Post by Delion on Sept 22, 2008 4:13:28 GMT -5
((Any and all Brewfest related shenanigans here!))
Delion’s store was no stranger to visitors. That was what a shop was made for, afterall - customers, clients, people coming and going. It wasn’t, however, used to so much mess.
Now this week, Mr. Oreweave had taken the liberty of getting some renovations done. A wall or two had to be temporarily taken down, but it would be worth it for the new plumbing going in; not just proper running water, but hot water as well. The thought of those shiny copper pipes would make the store smile.
But even with that, this was a bit much. If it could think for itself, The Finest Thread would likely wonder at the spools of thread lying over its floor, clearly knocked off the tables and benches. A few bolts of cloth were askew and partly unravelled, sending a great swath of blue across the floor (that wouldn’t be a bad colour for a rug, really). There were empty bottles strewn about, a fine wineglass precariously perched on a countertop, and a mug or two with dregs left in the bottom.
Perhaps this was making a little more sense.
From there, the Thread would boggle all the more at the weaponry littering the stairs and hall - a dagger, a bow, even a sword lay in its scabbard as if stripped off and discarded. A few items of clothing had been strewn about as well, not all of them belonging to Mr. Oreweave. It would be at this point that the shop would pause, settling its conscience into one wall of the bedroom. The scene was certainly amusing.
- - -
Oh, gods, not again. Delion was hungover. That was an understatement. He was plastered, smashed, and completely out of it. Both his mouth and head felt like they were filled with cotton, and despite the relaxing sleep his body felt not rested at all.
The worst part was there was someone else in bed with him. And for a whole minute now he had shied away from that thought, because if this was a repetition of that scenario with Shaila he was going to crawl into a black hole and never emerge again.
Alright. So.
...where was he again? Oh, yes, bed. With someone. Oh, gods... ...They were far too large to be Shaila. Ugh, he had hair in his mouth. Mornings like this made him want to cut it all off, it was far too annoying sometimes.
He shifted just enough to both fix his hair, and discover the presence of another body in the bed. Even his sore, ale-muddled brain could count up to two. Well. Three including himself.
Surely this could be explained.
All right. Delion concentrated on working out the identity of the first one, eyes still closed and trying not to move at all. It wasn’t Shaila. No, certainly not, though it did have the same shape. So it wasn’t Sol’remy, either. Maybe it was Ceil. That would make lovely sense, they just had a drink and a chat last night and drowsed off. Certainly. And that meant the other one was Sol’remy. Which meant that this was a perfectly normal, innocent -albeit drunken- scenario.
Delion cautiously cracked an eye open. What the hell was Bellesta doing there? ...Oh, gods. No, okay, no, that hadn’t happened. This was still salvageable. It was. Bellesta, Sol’remy and he were good friends. So the same thing had happened, of course, they just had a drink and a talk last night. That DID make sense, he seemed to remember something about Bellesta asking to stay for a while. And his apprentice was just odd, Delion had nothing to do with him being present. The man had likely invited himself.
With the situation perfectly unravelled, Delion turned. The amount of times he had given his apprentice a stern talking to about not being so terribly sly in his presence was--
What the bloody hell was Tirith doing here.
Delion’s store was no stranger to visitors. That was what a shop was made for, afterall - customers, clients, people coming and going. It wasn’t, however, used to so much mess.
Now this week, Mr. Oreweave had taken the liberty of getting some renovations done. A wall or two had to be temporarily taken down, but it would be worth it for the new plumbing going in; not just proper running water, but hot water as well. The thought of those shiny copper pipes would make the store smile.
But even with that, this was a bit much. If it could think for itself, The Finest Thread would likely wonder at the spools of thread lying over its floor, clearly knocked off the tables and benches. A few bolts of cloth were askew and partly unravelled, sending a great swath of blue across the floor (that wouldn’t be a bad colour for a rug, really). There were empty bottles strewn about, a fine wineglass precariously perched on a countertop, and a mug or two with dregs left in the bottom.
Perhaps this was making a little more sense.
From there, the Thread would boggle all the more at the weaponry littering the stairs and hall - a dagger, a bow, even a sword lay in its scabbard as if stripped off and discarded. A few items of clothing had been strewn about as well, not all of them belonging to Mr. Oreweave. It would be at this point that the shop would pause, settling its conscience into one wall of the bedroom. The scene was certainly amusing.
- - -
Oh, gods, not again. Delion was hungover. That was an understatement. He was plastered, smashed, and completely out of it. Both his mouth and head felt like they were filled with cotton, and despite the relaxing sleep his body felt not rested at all.
The worst part was there was someone else in bed with him. And for a whole minute now he had shied away from that thought, because if this was a repetition of that scenario with Shaila he was going to crawl into a black hole and never emerge again.
Alright. So.
...where was he again? Oh, yes, bed. With someone. Oh, gods... ...They were far too large to be Shaila. Ugh, he had hair in his mouth. Mornings like this made him want to cut it all off, it was far too annoying sometimes.
He shifted just enough to both fix his hair, and discover the presence of another body in the bed. Even his sore, ale-muddled brain could count up to two. Well. Three including himself.
Surely this could be explained.
All right. Delion concentrated on working out the identity of the first one, eyes still closed and trying not to move at all. It wasn’t Shaila. No, certainly not, though it did have the same shape. So it wasn’t Sol’remy, either. Maybe it was Ceil. That would make lovely sense, they just had a drink and a chat last night and drowsed off. Certainly. And that meant the other one was Sol’remy. Which meant that this was a perfectly normal, innocent -albeit drunken- scenario.
Delion cautiously cracked an eye open. What the hell was Bellesta doing there? ...Oh, gods. No, okay, no, that hadn’t happened. This was still salvageable. It was. Bellesta, Sol’remy and he were good friends. So the same thing had happened, of course, they just had a drink and a talk last night. That DID make sense, he seemed to remember something about Bellesta asking to stay for a while. And his apprentice was just odd, Delion had nothing to do with him being present. The man had likely invited himself.
With the situation perfectly unravelled, Delion turned. The amount of times he had given his apprentice a stern talking to about not being so terribly sly in his presence was--
What the bloody hell was Tirith doing here.
