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Snippet #2572004

located in Aires, a part of Birthstone Spirits: The Great Escape, one of the many universes on RPG.

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Upon entering the hidden bar it hadn’t taken long for Trent to dive into his spirits and he avidly mixed them—the lights with the darks—each wince-worthy alcohol flushing down his throat like draining water—falling so fast that there was a gurgle. He did not, however neglect to offer Dorian a drink every time he forgot that he had already done so only moments before.
At some point he fell into a debate—well for Trent everything was a full-out argument—with one of the men he and Dorian ventured to meet in this place.

The young man was a typical knight—even going as far as to wear his emblems at such a wretched gathering place. He struggled under the heavy swing of Trent’s words and retorts which shot out of his mouth at such a speed that the poor knight could hardly get a word in.

“No, no General that’s not what I’m saying!”
“OOOOhhhhhhh no you pig-headed simpleton, I know exactly what you meant to say!”
Trent hiccupped.
“Sire! It’s not that I think that any domestic defense funds should be taken away from the army—“
“But you think those no-toothed, scurvy-infested, sea cakes deserve more support and funding than we do?!”
“Only relative to the support they have now. I just think—“
“AAHH! Who cares what you think you salmonetic peasant!!! This army—MY army—is the only reason why this prissy, harpsichord-playing, religiously whipped nation hasn’t been conquered by brutes from Hales or Ira!”

Another one of the knights weaseled his way between them with a red face and dreamy laughter.

“Now, now men. How about we change the subject?”
“I HOPE YOUR MOTHER FALLS WITH THE GOUT, CHARLES!” Trent slurred.
“General! The subject. Change it.”
“Oh, FINE! Well, then I choose! How about we discuss the fact that our nation has become nothing but some grand old puppet ever since my fat, jolly, plebian uncle opened the nation’s doors to the Harbinger!”
The knight who had once been the victim of Trent’s drunken verbal attacks chimed in.
“Now that’s something we can all agree on. Ever since the Harbinger took up residency in the RK, a knight’s salary is nearly a third less than what it would have been ten years ago!”

This was apparently a popular topic of conversation all around the kingdom because a scantily-clad woman with a thick layer of makeup approached the group with a few of her own words.
“I hear that the King doesn’t even approve new laws anymore. The Harbinger and his little red birds do it all in his place.”

Trent laughed. The fact that the woman said such a thing to him as if he had no personal intel on the situation—as if he weren’t Trenton Jerimiah Cress of the Rembrandt bloodline but a common knight—told him that she had no idea who he was. Nonetheless, he played along, taking the mask of a common knight.

“Well I wouldn’t be surprised! We knights are always being given the short end of the stick when it comes to the personal gain of the big fish.”

He looked over a winked at Dorian as if he were sharing some incredible secret.

“Isn’t that right,” the woman sighed, “and taxes have been rising too. It’s rough out there for someone like me. But I’m sure
” Her slender arm draped around Trent’s shoulder and played in his hair, “
things can be a little harder for a knight.”

What Trent did next would be both shocking and totally within character.

As her voice slowed and lowered and her eyelids drooped seductively, she shifted her frame to a seductive curve only to have it shaken by Trent’s shoulder jabbing her side. “Get your dirty hands off of me you vile wench! I’d die before I lay with a woman who rolls on the floor of a brothel every night!”

The woman drew back with a curl of the lip, her brows furrowed as she looked at Trent with disgust.

“Relax you brute!”

“Welax wu bwute~~~” Trent cooed back in mockery.

And the woman, thoroughly annoyed, tossed her drink in Trent’s face. And Trent, scooping the strong alcohol from his lashes with vigor, wasn’t going to hit her, but he wasn’t going to let her sit pretty after doing that and as soon as he could muster to open his eyes he returned the favor, throwing his drink in her face.

Her surprised screech caught the attention of the burly tavern owner who began to push through the crowd to get to the scuffle. He charged through the wall of confused knights to seize Trent whose collar he clenched with little effort. The woman ran away.

“What’s going on here?”

One of the knights stepped in.

“We apologize. Our friend spilled his drink on—“
“Oh noooo you plebian don’t tell lies on my behalf! WE were just minding our own business when this brothel-made wench decided it would be a good idea to violate MY space! I told her to get lost and she got all emotional (boohoo) and threw her drink in MY face! So I threw it back at her! I must say though, I’m disappointed in your establishment. The people here used to be a lot
 cleaner.”

Trent, pent up against the table couldn’t help but notice the brown stains all over the tavern owner’s shirt and with a curl of the brow he said:

“I guess the style clientele reflects the style of mastermind behind the business
”

The burly man wasn’t an idiot and caught Trent’s insult fully. Without any warning, he picked Trent up by the collar and tossed him onto the floor at Dorian’s feet. By the time their leader hit the ground the knights were upon the tavern owner, and then his men jumped into the scuffle too. Trent got up immediately. He might have been royal blood but he wasn’t a “dandy” as he might have put it.

“Dorian my boy. We’re in a state of fight or die!”

And with a spry leap he rejoined the mob, taking down one of the new comers expertly.

As the mob grew and people began to irrationally attack others, it certainly did seem like a fight or die situation.

The fight didn’t last long before the point of it was completely lost. And Trent became bored. He was no longer fighting anyone from the original scuffle but some random sap with was just looking for something interesting to do. For Trent this was completely unacceptable. So just as he did in any other bar fight he’d jumped into in the past few years, he planned his leave. He and the knights had an unspoken protocol. When you’re done with a brawl don’t bother gathering the others or you’ll never get out. Just go ahead and leave and see each other the next day. And Trent was going to do as he had normally done had he not remembered Dorian. With little effort he weaseled his way through the mess until he came across the March warrior. After assaulting anyone the young man might have been in the middle of a scuffle with, Trent led him to what he assumed Dorian found to be the much needed exit and they ran until they were at least a block away.

Trent stopped running when he came across a fountain.

“Hey, hey, hey let’s rest,” he huffed as he jogged toward it and leaned over the ledge to appraise the damage. A potentially swollen jaw and a scrape on the forehead—not bad. And with a pleased look on his face he rolled from his knees and onto his bottom, his back pressed against the fountain wall and he urged Dorian to sit.

“Wasn’t that brawl great!? Why
I haven’t felt that way in a long, long time!” He laughed. Considering Dorian’s personality as he understood it thus far, he went back to revise his exclamation.
“I take it this wasn’t your brand of fun though, eh? Did you like the hunting trip better then?” Trent, still smirking closed his eyes and let out a breath. For the first time he looked content.

“I apologize for dragging you into such a thing. Really, I do,” he hummed. He had to be massively drunk. “I’m always going out and getting in trouble I suppose
 Trying to find something to
 I guess make me feel something. Life gets boing for me. I’m so young, about 25 springs and I’m a General and
 Well
 It gets boring.”

Trent opened his eyes again and squinted at a crude bakery across the way. The lights were still on.

“You hungry? I bet they’re about to close. Let’s get something before they close!”
And without a warning the young General sprinted over, knocking on the window to catch the attention of the baker who opened it unenthusiastically.

“Look,” the baker sighed, “if you want anything we have a very limited supply on the shelves and there won’t be new stuff till tomorrow.”
“What have you got?”
“Rose cake.”
“I’ll take two slices.”
The baker ducked back into the window to retrieve the pieces as Trent fumbled for his gold sack.
“That’ll be—“ Trent chucked his whole bag into the hands of the baker which, for the record, contained more than enough to cover the price of two stale pieces of cake and a full grown horse. He took the cake and ran back to the fountain, tossing a slice in Dorian’s lap before plopping back onto the ground to consume his own. After nearly swallowing it whole, he let out a contented grunt.
“That was disgusting,” he said with a sleepy grin, “grade F, peasant-quality, yummy, yummy cake.”