[log] Truths and taverns

[1ikethewolf]

Who: Seed and Percival
When: The evening after their talk in the tavern
Where: The tavern
What: DRINKING HEAVILY



Percival finished his patrol and gave himself a little extra time to get out of his armor and change into a nicer shirt before meeting up with Seed as requested, or rather demanded. He decided to forego a cravat or anything else, since this was technically just two fellows going out for a drink, nothing more. He came downstairs with a tired sigh and headed down the hall to the tavern, rubbing the back of his neck. At least, this was undoubtedly a choice way to wrap up a long day of actually working.

Pushing open the door, he hunted around for the shock of red hair before even considering placing an order.

Seed had casually walked in the tavern ten minutes earlier -military life had taught him quickly that on time was good, but early was better. He was dressed, as usual, with a black tunic tucked half-hazardly into a pair of tight black pants -the kind he would wear under his armor-, his sword, as always, slung from the worn leather belt his mother had bought him when he left the farm to enter the army. He had made a valiant attempt to pull his hair back, but strands of crimson hair kept on falling into his face anyway.

He leaned on the bar, and started chatting up the bartender.
Ever since his little impromptu number with Camus, he had tried to mend bridges… and it worked so well that he had been asked if he would be interested in working at the tavern. He could think of worse ways to earn a living, but he still felt… wrong.

Spotting Seed right there at the bar, Percival strode up to him and feigned reporting for duty, lifting his chin and flexing his chest out. "Sir, ready for a drink, sir," he teased.

Seed straightened and turned around, bursting out laughing at Percival’s words. “Now that’s the spirit! I told you I outranked you!” He gestured towards the end of the bar: “Let’s go sit there, there are two empty stools. And don’t let the barkeep give you their cheap ale… it tastes like piss.”

"I usually prefer beer, on a night like this," Percival admitted, following his lead. "Or wine, but I gather that I'm in the company of someone who scoffs at wine. A beer it is - Iksay had a good grain crop last year, it brews better drink."

“Whatever works, you know”, answered Seed as he sat down on the empty stool on the left. “But I do like ale better than wine. It’s cheaper, tastier, and the glasses are bigger, too! Don’t let it fool you, though, I know my wines… even though I generally won’t admit it unless I have to.”

Percival took the seat beside him. "Yes, well, my comrade Borus is quite the connoisseur, but I like to broaden my horizons. And my palate." He eagerly took up the mug of beer that was slid his way. "This is much better for capping off a long day on one's feet."

“Culgan liked his wine too, it must be an aristocratic trait”, Seed reached out and smoothly caught the tankard that had slid down the bar towards him, the froth spilling over the edge and on his hand. “We couldn’t afford wine in my household, but my mother brewed some excellent mead.”

"Oh, home-brewed mead. That's rare in some parts," Percival acknowledged, raising his mug in a toast before drinking. "There was a farmer who prided himself on it, in Iksay, but my mother always said he was a good-for-nothing that us children shouldn't look up to."

“My mother didn’t have those qualms”, Seed offered, smiling into his tankard as he remembered his childhood, “When it got cold, in winter, and we’d get home frozen to the bone, she’d warm up some mead for us. I remember wrapping my stiff fingers around the warm cup… it was wonderful. And then she’d toast slices of bread on the fire, and if it was a good year, she’d slather them with butter and jam.”

"It sounds like heaven," Percival smiled, toying idly with his mug. "At least, winter here is over and we have nothing but cool drinks to look forward to. I much prefer it to chilled fingers, if you ask me."

“Chilled fingers have their own charm, they bring people of all ranks together around a bonfire”, Seed disagreed before taking a long drink from his tankard, “And I find them better than sweating under my armor… I have terrible memories of feeling sweat trickling down my back, under so many layers of leather and padding and plate mail that I couldn’t get to it.”

"Oh, tell me about it." Percival rolled his eyes. "Even if the weight is not a real issue, I do still have to deal with sweat running down my back underneath my plate. Especially if you're patrolling under the hot sun, it's like being encased in your own personal oven."

Seed visibly shuddered at the thought of summer patrols, as if he felt the wetness beading between his shoulder blades… which was followed, after hours of discomfort, by the act of peeling the wet leather from his skin. But then, it could be worse, there was always blood mixed with salty, stinging sweat, chunks of leather or shrapnel to remove from the wound in the sweltering heat. He remembered screaming, once, when after a day of hard riding, Culgan had finally helped him off his horse to pull out two arrowheads from his thigh, cutting out chunks of his pants to access the wound.

“I hate the heat”, he answered simply, “It’s uncomfortable, and it aggravates wounds. Luckily, Highland isn’t known for its long summers.”

Percival nodded while he drank. "Summers here can be...average. Sometimes hot, but sometimes wet. It's quite well balanced, I think. Which is why agriculture is so pervasive in the area...quality growing seasons are a must, after all." He closed his eyes and sighed with nostalgia. "I look forward to fresh bread made from the finest wheat, and juicy, ripe tomatoes. Late summer is the best time for my cooking to excel, here."

Seed cleaned out his tankard and caught the bartender’s eyes, turning it upside down to show it was empty. “I forgot what fresh bread tastes like… I’ve spend so much time in military camps I can’t tell bread and bricks apart anymore.”

Percival gaped at him, with an extra flourish. "That, good sir, is a crime! I will reintroduce you to it myself if I have to. Though, bread alone is no decent meal, especially not here." He wagged a finger. "It's high time I made the offer to cook for you, Seed. All of my friends get treated sooner or later."

“I’m never one to turn down a meal”, Seed reached out and caught his second tankard of ale, clinking it with Percival’s. “So you can be sure I’ll take you up on that offer. I can cook well enough for my purposes, my purposes including survival, but not much better.”

"Oh, you poor man," Percival teased, obviously in a much better mood (hastened by the beer). "I may not see as much battle as you do, but in my time at headquarters, I've been able to take the skills my mother taught me and turn it into a rather respectable hobby. One that brings me quite a bit of pleasure." He tossed back the rest of his beer and stretched out the mug for a refill. "If you have any favorites, let me know. I can do my best to accommodate."

“I’m easy to please. Next to military rations, anything will seem delicious”, Seed raised his hands in protest before Percival ever opened his mouth, and laughed, “I’m not saying your cooking will be bad, just that I have low expectations! Although, I’ve never had a guy offer to cook dinner. You Zexen knights are a really unique lot…”

"Well, it's not as though I'm the only one," Percival said quickly, almost defensively. "Lord Salome is also a decent cook. But I've often served my fellow Mighty Knights, and never had a complaint. As I said, my mother originally taught me, so I could help keep house when it was just the two of us."

“Men in the kitchen, and women on the battlefield”, Seed mused, nursing his drink, “That’s strange to me, things don’t work that way in Highland. I mean, I do have a Queen, and I’d take orders from her, but she’s not technically my commanding officer. She’s… the Queen, that’s different. And if her husband was here, I’d take my orders from him instead.”

That made Percival sit up a bit and gesture with his mug. "Aha, and yet? Lady Chris is one of the most capable captains I have served. She is inspiring to the men, and not just for her beauty - more for her bravery and composure. The way I see it, it shouldn't matter what's under the armor if the captain is strong and true." He laughed then. "Good Goddess for a minute there I sounded like Borus."

“I’ve fought alongside women, don’t get me wrong”, Seed clarified, “But not Highland women. We had Grasslanders units in our army and I fondly remember one little blond-haired Karayan spitfire…” He grinned at Percival, then nudged him, but didn’t offer more information.

Percival chuckled into his mug, vaguely remembering probably the first conversation he had had with Seed, in the infirmary. Oh, how the man would react if he met Lucia in the present. "Then I suppose the adage is true - to each their own. I do believe in another few years, we'll see an influx of young women to the squirehood, thanks to Lady Chris' influence. That will turn things on their heads, that's for sure."

Laughing, Seed threw an arm around Percival’s shoulder and leaned closer, whispering in a conspirational tone: “Imagine that… then your crowds of cackling young women will be able to follow you all the way to war… won’t that be entertaining!”

"Ohhh..." Percival groaned and leaned against him. "What a terrifying thought. Thank you ever so much, Seed," he sighed. "Maybe by the time they reach knighthood, I will be ready to retire."

Now that wasn’t the reaction Seed has been expecting, but before he jumped off his barstool he reminded himself that this was a country where men cooked and women fought and everything was so strange that perhaps this was normal behavior as well. None one seemed to be paying attention to them at any rate.

He settled for laughing again, and thumping Percival’s back. “Unless a battle saves you from all of this and gift you a hero’s death. Who’d want to retire anyway. Retirement feels like failure to me. I want to die young and reckless and proud and sword in hand!”

"Ahh..." Percival straightened up and leaned on the bar instead, drinking deeply. He hadn't noticed anything besides Seed's patting him on the back. "I suppose, if you got right down to it, I don't want to retire either. If I could choose my death, it would be in battle...but then, Captain Galahad always said that half the men who die on the field die because of a mistake. The other half, bad luck. Neither reason seems very noble to me."

“Barkeep! We need more ale!” bellowed Seed in reaction to Percival’s comment. As the short stumpy man hurried on over with two tankards, the Highland general motioned to show that they both should be set in front of Percival. “You haven’t had enough ale if you’re still thinking that way. So it could be a mistake, or bad luck, or even deliberate sacrifice, but what counts is the reason you’re fighting and the feelings in your heart. Whether you throw yourself in front of your commanding officer or your horse slips and crushes you, to me it’s all the same. You died for what you believe in. And that’s bloody amazing.”

He paused, his hand on Percival’s shoulder, wishing he could somehow make him believe simply because he believed in it himself, because you shouldn’t go into battle disillusioned and defeated. “And you know this isn’t empty talk. I’ve done it once already, and I’d do it again.”

Percival eyed the tankards, and then Seed, and heaved a dry laugh. "I know. You are quite forceful in your convictions. But somehow I doubt that drinking more will change my mind. Addle it, yes, but..." He took one of the mugs to him and sipped. "Besides. my horse already has slipped and crushed me, and I didn't die. So that's one down."

“It was just an example”, grumbled Seed, “You’re not supposed to take it literally!” He turned his attention to his ale for a short while, before jumping in the thick of things again. “I think ale can’t make someone change their minds, but it can help them relax. You’re wound so tight you can’t think straight. Get smashed, find a girl, she doesn’t even have to be pretty if you’re far gone, release some tension. Then think about things again.”
Percival was drinking, at that moment, and promptly choked on his ale, sputtering half of it out across the bar. He slammed the mug down and sat coughing for a bit, until he could regain his breath, scrabbling for something to wipe off his face. "Are you serious? You're serious," he realized, far too quickly. "That's absurd! If I'm wound tight it has nothing to do with...with that!" he insisted.

“Well of course I’m serious”, Seed actually had the good graces to look surprised at Percival’s reaction. It seemed that things were even stranger in this country that he had thought at first… there was nothing surprising about soldiers letting out some steam, in fact, it was encouraged. “That’s why armies always have their brothels. War and responsibilities tend to get to soldiers after a while… when was the last time you’ve…” Trying to be a bit more considerate, he let his sentence trail off, and used a rather telling gesture instead. As he did it, he came to the conclusion that it might have been worse…

Having secured a handkerchief from his pocket to clean the ale off his chin, Percival took a few breaths before sliding the tankard back towards him and taking a real drink, finishing it off. "Yes, but the nearest one is Brass Castle, and I..." He froze, then. Brass Castle. His face reddened despite any effort to prevent it by thinking of anything else. "I am really not drunk enough to answer that question honestly," he hissed, with his nose still in the mug.

“That long, uh”, Seed commiserated, patting him on the shoulder, “You definitely need another drink, then. Although… maybe not. You’re turning as red as my hair!”

"It's not that it's been...!" Percival clammed up there, deciding that he really shouldn't be defensive just then, lest he make matters worse. "I am neither drunk enough, nor are we close enough friends yet for me to spill those kinds of secrets." He shook his head rapidly to try to cool his face down. "Or would you rather I asked you the same question? Though you probably aren't embarrassed to answer."

“Hey, I agree, it’s none of my business!” Seed emptied his tankard then lifted his hands in mock-surrender, laughing at Percival. “But it’s a topic that came up often in barracks. I assumed young men were the same everywhere, but perhaps not. And for the record, I wouldn’t ask of someone something I wouldn’t be willing to answer myself." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he added: "But do you really want to know?”

Percival spluttered again, though at least he wasn't mid-sip this time. "No, I don't want to know! I don't even ask Borus that, and he's my best friend." He huffed and grabbed the waiting second ale. He was drinking too fast, his tongue was loosened but his sense of self-preservation wasn't. "Of course it's a topic that comes up often in barracks, and were I seventeen and a squire again, I would probably be making up stories to impress. But I'm not, I'm a gentleman. I swear!"

“I’ve never hid anything from Culgan.” To Seed, this was the very core of their friendship: they had been companions for so long that they knew each other inside-out, warts and all. And Seed liked it better that way, he liked being accepted for what we was, he liked spreading his cards on the table and stating this is me, take it or leave it. “He patched me up more times than I can count, he held my hand when I had bullets extracted cold on the battlefield, he carried me and my armor miles back to camp… the dissolute details of my life are meaningless next to something like that.” He raised his glass in a toast. “I miss you, old friend.”

Nodding, Percival raised his fresh tankard to acknowledge the toast. "That may be so," he said after drinking, "but Borus and I don't get around to talking about...such things, usually. Since he's no mystery, I know exactly what he wants and doesn't get, I don't even have to ask. And he never asks me." He paused, then, to flag down the bartender and request a glass of water. Best to pace oneself, after all.

After his toast, Seed downed his tankard in one gulp, finishing by hitting the bar with gusto to mark the moment… then sat there in silence, out of respect, out of nostalgia, or out of something deeper and more insidious, he couldn’t tell. As the barkeep gave him a fresh ale, he suddenly stood up, and turned towards the room. “We’ve all known war and strife. Let’s have a toast to our dearly departed!”

He gestured for people to stand up, and they did. It was no surprise to Seed, he was used to crowds, and, had no one stood, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Thrusting his tankard in the air, he started to sing an old Highland song: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?”

Vaguely amused, especially now that the topic had been turned away from his personal life, Percival got up and raised his tankard. "To Captain Galahad," he added, more to himself. It took him a moment to snap out of thought, and by then Seed was singing - loudly and convincingly enough to make Percival grin.

“To my old friend Culgan, the best general Highland had ever seen!” Seed cut in, thrusting his tankard up in the air as others around called out names of comrades who had fallen in battle or in raids. Conducting with his glass, he continued: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?”

The patrons joined in the chorus, but all Percival did was grin… Seed reached out, and caught him in a headlock, then whispered: “You’re all set on being a monk, but can you at least have some fun? I’m sure your Captain would enjoy your singing in his memory.”

"He would probably sit up out of his grave to tell me to knock off the caterwauling," Percival laughed, just so Seed could hear. "I am an awful singer. Just awful." The last time anyone had convinced him to, it was at the summer festival, and even Kathy said he was terrible. To his face. He didn't need to take a hint.

“When so many people sing, no one will notice if you can’t hold a tune”, Seed reasoned, “And most will be too drunk to remember tomorrow anyway. You need to let loose a little. I still think you’re more tightly wound that Culgan was. Even he would sing, sometimes.” Louder: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?”

Sighing, Percival glanced around the tavern, wondering if Seed was right. At least this was a tune he knew, wherever it originated it had migrated to Zexen. He hummed along for a little bit, and self-consciously joined in (much more quietly than Seed) on the next chorus. His mind was still somewhat wandering on other topics, and hearing someone else mention the late Zexen knights in their toast was far too distracting.

Seed rounded up the chorus, content that he had at least gotten Percival to sing -even good old stuck up Camus had joined in on his own- then downed half his tankard before turning back towards the bar, and perching himself on his stool. “See? No one noticed you.”

Percival sipped lightly at his drink, but his head was already swimming, so he reached for the waiting glass of water as he sat back down beside Seed. "You are such an interesting man, Seed. I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you."

“I hear that a lot.” Seed laughed good-naturedly, his hand landing on top of Percival’s glass of water in a mute display of his thoughts on water in a tavern. “But it’s generally not a good thing!”

Percival smirked and drew the glass out from under his hand, sitting back. He knew how not to get a hangover from this much ale. "Well, I mean it in the best way possible, this time. I have few peers around Budehuc, it's always good to meet another I can match in the tavern." At this rate, his controlled speech was faltering, but it was small loss. "Whatever else we have in common, or don't, we have that."

“Commonalities are boring. It’s the differences that add spice to life.” It made sense to Seed: he had never been interested in others like him ; ever since he had entered the army, he only had eyes for his friend, who was so different and so fascinating. And, in the midst of that difference, they had in common the one thing that counted: their all-encompassing love for Highland.

Sipping at the water, Percival managed a nod. "That much is true. Or else, how could I explain my best friend being a hothead?" He giggled into the glass - at least his mood had swung back towards positive. "I am far too cool and gentlemanly for the likes of him. Really. But I would never have another best friend besides him."

Just like Percival, Seed would never have another best friend beside the one he had lost… he was lucid enough to realize that he kept on looking for a shadow of Culgan in every person he met… it was the only explanation of the fact that he kept on returning to Camus time and time again. Sometimes, just sometimes, the expression on his face would look just so and it reminded him of Culgan. There was a hint of him in Percival, as well, but muddled and broken down by life, without passion, without what made him irreplaceable.

Holding his tankard in both hands, he slowly swirled the amber liquid around. Even if he never forgot, the days of old would never return. And surely you’ll buy your pint cup, and surely I’ll buy mine…

Percival blinked, seeing Seed become suddenly...without words. "Something I said?" he wondered. He was doing that a lot, these days.

Seed looked up, startled out of his thoughts, and grinned, his smile a little distant. “No, it’s just… nostalgia…”

"Usually a sign you've either had too much, or too little," Percival said wryly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Which one is up to you. I think I may be done, myself. Morning will come early enough without a hangover to hurry it."

“There’s no such thing as too little”, Seed shot back defiantly, flagging down the barkeep, “But I won’t keep you, you need to rest after all that singing…”

"Very funny." Percival made sure to finish off the water, at least, so he wouldn't be left with a headache when he started to come down. "It has been...interesting, Seed. I wouldn't be opposed to hanging out more often."

“There’s that word again… interesting. Everything’s interesting to you.” Seed frowned and pushed stray strands of crimson hair back behind his ears, to no avail. “How about trying to express yourself? You could say: Seed, I hate your guts. Or: Seed, I had a bloody awesome time. You’re so lukewarm.”

Percival sat and stared at him for a moment. "Ah...hm. Well, I don't hate you at all," he stammered, slightly confused. "I could have done without the interrogation about my personal life, but other than that...it was not a terrible evening. What, wanting to spend time and call you a friend isn't enough?"

“You always talk in negatives. I don’t hate you. It’s not terrible.” All this pussyfooting around really annoyed Seed. He loved, he hated, he didn’t constantly dwell in this bland no man’s land. “Are you afraid of enjoying life?”

"Well...no..." Percival's buzz was definitely wearing off fast, or perhaps his mood was swinging wildly back to the negative as it tended to do when he drank too much too fast. "It isn't that. I just...I don't..." He held up both hands in a wide shrug. "Those are the words to describe how it is. I can't help it, I'm being honest."

Seed shrugged. “I’m just glad I’m not in your skin, then. It hurts like hell, but it’s worth it.” He raised his glass towards Percival. “Here’s to you. Give Midnight a good scratch behind the ears for me tomorrow.”

"I will," Percival promised, sliding off the stool and turning to leave. But his face showed plainly his doubt and distaste, where two minutes ago he was cheery. "Good night, Seed. Enjoy...the rest of your evening."