bless the young and rich

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It’s a slow day, at odds with the hustle and bustle of LongNight. It had been busy then, too, less than the year previously thanks to the party that ran during the week of darkness. But it had filled him with the anticipation that it might pick up after, that there might be a new bustle of people with fun new resolutions that might keep him busy in the confines of the House of Midnight.

Seems like that was a false sense of hope. He’s technically already been on shift for hours now, flitting between rooms and searching for anyone to spend some time with and maybe make a little bit of extra money. Everyone he sees so far has been scooped up or scouted already, so it leaves Thorn to drift toward the bar with nothing else going on for him.

The frigid start of Flowerbirth certainly was having its ripple effects. He’d even gone so far as to wear a little less than usual with the heat of the fireplace blooming from across the seating area. It’s a dark see through satin shirt that drapes over him, sheer enough that his tattoos are on display and with a v cut deep enough it nearly goes to his navel. It has billowy sleeves that end right past his elbows, leaving the vine shackle tattoos around his wrists fully viewable. His hair’s not as crazy for once, slicked back somewhat to give him a harder kind of look – one that pairs nicely with the bit of kohl lining his eyes that only seem to brighten the seafoam hues of them. His pants are leather and tight, and he’s decked out in quite a few gunmetal jewelry options – rings on his fingers, small hoop earrings that sit in each of the three pierced portions of his lobes, and a matching gunmetal choker with silver chains that trail down his chest, revealed by the deep cut.

He drapes against the bar when he finally reaches it, shooting Casimir a slightly masked grin when he realizes it’s his favorite bartender at his usual post. Usually his smiles are more carefree, easier, but this time it’s got a little less spark behind them. “I’ll uh, take a whiskey neat.” Which is rare for him, Thorn typically doesn’t drink when he’s working, but it’s clear he’s got no prospects right now anyway. “An’ before ya start, I don’t wanna hear it.” He sighs dramatically, folding his arms in front of him on the bar and buries his face in the crevice he’s made between them.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

as i got older i learned i'm a drinker

Though the frigid winds of the budding days of Flowerbirth slam against the windows of the brothel, inside, the air always resides a few degrees above pleasantly warm. Casimir has long suspected that the temperature of the House of Midnight, which always skews on the warmer side, is a strategy to encourage patrons to shed as many layers as possible. Casimir, though, has never acquiesced to the strategy, and today is no different. His muscular arms are ensconced firmly within the dark fabric of his shirt, but if someone were to squint – and many do, trying to solve the enigma of the quiet, severe-faced man behind the bar – they would find the end of a tendril of his back tattoo snaking up to caress his neck, just barely hidden under the collar of his dark shirt. His mysterious scar, an ugly slash across the jugular, shines in the low light of the bar.

The lingering revelry from LongNight must hang over their usual customers, as the place is quieter than normal, the usual clash and clatter of joyful pursuit lacking in the still air. He doesn't mind the quiet, the reprieve from the chaos and troublemakers, but the stillness presses against his mind. In truth, he doesn't mind the business either, letting everything in front of his bar wash over him like a wave pushing and pulling on rocks. 

Even rock can erode, though, with enough regularity of pressure, and he watches Thorn (of the 'in-his-side') variety sway up to his bar. Though he would never admit it (or anything) to the man, Casimir likes their little game. Thorn pokes him to see if he blushes or bleeds, and Casimir does neither, presenting a stone-faced lack of reaction to every attempt at wheedling under his skin. His part of the game, his steady silence and unimpressed facade broken by the occasionally brutal comment, provides him just as much fun as Thorn's side presumably does for him, and he considers it a victory point in his favor every time his nonplussed eyes graze the amused, twinkling ones of Thorn. The man practically languishes on his bar, and though the day is quiet, Casimir does not expect to be bored for much longer. 

He pours Thorn's requested drink in a steady stream into a newly-cleaned glass, calm and collected as ever. Thorn seems less... sparkling today, something weighing on his shoulders beyond just the light drapes of decorative fabric. He says he doesn't want to hear it, but Casimir knows he does, so obviously Thorn will not be hearing it from him. He quirks a slight eyebrow at Thorn's bowed head, knowing the buried face will not catch the reaction. Casimir's words are a precious resource, barely doled out and cutting when they are, and Thorn will have to work harder to get something out of him. 

The glass makes a firm, quiet thud on the countertop where Casimir places it, and he knows Thorn will hear it for the response it is. 

Casimir

sometimes a drink feels like family

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It’s exactly how he expects, the silence and the low drum of the voices behind him quietly talking to one another behind velvet curtains or the open swathe of tables where people eat and drink at. It’s all a quiet backdrop compared to the louder thud of the glass by his head, the heavy bottom rocks glass with the amber liquid in it he’s hoping for. He doesn’t have to tell Casimir which one’s his favorite, because the bartender always knew.

But he is a little slow on the reaction, though, eventually lifting his head. He reaches out with one of the arms still folded on the counter to snag the glass, to spin it around and watch as the fingers of the liquor stick to the side for the sweetness – as if he’s some kind of whiskey connoisseur. He isn’t. He prefers the fruitier mixed drinks if he’s being honest, but something about today specifically required halovian whiskey.

The game goes as usual, the vocal silence met with the sound of action. The sound of liquor bottles moving and glasses clinking against the smooth countertop. And Thorn continues on his side, poking and prodding at Casimir until he might get a rise. He very rarely does, but each time he does is a moment the courtesan can cherish. (And he does.)

“I know what’chur thinkin’.” He pauses, taking a sip of the whiskey, swallowing it down before his seafoam gaze rises to scan the bartender. His kohl lined eyes linger on the dirty blond curls, the sleek black shirt that hides the muscle he’s confident hides beneath it, to the unimpressed eyes that are nearly a darker mirror of his own. “Thorn doesn’t drink whiskey when he’s workin’.” It’s a poor attempt at Cas’ voice, from the short amount of times he’s heard it, but he thinks he does a decent job, anyway. And besides, it wasn’t like the other man would be opposed to tell him sternly when he’s wrong.

“But I’m not workin’, am I? Haven’t had a single client in days. I’m goin’ stir crazy.” It’s another dramatic groan to this one sided conversation, the hand not currently holding the glass of whiskey rises to rest his elbow on the bar and prop his head onto the fist he makes, still keeping his gaze trained on the bartender like a lost dog. “So I might as well drink ‘n get the night started early. S'not like I'm gonna be needed.” Doesn’t matter if it’s the morning or the middle of the afternoon for Thorn to have a little self-contained pity party if it meant he got some kind of response from him.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

as i got older i learned i'm a drinker!

Casimir takes in Thorn's complaining the same way he takes in everything else; with a flat, level, and wholly unimpressed gaze. He keeps himself busy behind the bar, cleaning glasses and preparing for a night rush that's likely to never come, but he can't give the illusion he's giving Thorn his undivided attention. He can feel Thorn's cool blue eyes watching him, looking for any give, for any slip of the cards. Casimir doesn't give it to him. The impression of him wasn't wholly inaccurate, for what it was, and Casimir rewards it with a single flicker of his eyes over to Thorn's drooping form. Poured over the counter like that, Casimir is reminded of a flower overburdened by the heat of a summer's day, aching for rain.

In his single look, the stolid bartender could sympathize with Thorn's pity party -- not that he would every give any inkling that he thought so -- and after the nonstop, nightly revelry of LongNight, every slow day afterwards absolutely oozed in pace in comparison. No patrons meant no money meant no tips for Casimir, and more time to think, alone behind the bar, the past pressing up against his back and breathing down his neck like a hungry dog. Despite the haze of pleasure that hung in the air, the luring gorgeous courtesans lounging and languishing like they were having the time of their lives, this was a place of business. And everyone here had to eat. 

None of that came out of his mouth, nor reflected on Casimir's face. His hands move, graceful and practiced, to begin slicing lemons, the knife dancing in his fingers with practiced precision. The silence between them continues to grow, Casimir nurturing it until it leaps thick and expectant between them. Finally, just when it seems like the conversation would stay entirely one-sided, he murmurs, "I didn't think you were ever needed." 

His voice is as sharp as the knife that split through the lemons. Anyone else could struggle to hear it over the repetitive chopping, but the comment was meant only for one set of ears. It's not mean, how Casimir says it, but it's not soaked in the friendliness something like that should warrant. It's low and sarcastic, a dangling fishhook in front of circling prey. It could hold wonders on its other end, but it may still cut the one who lunges for it. 

Casimir looks up from his task, eyes meeting Thorn's and holding them. There's no challenge in them, not like someone may expect. There's nothing in them, nothing that can be read; just flint and a touch of expectation.

Casimir

sometimes a drink feels like family

A group of Speaking Squirrels bursts into view, chattering excitedly as they scramble over roots and stones. Tails flick wildly as they wave their little paws and shout in unison.

“Come!” one calls, racing ahead a few steps before stopping abruptly. “Follow!” another adds, pointing in a direction that leads directly into a dead end or an entirely unremarkable patch of ground.

They regroup quickly, whispering among themselves before trying again, utterly convinced of their own usefulness. Whether they ever manage to lead anyone anywhere is doubtful, but their enthusiasm never wanes.

---

Speaking Squirrels Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Greatwood — Common Appearing like a slightly larger version of a common ground squirrel, the speaking squirrels - as their name suggests - can speak. Or they appear to. Their vocabulary is limited to "yes", "no", and "follow me!" Though it is entirely unclear whether or not they understand actually speech and the words they are saying, they nonetheless will answer questions and will lead wayward souls further astray. Calls of "follow me!" have led a number of victims to their death, as the squirrels have absolutely no idea where they are going. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 38 | To Hit: +30 | Dmg: 9 Movement: Scurry 30 ft.; Climb 30 ft.; Leap 15 ft. SPECIAL SKILLS Limited Speech: vocabulary is only “yes,” “no,” and “follow me!” and it’s unclear they understand the words; Misleading Guide: will confidently lead wayward souls astray without any sense of direction; Chorus Echo: nearby squirrels pick up the cry, creating a misleading chorus from multiple directions; Gap Squeeze: slips through holes and hedge tunnels too small for most pursuers

TRAITS Slightly Larger Ground Squirrel: looks like an upsized ground squirrel with bright, curious eyes; Tree & Wall Climber: agile on trunks, ruins, and hedges; Hedgerow Local: nests in the twists and hedgerows, popping in and out of tiny gaps; Fearful but Curious: skittish at noise yet drawn to travelers and their shiny gear ACTIONS Chatter Reply: answers any question with “yes” or “no,” regardless of sense; “Follow Me!”: darts a few bounds, stops to look back, then scurries on, luring travelers deeper; Tail Flag: flicks its tail to signal others or draw attention to a false turn; Dart & Vanish: bolts up a trunk or into a hedge-gap, reappearing on a different branch a moment later

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

Stone faced and always easy on the eyes despite the quiet aloofness and occasional venom that sat beneath, Thorn was still quietly captivated in the way the attuned cuts through the lemons – practiced and smooth. He tries to pay it little mind, but he can’t help the way his mind wanders briefly with this silent yearning in his chest.

Of course, anything he says with all of his languid dramatics and the paths his mind takes him down are promptly blown up to hear his voice, regardless of the content within them. And he perks up, the grin spreading on his face and a dazzle returning to him as if Casimir is the rain that the droughted flower of himself had been hoping for.

“Ohho, big guy’s snark’s back. Thought y’lost your voice.” He points a glinting finger of the hand holding the whiskey glass at Casimir, before he takes another sip and relishes the burn and the twist in his stomach that starts to guide him toward buzzed more than it does sober. And he finds himself locked in the mirrored gaze, the impassiveness he can read from the bartender’s face and wondering what hid behind that handsome, stony face. “Think my impression was pretty on par. You wanna say somethin’ else an’ I can really give it a better go?” He goes so far as to bat his lashes at the bartender, huffing a laugh shortly after as his posture starts to fix itself, the silver sheen of his sheer shirt rustling with the movement.

It takes everything in him to not hang onto the words he says, but he can’t help the way he runs the phrase over and over in his mind, the way his voice would sound lovely ricocheting around the bar with the acoustics in here that made everything feel that much holier. He thinks he can get a reaction again, and so he tries, leaning forward across the bar with his head tilting so that he might hear him better should he speak again – and prepares to potentially be disappointed with nothing in response. Of course, before that can fully happen, the shrill shriek of speaking squirrels can be heard from the window behind the bar, the flash of chestnut fur as they bounce around, trying to convince anyone to go outside and follow them to gods know where.

“Uuuughhhhghh. Not those fuckin' squirrels again.” A usual pest at the windows of the House of Midnight, their appearance is almost enough to deflate all the excitement Thorn had earlier.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

as i got older i learned i'm a drinker

Thorn seems to be unspooling in front of Casimir, taking the heat and the buzz of the whiskey and letting it warm him, even in the pressing heat of the room. He can see the way this small victory, this tiny win of the rare occasion of getting back any kind of response, albeit not a particularly friendly one, draws Thorn in to the excitement of the chase. The reasons why Thorn takes such unfettered pleasure in poking his buttons completely evades Casimir's reasoning — perhaps it's the same reason that drives the bored children he sees daring each other to stick their fingers into mousetraps.

The cogs are whirring in Thorn's head, nearly visible in their calculations, and Casimir readies himself for another attack. With that comment, he used up his allotted word quota for the day, and feels no need to extend himself any farther. After all, he wouldn't want to add more fodder to Thorn's impression of him, did he? Something about absence making the heart grow fonder, and all that. The arrival of those fuckin' squirrels, as Thorn so eloquently groaned, allows Casimir a moment to truly study the figure that so haunted his bar. He moves now with a liveliness he isn't sure entirely comes from the whiskey burning his belly, the golden courage sloshing around in the glass as he gesticulates. What brings someone like Thorn, so light and shining and floating, to the bar each night? It certainly wasn't the quality of the drinks. The man must have an affinity for futile tasks. Maybe next he would enjoy trying to draw blood from a stone. 

Maybe, he thinks darkly, Casimir is the one person in the House of Midnight that hasn't fallen head-over-feet for his easy charms. And that must drive him mad. A single batting of Thorn's dark eyelashes couldn't send Casimir tumbling to grovel at his feet. Too bad; Thorn would be so disappointed to find that behind Casimir's steeled gaze was a mess of rot and ruin, blood-soaked hands and a bleeding heart. There are better people for him to poke and prod. For now, Casimir would enjoy his winning streak while he could. Before Thorn learns what is best for him and runs.

Arm's length is the safest place to hold anyone. It's more fun from back there, anyway.

Casimir returns his attention to the lemons, brushing his fingers briefly against the scar that has begun to burn on his throat. He flicks his gaze back up to Thorn and cocks his head nearly imperceptibly, a challenge if someone was looking for it. The game isn't over yet.

Casimir

sometimes a drink feels like family

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

As he’s studied, Thorn glares at the squirrels that continue to try and corral any visitors to their whims, before he’s starting to deflate again. Another sip of his whiskey goes down and he sets the glass down on the counter, spinning the glass idly as he huffs a little sigh. “’Least there’s nobody around for ‘em to fuck with.” He drawls, head propped back on that raised fist, pulling his seafoam gaze away from the window to the bartender again.

He’s back to work being silent and quietly charming as usual, and it’s true that Thorn isn’t that used to not getting his way these days. He was often celebrated, often busy and sought after with regulars. Here, though, Thorn feels as average as the next guy under Casimir’s gaze, and perhaps like a moth to flame this is why the abandoned can’t help but to find himself slinking to the bar every night.

He glances up in time to see the look that suggests he continue, and while he’s usually used to just snarking and yapping at the other man, the liquor makes him feel bold. His long ringed fingers stretch out with a flare toward the lemons he’s cutting, a bit of magic he doesn’t often show off with his telekinesis to snag an already cut lemon slice and guide it to his drink so he might add a smidge of lemon to sour it like his rapidly decreasing mood.

“I’m uh.. I’ve been debatin’ and thinkin’ I might… move sometime soon.” He says it a little quieter, squeezing the lemon slice into the whiskey and downs it so the sourness of his face can be attributed to the citrus rather than the news he hasn’t told anyone yet aside from Colt.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

when i got older i learned i'm a drinker

Casimir has made a living on being difficult to surprise. He's separated bar fights without a change of expression, chased out chagrined customers, heard dozens of drunken arguments and gossip -- everything just washes over and through the man as he acts decisively and without particular attachment. Thorn's carefully casually admission, though, sends an infinitesimal inhale of surprise through the unflappable bartender's mouth, his chest tightening in something like shock. 

It was the closest thing to real he thinks Thorn has ever admitted to him. The hushed voice, the hands busied with lemon, the way his eyes grew just a little bit flatter even through the casual tone; none of this read like shock value or a cheap ploy to get Casimir to admit affection (or admit anything, really). Carefully, Casimir sets the knife down on the table, focusing his full attention on the all-important and captivating task of transferring the cut lemons to their jar. 

As Thorn's words slowly sink their full weight into Casimir's attention, he does what he always does best in difficult situations: he stays silent. Piercing eyes gaze through dark lashes and he watches Thorn fidget, rings glittering in the low light like stars emerging through dusk, and Casimir's expression drifts something closer to ponderously empty rather than stoically blank. Why would Thorn tell him of all people? Surely he had dozens of admirers, regulars who would grovel on bended knees to beg him to stay. Did he want Casimir to do the same? He wouldn't. 

Maybe, in his knowing, irritating way, Thorn figured he was the closest thing Casimir had to a friend in his life. His scar burns again, and the bartender once again can't help but run his fingers against it.

The silence Casimir builds is his defensive fortress as he thinks, thoughtful and thick, rather than the teasing withholding he so often deploys against Thorn. Finally, after a few long minutes, his voice comes out quiet and husky. 

[say]"Running?"[/say] He asks, and it's not quite curiosity in his tone, but not as dagger-gleaming as it usually is. It's perhaps the closest thing to gentle Casimir still has within his ruined self. He crosses his arms, tilts his head, and studies Thorn. [say]"I thought you were stronger than that."[/say]

Casimir

sometimes a drink feels like family