It seemed that throughout Via’s short, vague history, every single palpable downfall was followed by alcohol. Breathing hard on some splintered bar, arms shaking with the lack of food and entirely too much spirits, he wondered why it always seemed like a good idea at the time. His joints hurt, his spine was a line of tangled, hot wire. He’d lost Wendy; no trace, no clue to where she’d gone in the lower parts of Vienda, at least where his ugly mug was accepted.

The Doc had been as good as his word; there’d been a few weeks where if the scrawny, strappy passive showed his weather-lined face anyplace where rabble was roused, he’d get glowers and firelight-flashed shivs. All was well now, he’d kept his nose clean. Dirty work and poor pubs welcomed anyone with the slightest coin, but that was coming short now. Too much ale and beer and liquor, too little ability to walk and behave as a critter ought.

So ended the months of boozing and scraping along… mostly. He didn’t have the strength for it, not anymore. As a younger man he would have jumped on the chance for a life of nothing but ease and quiet, but the sea had been freedom enough then. Now, though, it was a forbidden fjord. He had to make do on the fat of the land, however lean it was. Ah yeh, ye ent gotta care in th’world, cept th’throbbin poundin’ an yer growlin belly, ye damn fool.

Shrugging himself up from the grit and the grime, he threw down some of his meager coin, hoping he had enough to make it to a place with food as well as spirits. He had to get a job, get out of the slums and get somewhere. He’d heard in whispers of haven but drunken ears didn’t attend. Now, though… “Eh, gotta long way t’go, sailor, if’n ye wanna git yer reward.” He forced himself up and onto the street. The Clockwork Stag was a proper place, and he knew the food to be decent. He needed it, and so turning his internal compass, he set sail.

Making his way in the twilight of early evening, he smiled into the cloudy skies. It reminded him of the storms that rocked him to sleep on tossed seas. Those were the times… The path led seamlessly to his chosen port, and the dingy exterior of the Stag greeted him. He couldn’t suppress a smile. It was along time since he’d wandered to someplace that felt a little like happiness. The prospect of warm food felt like that though. Starvation had a way of doing that.

I seemed like a long time, since he’d been himself. Finally though, he was back. Time to see what could be salvaged from the wreckage of his poor, beaten vessel. He slipped into the warmth and settled onto a stool, trying to keep himself steady. A long time, indeed.

(( Heya! I'm back! Anyone wanna take some pity on a lost Sailor? Pwweeaaase? ))

Tomcat feelings, that’s all these were. Used to them by now – familiar things, sending him creeping down the black caked streets with nothing in his head but smoke and want to be anywhere but. Twilight, deep fathomed and purple, huddled people already guttered or working on it. Caiaphas was working on it. There was a decanter of green wine under his coat. It swung in his hand like a dinner bell. Half-full and sloshing on itself with every step.

Jer wasn’t in bed yet, and yeah, that whole excuse of ‘going to market’ didn’t hold water. Over used and stale, code for ‘hama, and oes you are my hama, I’m going out to guttered in some hole and think about biting every bar wench who crosses my path – oes, the ugly ones too’. The Toy Lantern wanted little to do with him once they knew what he was – Spindle, that is – so tonight was a night for finding new entertainment. The Clockwork Stag wasn’t somewhere he’d been before, that was for certain. The drab shell of it didn’t do much to catch his spoke eyes – and they were spokish as ever, he insisted – so accustomed they were to the lurid peacock shades of the Toy Lantern.

Inside was far more inviting than the carapace. Stepping inside, the Hamis rain blew in behind him when he swung open the doors, misting the floors in a new layer of wet. Thick boots, laces undone and wriggling about his heels, squeaked mightily as he crossed the floor to the bar. It was so dead in here, he couldn’t help but think, in spite of the warm heart’s glow of the fire coating the walls red. Didn’t illuminate nothing, he knew, just made the shadows longer, just made faces rouged though the blood that wasn’t there.

Caiaphas faltered at the prospect of installing himself at the bar. Old man, he was more content to languish in some dark corner, alone in his drinking and smoking; old man with his heavy cigars and his sons all grown, had he any. But so empty, so dead, so replete of bodies. All that warm light catching on glass bottles and amber liquids drew him in like a moth to candle flame. Sometimes a man needed a dry and warm-lit place to drink himself into nothing at all, not a black corner.

Ragged eyes slid over to the other soul drifting up by the bar. Not a woman, how sad, not some rosh with her legs uncrossed and buttons popped open, not some little tsat tart with blonde streaks dyed in her hair bumbling over bits of tek stolen from the mouths of market day spoke boys, before the times had changed. (Cai missed those colorful market boys as much as all the human girls did, bless them). Just some sailor boy bitten down to meat jerky, pickled beyond any trace of prettiness. If the kov had any to begin with.

Cai – the dog – slammed his palms down on the bar, fingers spread like poker cards. “Ya look straight parched, kov,” Head tilting, coy as he could be these days. “I’m only askin’ once, now: Can I buy you a drink?”

The slam on the bar got his attention. Via’d been settling in, working off his eternal fog in the vigorous reliving of memories. He quickly folded them away, like contraband or counterfeit bills, into the hidden pockets of his mind, and turned to the other patron.

The man was older than he by a bit, but it was his size that drew Via aback. Sailors got to be strong men, but more often than not ropy muscle was what grew on ill-fed, overworked seadogs. Large, healily muscled shoulders, scarred and battered, spade like hands with fingers like pokers. This man smelled of iron, of darkness and smoke, of unrivaled, undeniable male. It wasn’t an unwelcome scent, and the sailor smiled. The invitation to share a drink however, was a different matter and slightly more unsightly than the blacksmith himself. He’d gotten guttered with enough of the lads to know a teasing, furtive line when he saw it. Hell, the lads often practiced on him, because he was certain to put them down kindly enough and then laugh into the night. It really didn’t occur to Via that some of them had meant the quiet, tremulous flirting. On a normal night, with a Viator of perfect clarity and only the barest of gut-rotters sloshing in his gut, he would have laughed it off, bought the other man’s first tankard and then struck up a conversation.

Yet, he was broke. There was barely a coin to his name and he needed to wean himself slowly off the milk of his addiction. And here comes a broad, swarthy man, offering to buy him this nectar, sorely needed and the offer none too crass. Was it so bad to make pleasantries, for the sake of a free drink? Could Via really flirt, like a big-breasted, curvy-thighed woman, for the pleasure of company and drinks?

Yes, yes he could. Well… in his own, awkward way.

“Eh, ya gottit right sirrah, I ent gotten a sip all day.” He grinned, and rolled sore shoulders. “Ent rightly gotten a bit’n awhile, heh. Yer kind t’offer a poor soul a bit o’ summat. I’m Viator.” Voice friendly (not too friendly, but not dismissive of such things), he stuck out his hand. It wasn't much different from romancin' a candidate for a crew, getting the lads to sign on with a smile and a wave. Felt about as dirty now as it did then, and just as necessary.

It was as if all the thinking of a big-breasted, tarty tsat woman had actually summoned one into the room. Vicka had been fixing things up in the back; Mr. Oranos, bless his heart, seemed to have his mind on things other than inventory as of late. The sound of new voices lured her back to the front, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Sorry, lads, just doin' a little upkeep, what can I get--" she paused, looking up. She laughed aloud. "Cai, what brings you to the Stag? Is Uncle Jer with you?"

The words were out of her lips before a quick glance around the bar told her that, no, Uncle Jer was not here. She raised an eyebrow but kept whatever thoughts she had about that safe in her throat. Vicka glanced over at the other man.

"Friend of yours?" she asked Cai before addressing the man himself. "Anything I can do for you, love?"

The business that had occupied the proprietor, Gannon, had been Cooking. This was not simple cooking, with just pots and pans and herbs and other things needed for the creation of normal foodstuffs, but Cooking. This was the sort of meal-making that one might rather name Battle or War or even Dueling With Hot Pokers. This was the sort of Cooking that often procured gales of laughter from any on-looking females or a kind of stern exasperation that would be accompanied by a sigh. Cooking (as opposed to the far more mild 'cooking') needed a dash of Cursing and a heavy helping of Frustration and Anger. A teaspoon of Irritated Indifference could go a long way in Cooking as well.

Most often the results of Cooking were a mouth-watering black with crunchy texture. This time they turned out slightly better. Less black.

Gannon near beat down the door to the kitchen with a booted foot as he thundered back into the main room, typical to his massive presence, grumbling and grousing. One normally knew when Gannon Oranos was in the room.

Tray slung back over a shoulder and laden with plates of ill-tasting food, supported by a hand, he found himself—naturally—behind the bar. Behind the bar with glasses and mugs and bottles and Vicka. All now normal and usual things that dimly registered in his mind. Though what made him pull up short and glare was what he saw directly on the other side of the bar.

He snarled, shoulders tensing. "Ah, tocks."

A very good thing and two rather bad things happened over the course of moments. But Cai was, as they said, an optimist. It took every dreg of will power he possessed to tamp down the spring of lewdness that flashed in his dog's smile. It was difficult, so he just slid a hand over his smiling mouth and concealed it all together. Some strange eyed thing with an implacable accent and rolling his shoulders and smiling at him like that (this is the good thing); the appearance of his niece and the natt (these are the bad things).

"Hesta, Vicka my love! Good t'see ye, roshie. 'ow 'ave ye been keepin'?" His hands left the counter and spread out in some grand distance hug, as if he wanted to embrace Vicka from across the bar. Cai's voice was entirely confident and jaunty, as it always was. He flopped heavily onto the stool beside Viator and propped his dirty elbows up on the bar.

"Wassit look like, Vi? I'm buyin' the poor cad a drink. Looks parched as an' old peach an' like he ent got no ging to jangle, ye chen." He thumbed the lip of his bottle of fortified wine, empty glass catching the light. "Aye, oes...y'know yer dabrunno, nanabo. Jer don't like it when I drink 'round the place -- reminds him of his dagka, curse 'is rottin' hide."

"...'ow 'bout a bottle o' Old Horse for the kov an' I?" It was the least expensive whiskey perhaps in all of Vita, but it could knock a kenser of its feet. "This 'ere bottle 'as run dry, bless it." He shifted his all powerful grin onto Viator, cocking his head like a boy examining a fascinating creature he'd just dragged from a lake. "This 'ere is Vicka, my darlin' niece. A little tsat thing, but ye oughtn't hold tha' against her none." A bark of laughter. After a moment, he squinted up his bleary eyes. "...'er name starts with a 'V', also," Cai added seriously.

He'd purposefully ignored the massive lug of a human for as long he could. Still smiling, but his eyes glinted like spear points. Like this was all some joke Gannon wasn't in on. He flashed his teeth. The sword belted at his hip felt heavy and wonderful.

"Hesta hesta, my good nattle!" he roared, pounding the bar. Wine made Cai so incomparably loud. "Yer arm feelin' arrite? 'ow 'bout them ribs?" Cai might have added more, but he dissolved into harsh, barking laughter. He bit the tip of his tongue coyly and flashed his inky eyes towards Viator again.

"I," he hissed in a stage whisper, "am very popular, as y'see."

Via got the sinking feeling he may have just played along with the wrong bloke. Ah well, no harm no foul so long as nothing came of it at the end of the night. It wasn't like the man was as distracting as others he'd met, he was all form and no depth. Nothing real to fear if he got guttered, because there was a charm to Cai but nothing that seemed more than vaguely mocking. He tugged at his forelock in Vicka's direction, his smile somewhat softer for her. She seemed a good lass, and better at giving warnings than Via really deserved. 'Uncle Jer' was obviously someone in the blacksmiths life, and Via had no intention of stepping in on that dance. However, so long as he could milk this kindness and charity, he would. Old Horse was better than most of the shit he drank anyways.

"Good t'meetcha, lass. I'm Viator, an a sadder sailor ye'll never see on th'main." he did his best to look pathetic, yet he was pretty sure he just looked shifty. Giving up the act, he shrugged pretty lifelessly. "Eh, beena bad coupla weeks, an havin a tad o'kindness is doin' my heart good. Thenk ye, an yer uncle." He sounded tired to his own ears, and he dragged a hand across his eyelids. Oh, Wendy, where was she now? He hoped she was warm, cared for, like he couldn't have done for her. Little, angry Wendy who carried the world on her shoulders.

When the other over large and angrier man entered, Via was sure he'd made a poor decision in the Stag. He greeted the man with a wave, trying to make himself an impression altogether separate from that of Cai. "Hallo, wellmet an' all th'grime, yeh? Nice place ye got here." He knew the smell of failed Cooking, and suppressed a grin. now was probably not the best time to tell the assembled that he could possibly out-cook anyone in here. Something he cherished from that other time, and he was pretty fond of food for all his scrawny frame belied it.

Turning to Cai, he tipped his head to the man once again. "I kin tell, Buckoe. Ye have m'thanks, again. Real rough times out there, nowadays. Bloke hasa hard time tryin t'keep hisself alive, ye chen?" His tek was nothing more than a few words sprinkled through, but it reminded him of home, anyway, to hear it around him nonetheless.

The first impulse to flash across Gannon's brain, right after it registered the flash of those pointed wick teeth and snakelike eyes set in that ugly little familiar face was to dump the fruits of his laborious Cooking. Smack on Caiaphas's head. Shlop, CRASH!

That would be funny. Hilarious. Gratifying, wonderful, and…destructive and womanish. Like throwing beer on someone....

Gannon didn't pause to look at Viator. He didn't care about the lad at his bar--harmless-looking washed up twig of a human. The snake that just crawled into his bar, though.... Someone lit a fire under Gannon's lungs and his nostrils flared. One would have expected his black eye to glow red, but it didn't. It just glared.

One very deep breath later (it was damn good that Vicka was here again. Bastard didn't know how lucky he was.) Gannon snarled, never taking his eye from Caiaphas. "Vicka, be a dear an' fetch this gentleman an' th' wick what they ask, eh?" After that, Gannon walked off, around the bar and into the rest of the drinkers gathered. Food to deliver. Blood to cool. Other such things.

"I'm a wick, too, Mr. Oranos," Vicka said after him. She turned to her adopted uncle and his 'friend.' Poor man looked like he'd seen some awful hard days. She smiled at him. "Old Horse for you both, then."

It was popular because it was cheap and terrible, a very fast way to forget your troubles and become deeply concerned with your own vomit. She found an open bottle (some kov puking out back had drunk maybe half himself) and poured them each a new mug. Mr. Oranos, bless his heart, thought he could make things out of clay. And Cook. He was on his own, there; Vicka had always relied on Cal, having only passable culinary skills.

"What brings you to Vienda, sailor?" Vicka asked. "Friends, family? Maybe I know them." She winked, playfully as she poured, pushing the mugs toward them.

Cai seemed to very much enjoy making people slam things around and stomp away with his very presence. His smile didn't fade a bit. If anything, it only grew. This night was shaping up to be goddamn lovely, even if his chances of bagging this strange-eyed man were slim to nothing.

"Thank ye kindly, pretty Vi," he said with a wink of his own. "An' don't mind 'is pig-eyed self none. I can promise ye, I ent much of a gentleman." The last bit of that sentence was tossed over to Viator with a flash of his gaze, quick as a dart.

Followed by a deep draw from the awkwardly shaped mug. He almost spluttered it back out again, almost, so strong it made the meat of his eyesockets ache a bit. Cai wasn't used to sucking down hard liquor, not like he used to be -- 'used to be' being twenty-some years ago. Jer hated it. Cai had stuck with bottles of green wine for too long. He just roared with laughter again and slammed the mug down onto the counter, cheap whiskey sluicing between his fingers.

Cai swiveled his head to Viator, head cocked and all teeth like a dog peering at a rabbit. Black eyes slid, critical, over the harsh lines of the man's face. Not even a hint of field, but thin-boned and almond-eyed. Alioe preserve, plowfoot blood could never spit out a pair of eyes like that. Cai propped his elbow on the table, and then his chin on his hand, leaning in obnoxiously close to Via's face.

"Them's some pretty eyes ye got in tha' skull there, Violet."

Gannon did grimace to himself. Seemed he was good at sticking his foot in his mouth....

However, that did not do a thing to take his mind of just who was sitting at his bar. Thinking of that piece of shit sitting there at his bar made him want to snap a table with his teeth. By the gods, that wick wanted himself dead. This was sure not to end well and Roxanne already felt hot against his leg, near to burn a hole in the side of his trousers. One hand holding the tray, he unconsciously put a hand to the pommel.

The results of his Cooking were met with audible groans from those it was delivered too. One man told Gannon to get a wife, another told him to hire someone who could cook. Both were glared into silence.

Gannon stomped back to the bar, where another pair of customers waited with a craving for Vulker's Sap. The big human was glad to have something to do with his hands while he left the wick and Viator to Vicka, though he kept a careful eye on both.

Via smiled slowly at Vicka, biting back the somewhat lessened pain of her query. It always happened, if he wasn’t near port. Questions were asked, hell, even when he was on some far off shore. The ladies, all primed in their finest and exposed to the air in as many ways as they could, they’d bat their eyes and smile, delicately putting a hand on his knee, staring him down with kohl lined stares. ‘You have any family back home, sailor?’ It was the mark between a whore and a desperate woman, because whores never asked questions. He’d shake his head, say he wasn’t the type to go gallivanting off if he’d left something more than footprints behind him. Always the same, he’d brush them off and send them to the next crewmate, where they’d get their fill of seasalt and ocean virility.

“Nah, no family t’speak of, m’dear, and none here anyhow. Don’t like leavin’ behind much, an’ wouldn’ta left if I’d had a reason t’stay.” The whisky she brought was strong, and the first whiff made his mouth sweat. Oh lord he was addicted, and sweet respite came in a clay mug. Downing the first half in one great swig, he tossed seablonde hair out of his face and grinned hugely, color coming to sun darkened cheeks. “Ah, lasseh! Ye doin a sailor a gurt good, gittin summa thar down m’gullet, hahaha!” The warmth spread through him quicker than summer light, better than a winters fire. She shivered lightly, but suddenly there was life in his brittle bones.

Cai’s stare was less obtrusive now, with the first of what he hoped to be many drinks. Cocky, like a man of his age and not one of his years, Via leaned back in his stool, propped up on the counter. He lifted the fringe that came nearly to the bridge of his nose to show Cai the real color of his eyes, the bright and the dark of them. “Yeh, gottem in Mugland, or wassit Hesse? Nicked em righ froma jemcutter, an been seein sights e’er since.” He winked and took another gulp of the whiskey. “Eh, right too much nickin when times get like this, wit all th’lowness an’hardness o’cash. I’d like an honest days work, discharge pays come to a bad end.” He patted his pocket and sloshed his drink. “Laddie like m’self could always do wiva few pipes t’tighten, a floor t’mop and polish, heck, even a hale to bey. Er. Hay to bale.” He blinked at the mistake. Was he already that far gone? What was in this mug? Dear Alioe, it didn’t taste any stronger than the horseshit he’d picked up in ports.

Vicka's eyebrows rose at Cai's comment. She opened her mouth to say something and then shut it. She did not want to cause Mr. Oranos to throw her uncle out, no matter how terrible his behavior; Mr. Oranos did not need that on his head and neither did Jer. She smiled and nodded at the sailor's plain gibberish--Vicka prided herself on her understanding of Tek, being the daughter of a spoke, but this man was nigh incomprehensible. He sounded grateful, and it didn't seem like he had relations around these parts.

"As you say, love," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll be here if you need me."

Cai really couldn't stop grinning. Oh, he knew he should at least try to reign it in while Vicka was here. But it was so difficult, it was all so damn harmless...and he was so tipsy, veering quickly into the realm of guttered. And he wasn't even doing anything, they were just talking, there was no reason for her to look at him like that. She thought this was bad? This wasn't bad. At least, on the Cai litmus scale of badness.

"Visions, ya say? What'cha been seein', kov? Wonders upon wonders, yeah?" Cai's hand flashed out and pinched Viator's fringe, brushing it out of his eyes again. Teeth spearing lip, his foggy gaze peered at those eyes -- not into them, Alioe no, too shallow for that --pondering. Really, maybe, he'd just had a compulsion to touch that hair. Gentlemen preferred blondes.

"Can't blame ya fer nickin' 'em, though. Ent no denyin' times is hard, Violet." His voice picked over hard and Violet in an all too obvious way -- this was all so much fun, too much fun. Whatever his intentions were, if they were anything at all, Cai could sit here at this bar making everyone and everything highly annoyed, and quickly get guttered, and have some strange-eyed something-or-other to be coy at.

His black eyes flashed to Gannon, wanting to ruffle as many feathers as possible. Cai smoothed down Viator's fringe and tucked it behind his ear, never quite taking his eyes off Gannon.

"S'true, ent it? Times is hard, sir. What's in all tha' cookin' anyhow? Horse's stomach? Little cat bits all sliced up nice, ah?" He turned about on his barstool, harpoon smile aimed full on the human. "Somefin' else more tricksy and dangerous? Alioe!" he hissed, toasting his warped mug and splashing whiskey all down his hands. "Ye sure do know how to cut 'em down t' the bone t'turn a profit, oes sir?"

The fire under Gannon's lungs lit back up. He imagined the wick a fly on the bar, a very squishable little thing, before he turned his direction, a leer on his face like a chrove that wanted to devour something.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice going a touch low, a touch dangerous. "Cat, horse, customers what try an' skip on a tab.... Dark-headed starfly wick. Th' usuals."

Was Gannon trying to pick a fight? Naturally. It was what came most natural, especially, it seemed, with this snake in the mix. A few of the other patrons--those less guttered or who were rather familiar with the barkeep's short fuse--fell silent and watched from the corners of their eyes. No one got up yet, no one hastily paid their tab and braved the rain in preference to braving the crossfire of Gannon's anger. Not yet. Things might simmer down, yet.

Might.

A very difficult choice was presenting itself. Vicka thought that she might be able to cause Mr. Oranos to back down--send him to the kitchen, or on an errand or something. But the fact of the matter was that Cai was not behaving well, and she thought getting into a fight might stop what was unfurling right in front of her. Cai was always disparaging witches for what he thought was trashy--always pregnant, or hanging off of a kov, or something--as if he was any better.

Poor Uncle Jer. He did not deserve this. Vicka had already made up her mind to tell him, however hard it might be. She wondered if she ought to spread it throughout the neighborhood, to shame Cai into going back to his husband. That would only make things worse, she thought.

Mr. Oranos, though, would probably fare badly. Vicka seemed to have picked up a tidbit that he'd once been a fighter, but having only the one eye in his skull made her nervous. On the other hand, she did not appreciate such speech. It was a hard night to take sides when both were in the wrong. In the end, though, she had to take up the part of her kind.

"Mr. Oranos, I wish you wouldn't speak so," she chastised softly from her post at the bar. "Cai and Jer kin to me, y'know. I never speak poorly of your people."

Well the conversation had slipped from meaningless flirting to mentions of hardness. Via may not have the parts to speak of but he knew what you were supposed to do with them, and it was counterproductive to his non-productivity. With a slosh of burning liquid he tried to gather his scattering thoughts, however the whiskey didn't seem to help the effort any. In fact he was getting fuzzier by the moment. Instead of fleeing, or fighting, he was sitting there like a wounded duck or a shot albatross. A bird by any other name…

“Eh, ent hard enough t’be truly shitheaded. Well, any more’n I am.” He pushed the tankard away, still smiling, always the pretender. Alioe, when did he lose his spine? He looked at the drink with disdain, himself with more. Where was the fire brand that was able to run away from—who’d joined a crew at nineteen and never looked back? What was he, crawling into bottles and laps for bottles?

Standing up, he tossed his hair out of his eyes. “An’ I ent anyones Violet.” Why did the ground shift so? Every time he was guttered it was always a shock. Wavering, he threw down a few coins on the counter, the last he had, enough to pay for his drink, maybe then some, maybe not. “Not been anyones… Violet.” He leaned on the bar, gathering himself, and spat on the floor. “Sos… you oughta getcher self another one. Cause I’m a weed, an’ don’t grow in nobodys garden.” It was an accident, really, that e picked up the tankard and threw it in a direction. No reason for it to have hit Gannon. It did though, missing the floor by… quite the long shot.

Innocent as can be, he shook and looked astounded at Cai. “Eh, no reason t’be throwing my drinks at people, sir! Paid—good for em…” He blinked. How many Cai’s were supposed to be at the bar? Three seemed too many.