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<blockquote data-quote="Dark_Jackalope" data-source="post: 3028537" data-attributes="member: 41706"><p><strong>Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (later evening) – Morika, Doral, Partash</strong></p><p></p><p>Disonda nodded a bit, but then stated simply <span style="color: Orange">“Bertrand’s good, p’r’aps, but doesn’t drink well. He le’s too much spill from th’ corners of his mouth.” </span> She then sat in silence, drinking her ale contemplatively and watching Morika, making it clear that conversation was over.</p><p></p><p>They waved for more drink, and the skeptical-looking barmaid nevertheless brought them their eighth round of ale. Both of the women were getting very drunk at this point, the alcohol catching them swiftly like a poison. To Morika, the sound and light in the tavern became a smear across her senses, and her addled brain tried failingly to coordinate with her surroundings. Clumsily yet continuously, she brought the thick mug up to her mouth and poured more of the draft down her throat and then brought the mug crashing back down to the table again.</p><p></p><p>She noticed Disonda too was having trouble staying steady, and she seemed to swoon a little bit halfway through her drink. Or maybe it was just Morika, because the whole crowd seemed to be swooning somewhat. With a glance at the coppery heap, she raised the mug once more. The warmish brew met her lips, but in a sudden rush the ill feeling surged up, and she could no longer stand to swallow. Morika let her hand fall, sloshing ale out onto the table and floor.</p><p></p><p>She blinked very slowly at Disonda, groaned a little and buckled forwards into a hunched position, about to wretch. The gnomish woman just studied the pale and profusely sweating shifter, before saying in a slow and slurred voice <span style="color: Orange">“I’ looks’like I’ve won, Reach’r… You’re nah’ so cunnin’ aft’trall.”</span></p><p></p><p>With that she swept the copper pieces, forty of which were Morika’s, off the table into a cloth purse, and smugly staggered out of the bar. Morika sighed, but felt a little less ill than in that first wave. Though she had not passed out or thrown up, her eight ales had caught up with her very badly. Not only was she physically ill, but her mind was in a fog. She thought she recalled once knowing a spell that had cured a friend of hers from much the same predicament, but alas could no longer remember it.</p><p></p><p>With new determination, at least to somehow crawl into her bed at the inn, Morika pushed herself very weakly and shakily up from the puddle of spilt beer on the table, just in time to stare in confusion as what appeared to be Craver strode into the bar and over to where her other companions had been sitting.</p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="color: Red">OOC: Even though Morika’s pretty much totaled for the night, she may spend an action point to recover quicker, so she’ll be fully functional by tomorrow morning instead of grossly hung-over.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Dark_Jackalope, post: 3028537, member: 41706"] [B]Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (later evening) – Morika, Doral, Partash[/B] Disonda nodded a bit, but then stated simply [COLOR=Orange]“Bertrand’s good, p’r’aps, but doesn’t drink well. He le’s too much spill from th’ corners of his mouth.” [/COLOR] She then sat in silence, drinking her ale contemplatively and watching Morika, making it clear that conversation was over. They waved for more drink, and the skeptical-looking barmaid nevertheless brought them their eighth round of ale. Both of the women were getting very drunk at this point, the alcohol catching them swiftly like a poison. To Morika, the sound and light in the tavern became a smear across her senses, and her addled brain tried failingly to coordinate with her surroundings. Clumsily yet continuously, she brought the thick mug up to her mouth and poured more of the draft down her throat and then brought the mug crashing back down to the table again. She noticed Disonda too was having trouble staying steady, and she seemed to swoon a little bit halfway through her drink. Or maybe it was just Morika, because the whole crowd seemed to be swooning somewhat. With a glance at the coppery heap, she raised the mug once more. The warmish brew met her lips, but in a sudden rush the ill feeling surged up, and she could no longer stand to swallow. Morika let her hand fall, sloshing ale out onto the table and floor. She blinked very slowly at Disonda, groaned a little and buckled forwards into a hunched position, about to wretch. The gnomish woman just studied the pale and profusely sweating shifter, before saying in a slow and slurred voice [COLOR=Orange]“I’ looks’like I’ve won, Reach’r… You’re nah’ so cunnin’ aft’trall.”[/COLOR] With that she swept the copper pieces, forty of which were Morika’s, off the table into a cloth purse, and smugly staggered out of the bar. Morika sighed, but felt a little less ill than in that first wave. Though she had not passed out or thrown up, her eight ales had caught up with her very badly. Not only was she physically ill, but her mind was in a fog. She thought she recalled once knowing a spell that had cured a friend of hers from much the same predicament, but alas could no longer remember it. With new determination, at least to somehow crawl into her bed at the inn, Morika pushed herself very weakly and shakily up from the puddle of spilt beer on the table, just in time to stare in confusion as what appeared to be Craver strode into the bar and over to where her other companions had been sitting. [COLOR=Red]OOC: Even though Morika’s pretty much totaled for the night, she may spend an action point to recover quicker, so she’ll be fully functional by tomorrow morning instead of grossly hung-over.[/COLOR] [/QUOTE]
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