middaeg | closed.

Who: Steak & Red Wine, Steak & Qrow.
When: Throughout the month, before the excursion event
Where: Aefenglom, The Wilde
What: Arguments, drinking, and general shenanigans during Steak's no good very bad month.
Warnings: Anger, violence, alcohol

— closed. red wine.

[ Every morning, once Red Wine wakes up, whatever peace Steak has found disappears. Once upon a time, it would be nothing more than the promise of being annoyed by this bastard's needless fussing, the constant complaining about sunlight and sweating, but now...

Now, the anger which burns inside him is something else entirely. Poison, potent and growing with each passing day. It sizzles under his skin, a persistent itch he can't satisfy, no matter how long he spends sparring and training. No matter how often his thoughts pull back to the executions earlier in the month.

It wasn't enough.

His fingers curl into the counter until they go white when the thought strikes, as violently as the spell which left his back scarred. It wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

He swears, an exclamation from the depths of his throat, and slams his head against the wall, as though that will manage to erase the strange venom of uncharacteristic thoughts. ]

— closed. qrow.

[ He prefers drinking out of celebration, but tonight he's restless and his body already aches from a day's work, leaving the Wilde out of the question.

So Steak finds himself — tentacles, newly formed ears, and all — in a bar near the harbour, pushing his way through people to get to the bar. ]

Is anyone sitting here?

[ He levels the question at a stranger next to an empty seat, tentacles already spreading across the stool in a clear sign that he intends to take it if they're not. ]

— notes.

[ If you want something specific, you can hit me up at isanghae / isanghae#8071 to discuss! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It's a stupid combination if you ask Steak. The mixture of hide and squid skin covering his body is irritating enough without all the new and changed growths making it impossible to truly get comfortable in anything he has to lie down on, anything with a back, really anything where the tentacles dig into a surface or he has to risk hitting his horns — stretched high above his head now, and nowhere near as nice as they used to be, in his humble opinion — on. ]

Thanks.

[ He drops into the stool and gestures to the bartender for a beer, leaning his arms onto the counter as he waits. ]

You're new, aren't you?

[ He doesn't recognise the man, anyway. ]

closed.

you ever write a tag and then forget to hit post