls of The Ruins. Nose deep in all of his hideyholes, looking for something to drink. Anything to buzz his brain and pull him away from his self-pity. It was a dangerous act, often a double-edged sword. Sure, alcohol helped him forget, but it could also exasperate his feelings. At least now he had clothes that would keep him warm enough to step out at night. The man was bad at so many things, picking drinking partners. One of the worst he usually chose was himself.

There were few things more sad than drinking alone on a crisp fall night, but it wasn’t Amos’s first rodeo. He took precautions by telling his new owners that he wouldn’t go far. He was very relieved that the Pizmov’s were not nearly as controlling as his previous creditor. He also left his lute behind, so he didn’t lose her, or break her if he became too inebriated. He told himself he wouldn’t leave The Ruins, and he hoped that promise to himself wouldn’t be forgotten in the haze of booze.

The bard had found something, it smelled foul, but it wasn’t off. There was no sharp vinegary flavor to the blend. Blend of whatever it was. Applejack? Maybe, but there was certainly other things mixed in. One of his barrel-scrapings. Scraps and dead soldiers he found around. A few sips of wine cast aside, or a forgotten cup of something left sitting on a fencepost. All things he saved and bottled for a later date. The man sipped the thing as he wandered the old, crumbly walls, progressively becoming more and more brazen, limber, smooth, and unstable. It was in such a state that he foolishly chose to challenge himself to see how well he could balance.

Climbing up onto a stone wall, Amos stood, teetering side to side before finding equilibrium. He brought his wood-plugged skin of god-knew-what to his lips, nearly falling in the process. He managed to keep his feet in place though, and took a drink to congratulate himself for managing to stay upright so far. Now he just had… well, he couldn’t quite judge the distance, but it looked feasible! Unsure step after heavy step, the man found himself creeping toward the end of the wall slowly. He leaned left and right to stay on top of everything, giggling to himself every time he nearly fell. He was so proud of himself, able to stay on the wall, but of course, like every high he had; it came crashing down.

Or, more aptly, he came crashing down. Claws scratched against stone as he scrambled for purchase, but it was all in vain. The man was well close to the ground by then, and fell with a splat and thud into the cold mud. The man was fine, the fall wasn't long at all, but if he were sober, he would have freaked out about making his clothes so messy. Till cared too greatly for cleanliness, this mess surely would have made him angry, but Amos did not need to worry about that anymore. Instead he just lay there, sore and increasingly sorer. “Ow,” the man muttered to himself, as if it mattered. Amos knew what happened and why he hurt. He merely suffered from his stupidity.

He could hear a soft glugging sound nearby, and soon enough the vapory burn of alcohol hit his nose and chin at the same time. His skin must have landed near his face. The bard ought to care, alcohol was special and important, and this one was his. He did feel that way though, but the servant figured the castaways of drinks past and he were very much the same. Though in pain, he was comfortable enough to just lay there and lap up the boozy puddle growing in front of his face.
It was late for Kaimkillen. He was just returning from one of his nightly walks with his little tin lantern swinging in the dark, but this tour had gone overly long with his meandering along the coast just past the ruins. In the dark, listening to the rhythmic rush of the waves – swelling and receding, swelling and receding, over and over again – he was reminded of a place he would typically rather forget. Longing never did anyone any good, in his opinion, and he could not be bothered to yearn for a stretch of land he would likely never see again. There was simply no use for such sentiments…

Except when there was.

He was both charmed and cursed, able to forget and recall at will. Though he mostly wanted to keep the past out of his head, the things and the people he had left behind, sometimes it was nice for him to remember. Like now, as he cut through the ruins, heading for his roost outside of Millstone Village, he thought of his family, his birthplace. Neither of which he missed, so it was not painful for him to think about. He certainly didn’t pine for his past life – he only ever enjoyed looking to the future – but looking back at times could be just as beneficial as looking ahead, as long as one did not linger too long.

Speaking of lingering too long, he realized he was coming up on the moonlit figure of Amos, drunk and teetering on a wall. Usually, the mendicant would skirt the servant in these times, unwilling to be caught beneath the eaves of a drunken sermon, but he was a little more concerned for the fellow this time. He didn’t want him to fa–

Welp, there he went.

Kaimkillen strolled over. There were no sounds of pain or existential agony, so he made no rush to assist. It was almost pitiful to watch the sullied man lap up his boozy spill from the muddy ground. He watched for a moment but didn’t let it go on for long. He set his lantern down on the wall to then grasp the wineskin and pick it off the ground, saving what little of it was left. He sniffed at the lip of the drink and recoiled at the oddly pungent smell. Terrible.

“Amos,” Kaimkillen tried not to sound too chiding, but he couldn’t help the tiredness of his tone. “C’mon, get up.” He bent down, offering the servant his free hand to help him up.

WC: 422
The bard did not react too much to someone happening upon him. He was a servant, a personal one at that. He didn’t need to care about how he appeared to anyone save for his owners. Though if his state got back to the Prizmovs, they might be worried about him. A far different story if he was still in Till’s house. Amos had to be on his best behavior, clean and alert, at the ready. His eye not resting near the muck glanced to the lantern, and he waited his scolding.

No scolding came, but he was told to get up by a familiar voice. The man groaned and took Kaimkillen’s hand, but made no effort to get up. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t deserve to,” he was whining like a tired puppy would when told to go to bed. “I should just… just stay in the dirt, until the worms come up to drink with me.” It was a funny image, but very sad as well. Amos’s opinion of himself moved up and down on a scale of self-loathing to the occasional bits where he’s full of himself.

Once he realized his skin had been plucked from the muck, Amos then stood with the Aid of Kaimkillen. “Thank you,” he muttered, reaching out with an unsteady hand towards the skin. His arm kept falling and rising as he attempted to maintain aim at it. “Sorry,” he muttered, still attempting to receive his disgusting drink. The man was looking far worse than he did when he was on the wall. The sudden fall and rise made him a little queasy. “Do… do you know the Prizmovs?” he asked, words slurring. “Can you bring me to them?”
The mendicant took the coydog’s offered limb but sighed as he quickly realized that the drunken fellow had no will to move or stand. As soon as Amos began to wax poetic about remaining on his back until the worms rose from the ground, Kaimkillen recognized within himself a sudden urge to vamoose. He swallowed the feeling and said nothing, maintaining a firm hold on the servant’s limp hand until he suddenly started to rise up.

It would seem that Amos’ resolve to stay on the ground was as flimsy as his balance on the wall. Kaimkillen steadied him and took a step back, careful to surreptitiously keep the wineskin out of the drunkard’s reach. Despite this, Amos’ hand kept coming for the drink, just missing it each time – thanks in part to the coyote’s retracting arm.

He nodded when asked if he knew the Prizmovs. “I can take you to them,” he said aloud. “The tower beyond the Feasting Hall, right?” He didn’t need the inebriated Luperci to answer, because he was quite sure of the location, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to get the man’s brain working on something else other than retrieving his wineskin. He held the servant’s bi-colored gaze for a moment before moving again.

“Hold on to me,” Kaimkillen instructed him, grunting as he used his free hand to guide Amos’ clumsy grip around his midsection in an effort to keep the coydog steady. He wrapped his arm around the male’s shoulder to keep him up and retrieved his lantern with the same hand holding onto the leathered bottle of stinking mixed wine. He guided Amos back towards the main pathway and made their headway in the direction of the Prizmov residence.

Though it was unlikely he could answer coherently, Kaimkillen thought to ask: “Why are you drinking so much? Are they treating you that badly?“

WC: 312

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