Matvi Iramene

Matvi Iramene

Bastard Medicant
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1732956012776.webp"Hear you're handy behind the counter, Syr," Mariel said, as she laid down a crate of spirits. The many colored liquids inside many colored bottles tilt and shift, as their containers rattled gentle to rest. "Bout as handy as you are with brewing?"

Matvi laughed, grunt, let down his own crate against the bar-top. "Suppose its a bit of a pastime, out in the Valen,"

Mariel gave a smile. "Well, we certainly appreciate the results of your, passtime," she picked up a bottle of amber colored spirit. "Valen Whiskey fetch's a pretty penny round these parts,"

A grin from the Dusker. "So long as we get an equal measure of the Hold's Gin, then you wont hear any complaints from me,"

307087744688e5bdbe0dfef9e8d11b66.webpA ring from the bell above the Cat's door. "Making yourself at home already, ay, Iramene?" the dawnling strode towards the bar-top.

"Little early for a drink, ain't it, Tilda?" the Dusker asked, hands already pulling the cork from a bottle of the amber. The strong scent of smoke and caramel bloomed about the bar. A stout tumbler was placed neatly beside the bottle.

A short laugh. "They don't call us Dawnlings for nothing, Dusker,"

Mariel laughed. "Good to see you again, Tilda," she said with a nod, looked to Matvi with a hint of mischief. "So, you don't mind working a shift, do you?"

Matvi quirked his brow. Put the neat drink toward his coutnerpart. "No, suppose I don't," he said easy, and nod toward Tilda.

It was early afternoon in the Black Cat, a lounge about the the Hold's theater district. The golden light of day poured through stained windows, and glowed across sweet smelling smoke that hazed about the room.
 
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The golden light of day did stretch taut to strike Valborast's face as he did press the doors to yield. Thin hands that were rakish clad in gloves of black, adorned with tiny slithers of iridescent purples did yawn open the door. The sunlight striking was endured with fierce irritation, the smell of smoke from tonic and liquor did much to provide alleviant, his face shifting from mood to mood as his own internal monologue did quieten and manners were roughly pressed into service. In this shift between modal critique to libation request, some words did expel themselves from his body as ablution to his recent trials in the muck of culture that did speak itself, as if it were a shiver to keep his wits warm.

"All too fashionable this withering word set to volume, headless chickens might have better use of this cultural compass than they," Valborast muttered to himself as he removed his left glove as if it did offend him, and placed it to eyebrows that were far too severe in it's furrowing.

The right glove removed promptly as to one be misaligned in what fashions did adorn the Dusker as the bar was reached and vision did adjust to the brightness of that the glass did afford in contrast to the darkness of the theatre's rooms he had co-habitated with the dregs of culture.

"Won't someone rid me of this meddlesome sobriety," Valborast did breathe, eyes blinking, unsure of familiar faces for all the spotted blackness of vision that was slow to adjust to what was to Valborast the harshness of day.

"I've had to endure one play too many from a thousand chef kitchen, let me seek some comfort from something that isn't corked, for the love of anything worth a jot of ink, give me libation so I might see something in these harsh illuminations," Valborast did say, eyes still adjusting to the terrible light that did guide him to the bar, the figures who did attend this place were as silhouettes that were all ambulation and shoulders to lean.

Almost as if after thought to his request, a few coins did clatter, as if to the give creditability to his resolve to endure not a moment longer in the dark without a drink to brace himself with.

@Matvi Iramene
 
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Tilda quirked a brow and chuffed a laugh. "Enjoy yourself some entertainment, did ya, Valcheck?" the Dawnling asked as she swirled her drink.

Matvi smiled easy. Worked free a coup from its hanging rack. Placed it neatly before his Sanctum fellow. "Still fancy yourself a bit of the red?" he asked, and waited to hear what the man would put forth.
 
"Rehearsals, hours upon hours of it," Val did breathe, as if harrowed. Blinking, he saw the visage of Tilda come properly into form and hue and continued on, as if the verbiage was being removed as one might a cloak, heavy with rainfall from weary shoulders.

"In some armpit that had terrible acoustics no less. Does double duty as a bare knuckle boxing venue. I was masquerading as a talent scout you see, but I was sleuthing scripts more than deliveries. Some play with supernatural effect is circulating according to some of my sources, hence my ears to the droning of soliloquies. And always will a red soothe," Valborast said with a welcoming attitude in regard to the offer.

Valborast did spiral a digit on the countertop as he made himself comfortable with the notion of being heard instead of listening intensely to potential interweave compulsion from oration and performance.

"More than aspirant bards in fighting rings anyhow," Valborast did wither to himself.

He turned eyes that were now adjusted to the kalodoscope of colours illuminating by stark daylight to the forms of comrades on the other side of matters.

"I trust all is well here? Nothing corked and all in order I do hope, that the day hasn't been all too long for you Dawnlings already," Valborast did inquire, eyes darting from feature to feature and from face to face, freeing himself of the trappings of his scouting persona.

@Matvi Iramene
 
A tilt of glass and a clink of ice. Tilda took a drink.

Matvi pulled a long necked bottle from a wall rack, some paces from the small gathering of knights. Dusted it down with a rag he had snatched from the bar.

"Bout as well as a day goes in the Hold," Tilda offered. Her vowels long and the ends short. She let her drink rest against the bar. It's yellow colored glass dotted with cold sweat. "The Dustpan bleeds, while the Guard sit on their walls and watch," she grinned whilst she shook her head. Shrugged, "Rabble, angry at the world, and aiming their knives at folk who have not," she muttered, and took another drink.

Matvi presented the bottle. "A port, from the vineyards of Passimond,"
The Dustpan: Shanties at the edge of Crown's hold, mainly populated by refugees and displaced peoples from across the realm.

Passimond: An idyllic valley, at the southern edges of the kingdom.
 
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Valborast's shoulders did rise and fall for a moment as a silent reflex of amusement did ripple.

"Your summary is more pithy and more true to things around than half the playwright's attempts emerging here," Valborast did remark. His eyes to the host of the bottle so presented.

"Passimond, gladly I'll throw coins in it's honour," Valborast said, with a sagely nod in approval, a sigh issuing as the prospect of some port did much to provide comfort before it were even poured.

His hand went to his face, running his hands down his features as if putting a thousand words that painted poor pictures behind him.

"Mind you, distractions are a different guise of guard, disarming all the same. Perhaps these terrible plays are designed to dull the senses and appetites instead of sharpening the wit and mind to the reality of things," Valborast did concede, as he settled into this interlude of drinking before duty did demand his presence to another meeting of so called talent and material.
 
The Black Cat's bell chimed again. Closing the door behind her, and dusting off her boots, Xenovia swept the room with her gaze. The noise and hubbub of the theatre district softened to a whisper as she crossed the room to the bar, floorboards creaking with every step.

'Well well well! What do we have here? A bunch of mums, looks like.'

Pulling up a stool, the Deva flashed a sharp-toothed smile. Her satchel, nigh empty, came to rest on the countertop as she settled down, a wayward hand adjusting her sword where it rode at her hip. 'Matvi,' she nodded. 'Tilda. Friends-Anathaeum. How fares the Order?'

Unclasping her satchel, she slid a long-nailed hand inside as the other kept the bag in place. Most of the pockets within were empty, those few bottles and vials she found, equally so.

Where are you? She scowled, rooting deeper.
 
Matvi gave a nod. Let the bottle down, and worked the cork free.

Tilda gave a laugh at the Dukser's words. "Spose there's truth in that," looked down at her half empty cup. "No need for sharp wits, when you want to take what little hungry folks still have," she grinned something wicked across her lips. "Better to have em dumb with distractions than thinking about the why of it all,"

A soft pop, and the smell of dried currants and cherries wafted about their little perch on the bar. Thumb full in the punt, and fingers firm about the heel, Matvi poured the fortified wine with a steady stream of red.

Tilda motioned her hello to the big Deva. "Bout as good as it ever fares, Xen," she shook the doldrums away with a wave of her hand.

With wine glass full, Matvi ceased his pour. Lifted the bottle smooth and wiped its lips clean before he set it to rest with a stopping stone. "Won't find yourself a drink out there, miss Xenovia," the bartender said with his easy smile.
 
Valborast admired the control of the pour, well practiced and considered, as if such treatment of the ruby red might provide satisfaction all it's own. And to the Dusker's eyes, it did much to slake some need for mindfulness around them.

Valborast let the libation settle a moment as the senses did receive it's pungency.

"Worthful," Valborast did say, eyes upon the glass, a shorthand thanks to the barkeep for such a product and pour, an aristocratic remark of gratitude to worthy things presented and savoured.

His hand did sweep up the glass in a gliding motion. The liquid did not disturb, level flat and calm as eyes did close and a deep breath drawn in, the hallmarks of scents particular to Passimond given their moment.

In exhalation came report and reply, eyes fixed upon the chalice that did not stir for such a closeness of voice upon it.

"The Order remains true to itself even as others do shy from their forte. Might have you heard, that the flat foots walk quicker and brisker about, for want of seeing less amongst Dustpan," Valborast did say, and drew slow and long on the ruby red.
 
'Come on, Tils, you can do better than that.' A grin, wide and shark-toothed, came and went. 'Won't find one in here either,' she replied despondently, plucking the satchel into her lap, peepers peeled for signs of her illusive quarry. She swore under her breath. Bloody Maevyth. Shoulda packed things myself. 'Pour me somethin' sweet, would you, handsome? We might be here awhile.'

What a shame, she mused, more than happy to drag out her last delivery of the day at the Cat.

'I hear many a tale told, Syr,' she gestured about herself. 'In Pan and Sink. Rest assured, you knightly types rarely end up on the tips of tongues 'round here, though not for lack of trying, I'm sure.' She smiled some before glancing at Matvi, interest piquing as he plied his trade for his fellows' entertainment.

This is the theatre district, after all.
 
Matvi gave a measured bow. "Something sweet then," he said, sure, and turned about to set to his work.

Tilda fixed her gaze upon the big Deva. Eyes narrowed with a mischief that crooked the corner of her lips. "Sometimes, it helps keep your name out of certain circles," she tossed back the last her drink and grinned the wider with it down the hatch. "But, can't say I don't like the sound of ours comin from yours,'" she winked.

Behind the counter, Syr Iramene gathered the ingredients. Placed each bottle upon the bar. Alongside a bright green lime and the shaker.

"Lapvonan Vodka," he said before he gave the bottle's cork a pull, and poured a measure into the base. Corked it, grabbed the next, "Orange Liquer, from the Kingdom's own Whiteport," he said, and pulled the top off easy.

The sweet scent of candied orange bloomed across the sharp crisp of the vodka. Set it down. Picked up the next container of mixing.

"Cranberry juice, from the Valen itself," he said with a hint of pride. Poured his measure of the tart juice in with the rest of the bouquet of flavors and scents. set the vial down, and found the lime betwixt his fingers. Pulled a knife from the counter, peeled the skin from the fruit with a delicate touch. Cut the jeweled felsh in half, and half again. "And last but not least, a touch of Suldazan lime," he finished with a squeeze of the fruit into the mixer.

Juice covered fingers were wiped clean, and he snatched up the mixer quick, to give it a steady shake.

Come to an end with a smack and a pour into wide mouthed cup, the drink was as pink as a flower, and coated with a delicate foam. A final twirl of lime peel round its bright rim, and the Knight turned bartender pushed the drink forward. "One Queen's Crown," he said with a pleased smile. "For the lady,"
 
Maevyth had almost finished with her deliveries for the day and found that the last elixir on her roster was for the Black Cat, a stop she had left for the end so she could enjoy a strong drink for a hard day's work. Made longer still because she had given Xenovia the day off. Not that Maeve minded, for she was sure her guard needed time away from her hectic and often absent-minded nature as she was consumed with thoughts of calculating herbal quantities and potential binding agents for potions.

Which reminded her as walked into the pub, that she still had a long night of brewing awaiting her when she got home.

Sighing with a bone-deep need to sit down, she took a moment to bask in the warmth as she stripped herself of cloak and gloves, her tired eyes scanning the lounge for a place to sit.

Imagine her pleasant surprise when they alighted on the very woman who had taken the day to escape her duties.

With a friendly cadence, Maeve walked to the bar, waving to her client, Matvi, "You know, if I didn't know any better Xenovia, I might think that you were working when you shouldn't." She placed a green vial and a handful of coins on the counter at her guard's elbow, smirking smugly when noted the woman digging in her own satchel. She nodded at Matvi, "Your order as promised, as well as payment for her drink if she hasn't already."

Groaning with embellished flare, Maevyth finally settled into the stool next to Xenovia eyeing the woman's drink. "Ah gods, I don't think I've sat down since I left the house this morning. Ugh. Hm, what are you drinking there?"

@Matvi Iramene @Xenovia
 
Xenovia's words were irksome to Valborast, interpreted as a snub. The port was cradled, the surface now afforded chance to gain turbulence as it was allowed to find imbalance in the glass. Tens of darts of possible retorts did fly in his mind. All too sharp and piercing, all too fierce for such a target. Besides, Valborast did think, eyes narrowing to the glass as if it were witness to his own council, to rise to such implications would undo the argument.

Valborast did keep his mouth sealed with port for now as the room was awash in greetings and further pours.

But then an old maxim from was smoothly delivered in quiet drawl, perhaps aided by the punch of port to be given in response to Xenovia's assessment.

"Consignment of fame does much to ensure the better part of valour," Valborast did say, the man giving a narrow smile afterwards, and made another pull of port to reward himself for remembering the remark penned some years ago in journal long since burned.
 
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Eyebrows lifted and lowered, and Xenovia felt her face grow a touch warmer as the words finished leaving Tilda's lips. She looked around at the others. 'Makes my heart skip a beat, so she does,' the Deva confessed, a big, shit-eating grin lending truth to the stirring in her chest. 'Still, a girl wonders if it ain't just the alcohol talkin,' she glanced across at the scar-faced dawnling, blew her a kiss.

They were alright, these Chrysanthemums.

Some more than others, she mused, watching Goatee out of the corner of her eye. She still didn't know his name, and quite frankly she wasn't sure she wanted to. The expression he wore could have curdled milk, his reply as enigmatic as the thoughts swirling behind eyes resembling ice blocks. 'Meanin' it inspires discretion?' She asked, willing to take a verbal jab or two if it meant the bloke would stop being such a sourpuss. 'Eh. I don't know-'

Maevyth interrupted their little conversation before she could finish voicing her opinions.

Probably for the best. 'Many hands make light work,' she shrugged, figuring a lie would land her even deeper in the shit than the truth. 'Why don't you take a leaf out of your own book? Who knows, it might do wonders.' Bowing her head to Matvi, the Deva brushed the cup closer to Maevyth.

'Queen's Crown, it's called. Apparently, "ladies" drink it. Full marks on presentation, but the taste...' Xenovia smiled, firebug eyes dancing from bartender to brewer of potions. 'Give it a try?'

@Matvi Iramene @Maevyth @Valborast Valchek
 
Matvi wore his ever present smile as he gave Maevyth a nod. "My thanks," he said, as his hands swept up coin and made disappear the green vial.

1733867447402.webpTilda half smiled and gave her glass a little shake. The bits of ice still in the coup tinked soft against its colored walls. "And if I told you I was just a bit nervous that I might chance your arrival, Xen?" she said soft amidst the quiet clatter and bustle of the Cat.

Footsteps sounded out from the back room of the bar.

1733867414276.webp"Xen!" Mariel called out happily. A crate loaded with a heap of bottles and jars and all manner of brightly colored fruit. "You aren't causing trouble around here now, are you?" she gave the deva a winning smile, then a nod to the other patrons in turn.

Matvi came quick to her side, "Let me help you with that," he said easy, and grabbed up the supply.

Mariel made a little sound, but huffed happy in mild protest. "Well, thank you," she said, and looked over her establishment as she stepped to grab up a little piece of parchment and writing coal. "I take it everything is to everyone's liking?" she asked.

Another ring came from the door. Patrons. Bright smiles on their faces as they talked about some play they had just seen.
 
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