In the Blind

Times had changed perhaps quicker than they ever had. On one day, travel from Sussex to Tir Na Nog was simple, save from dodging brigands, military defectors, and the occasional skirmish. Now, the land was quite divided, with the independence of Saora. Now, all those soldiers and conscripts, now that the war was over, seemed to have nothing left to do. Maybe that was good for everyone else… but for them? Here in Rionna? One could see it in their gazes that even they seemed lost. Some of them were relieved that peace had come, albeit at the price that it did. Others were… sorrowful, remorseful. Some had hoped to gain something but had lost everything. All that fighting just over some meaningless lines in the dirt. Now, with no common enemy, things would naturally go back to a new normal, tearing one another apart over ideas and riches, rather than each other. Of course, Savard had to wonder, with all those wolves he spent his days with, was anybody truly happy with the outcome? Did the Tiamat family, for example, sleep easier at night, knowing their monarchy was safe, or did they worry over the prospect of what would come? Did Nora, meanwhile, bask in her newfound freedom, or feel a sense of betrayal that the war did not restore to the throne the wolf she so trusted with every fiber of her being? But that’s what war and politics were all about. They always talked about how they were so different from the business of the Guild. And they were right… because when one side wins or loses in a Guilder’s war… it is conclusive. But among those living high and mighty above the sewers, in their perfumed dens, throwing around the terms “legitimate” and “proper” and “legal” like they knew what they meant… nothing really ever changes. Savard hated this tavern. He had, in his later years, become somewhat a creature of habit. He had frequented an establishment in Rionna’s heart, not far from where he grew up. The smells of decayed wood, fermented berries, raw waste, and a hearty dose of wet soot were ingrained in him, at that place. That, and the memories of everything he had experienced at that place. It might not have had a name… but that tavern was a part of him. It was where he spotted that Jacobite spy, the one he tracked down to interrogate about his business. The place where he had spent more than a few nights alone, getting his fill, reminiscing on what was once and what could have been. He’d see a rough-shodden looking wolf and see himself a few years back… or a lost tourist too well-preened for a place like that, and see himself in another life. He’d think about the life he could have had and provided for those close to him… including the one wolf he could never tell the truth to, knowing it would put her in danger. And there was, of course… a certain wolf that made his acquaintance at that old watering hole of his. A certain Lieutenant Nicharion Valentine… what a pest he was, though by far the largest. Savard had narrowly escaped an arrest for dropping off contraband in Yorkshire, only for him to be tracked down at his old tavern. Of course… the poor lieutenant seemed to not entirely know who he was dealing with, leaving with his tail tucked between his legs in shame, overmatched by a show of confidence he hadn’t anticipated out of Savard. Funny… he seemed like the type of wolf used to getting anyone and anything he wanted in life, so when he confronted a stubborn old fool with not much to lose, he was at a loss for how to react. There was more to that story too… how Nicharion’s spendthrift nature ended what would have been an uneasy alliance, and how he instead seemed to turn his attention to other parties with perhaps more easily persuaded. As Savard sat alone in this new tavern of his, he had to wonder… how soon would it be before he reared his head again? The change in venue, alas, was not due to that careless, arrogant Imperial official with much more time on his paws these days. No, because there was someone even far worse than that to account for. Not long after he had encountered the Lieutenant, Savard had made the mistake of meeting a wolf whose brutality was outshone only by his cunning. They were one in the same, in a lot of ways, but while Nicharion enjoyed to play his games, this wolf was something far more sinister. A smart wolf knows all that he does and applies it, but a wise wolf knows when to speak and when to listen. And if Nicharion had found Savard easy enough, learned all that there was about him… how much later would it be before the doppelgänger of his moral compass did so as well? So he knew, if he were to stay and drink at the same place over and over again, he would be sending an invitation out to yet another wolf whom he hoped never to see again, especially now that his duties tormenting the Highlanders were through. Yes… in a place like this Savard might feel concerned to see a wolf such as Nicharion again… but deep down, to see a wolf like White Timber terrified him. And yet… the problems never ended there. He had concerns too that he wished he never had. She wasn’t a friend by any means… but a wolf he concerned himself with, a certain Voxi agitator… he hadn’t heard from her in a time longer than he felt comfortable. She had kids that he had promised to look after, and they too were nowhere to be found. And there was, of course, Moineir… a wolf that he had to look after, if only for her own good. She too had been quiet, elusive. And there was Ashira, whom he hoped to see again someday soon, but for all the same reasons as the others, hoped that he didn’t. But above all else… Savard had to watch out for one wolf in particular, a wolf from his past that he once thought he knew. They had once had an understanding… but after a night that he remembers only parts of, words were exchanged, and colors were shown that otherwise should never have been. Savard had made it clear that he never wanted to so much as scent Bastien again, so long as he lived… but he had to wonder if that were realistic. His gut told him that those who are quiet, don’t always stay quiet. He needed another drink, and fast. Thankfully... this new place catered to the early morning drunk.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

Nicharion had anticipated it would take quite some time for his and Crow's paths to cross again; after all, the most delicious of treats are only made better when savored in moderation. But on the contrary, the charming criminal sought him out again not long after their last meeting, and came bearing an offer - a night out in the capital, seeking out information on a mark. The major knew it wouldn't be pragmatic to offer aid in a job with no strings attached, and yet... the other male has accurately sniffed out an opportunity in his desperate need for a change of pace from his current duties. So, just once, what's the harm? The red brute didn't dislike to think of himself as generous.. for those who were lucky enough to earn his favor.

And so he wound up here. The night was chilly in a crisp, refreshing way, at least until the air filled with the stench of the city's dark and obscure alleys... and blood. Nicharion smiled pleasantly at the string of curses that the thug pinned down beneath his paws was throwing at him. "Now, now, there's hardly any need for that. I'm certain we can come to an agreement and you'll tell me everything I want to hear." One of his paws sought a bite wound he had left moments before while subduing the unfortunate beast, tracing its contours ever so gently. "I can be... convincing." Even though the tone of his voice has shifted to an almost seductive timbre, he pressed down on the injury. He watched defiance give way to tension in the man's expression as blood squeezed out of the wound welled up between his toes with a delightfully warm caress, and then.. a confession. "Please. You can't possibly expect me to believe that? I'm sure you've had at least some interrogation training."

His other paw moved to the wolf's throat and he distributed his weight evenly between the two. The hoodlum tried to trash and resist, but his hold was mercilessly secure. Only when the struggles started to grow feeble did he let his victim speak again. "Ah, there it is. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Nicharion leaned down towards the man's ear, grinning from ear to ear. "Of course, I already knew. You're not the first.." It was prudent to double-check, naturally.. but not necessary. Was it cruelty to reveal that this torture has been meaningless, or a kindness to say that he wasn't alone in his suffering, in his betrayal of trust? That's up for the thug to decide. Whatever answer he found, without the pressure of guarding a secret, he quickly passed out. Nicharion frowned, if only for a second. It was impossible not to chase the high while flaunting power over another, but he never felt quite satisfied after the fact. It was always only a fleeting reprieve from everything he has no control over himself. But he quickly brushed the discontent aside as he smirked, pulling himself away from the unconscious wolf. If nothing else, he got to blow off some steam and frustrations. "Good talk." And then, his eyes turned to his companion, who was dealing with prey of his own...

It was quite the spectacle, to see the potential danger of a wolf who has only ever been docile in his company, disarmed by desire. To some, it could perhaps be unnerving. Nicharion, on the other hand, found it seductive. It wasn't in his nature to respect someone weak or spineless. No, he liked to play with fire, and it was such a shame they never got to fight during the war. Once their business was wrapped up, he wasted no time in his approach, stopping only when he was close enough to feel the heat of physical effort radiating from the other brute's body, breaking through the winter cold. "Well, that was entertaining. Also, quite the show..." Every time he allowed his full attention to linger on the black and white male, it containing his lust proved to be a challenge. He leaned closer, seemingly aiming for a kiss... but then his eyes narrowed mischievously and he merely flicked his tongue at the male's cheek, brushing off a stray speck of blood. Alas, they couldn't afford to tarry here, lest they wanted to deal with more underlings. "Dawn is upon us. How about a drink, to cleanse the palate? My treat." Indeed, Nicharion was ever so generous when pleased.

manip + code: clae

so we'll run to the sea—

There was never an inopportune time to put on a show. And there was an added note of exhilaration in the idea of an audience, especially one whose approval dangled its own bounty like a carrot on the end of a hook. He felt himself willed to provide, to exceed expectations, to solidify himself as the one true source of fulfillment for all things – pleasure, company, entertainment, desire. It started and ended in him. The hunt and ensuing mutilation his prey would endure would result from that will.

Bastien knew every nook and cranny in Rionna intimately. Having been on both sides of the law granted him unique knowledge few others could boast; he knew the areas that were either avoided or populated due to the police presence. There was nowhere a mark could hide from him for long, and once they were within his grasp, there was the chase... Sick and twisted, there was no greater high than to get close to your prey and let them slip away, try their luck at escape and survival, only to meet a bloody end. Perhaps that was what made it so difficult for Bastien to turn that leaf over. He simply enjoyed the thrill too much. Did he enjoy it more than what domesticity tempted him with?

And how long could he continue masquerading his bloodlust as righteousness – a way to cleanse the world of its evils for the sake of his daughter – before the two became indistinguishable? Who was he serving, truly? Vela? Adamh? Or was this all for himself, and he too reluctant to acknowledge the atrocities he's committed?

Perhaps the hope was that a bloody baptism might conceal the stains on his soul.

Whatever the reason... Bastien was done thinking about it. "Faster now," the command snaked down the alley. "I've somewhere to be." Fear slithered down the spine of the mark, urging him further down a premeditated path. The crow knew where this path would lead them, so he did not hurry, ambling at his leisure in the direction the wolf fled. When the cowering brute would come into sight again, a smirk stretched the shadows across Bastien's face, crimson eyes flicking from the realization dawning on the thug's face to his companion and the unconscious body beside him. Whatever resolve the thug might have had left fled and reduced him to a sniveling mess bargaining for his life.

Unfortunately for him, he was stuck between two devils and the deep blue sea.


"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Bastien preened under the approval as if it was a hand he could arch his back into. Blood spattered his coat at random, most concentrated on his muzzle and legs from holding his prey down. His lover's voice was a refreshing contrast to the agonized screams of the desperate man, thrashing for another chance to comply but only causing himself further damage, and the deafening silence that followed in the absence of those screams. "A pity to not see the horror in their faces when they awake, but how could I resist such a tempting offer? Lead on then."

Last time they'd been together in a bar had ended in a night most memorable. Bastien would be lying to say he wasn't hopeful for a similar conclusion this time, too.


It was into a nondescript tavern they stepped. Bastien preferred the types that stayed off everyone else's radar; he couldn't chance being too bold in soldier country, after all, even with one at his side. As a result, it wasn't too densely populated, and the few glances that did turn their way were disinterested.

Funnily enough, one of the many that didn't deign the pair of newcomers even a moment of his attention happened to be the one mutual they'd discussed in their last encounter. And because fate has such a twisted sense of humor, the two seats on either side of him were vacant.

Bastien passed a look that needed no explanation at Nicharion and sauntered to the one on Savard's left. "Bartender!" he waved down the server, slinging an arm across tawny shoulders, "We'll have what he's having. Good to see you again, mate." No, the quiet certainly didn't stay quiet.

—and find no captain waiting

code // art

There were many groups, far too many to name individually, who played the numbers beneath RIonnach’s streets. If you wanted to place a wager on which wolf would win in a fight, who would win the war, if the traveling holy wolves offered you flowers with white or orange petals… there was always someone you could go to. Of course… bet-takers were not fools, for they knew numbers better than any arithmetician the colleges had to offer, any wage-tracker or royal tax collector. Savard knew their kind well. When there was an outcome that was deemed far too unlikely, almost impossible, oftentimes these upstanding wolves outright refused to take a bet. Why was it, some often wondered, would wolves throw away a good opportunity to make serious Renown? Why is it that even when a legendary fighter faces off against a scared whelp, a juggernaut force against a disinterested clan on the verge of disbanding, or priestly wolves coming from isles where only purple flowers are grown, do so many bettors lose their confidence? It is not that they feared to make easy money or to fill up their ledgers with bets on things that have almost in earnest already been decided… but that they so feared the irreparable financial damage a bold bet placed on an underdog who does the unthinkable, the impossible. For every 999 times, after all, a bout, a battle, or a blossom might be a surefire wager… there is always the 1 time that it is not. Already several drinks in, his weekly earnings from the various jobs he needed in order to survive squandered away in one sitting, and expecting anything else but the company he now had, Savard was far from ready. He had sat in silence the entire day, before a disturbance behind him caught his attention, though he dare not move. The scents of blood, cider, pepper, ash he picked up almost immediately, sensations that grew only stronger as they marched towards him. And then… that hoarse, whiny, almost squealy voice he had familiarized himself with long ago rang out, a bold, cocky proclamation. He need not look to his left to know who his company was. Shit… they had found him. Had he been tracked? And if so, how would they know where to find him? And why both of them… unless if Bastien had been the one bringing this about. That, or perhaps the benevolent, frugal lieutenant, had his spies and sources. Had Bastien been so shit at his contracts, that he sold himself for a mere 5 Renown? Had he been so pathetic as to seek revenge like this? Those bettors would never take money on a bet as to whether this meeting of their was coincidence or coordinated. And yet… Savard didn’t know what the odds would be as to if their crossing paths was inevitable. If Savard had been sober, his course of action might have been more reserved. Had he been prepared, he would have been more cautious, calculated. He would’ve gone to the old watering hole in Sussex, a place where wolves like Nicharion and cowardly dogs like Bastien weren’t welcome, and he’d feel more comfortable knowing he had somebody there to back him up. He’d consider all the ways he could get out of this situation alive… or maybe a way to meet his fate with as much dignity and integrity as he could. And above all, he’d think of all the horrible ways he’d tear Bastien apart, piece by piece, strand by strand, and how far he’d get before Nicharion was able to get someone to intervene on his behalf. But sober Savard wasn’t there at that tavern… and for all those involved, perhaps that was a good thing. With a fiery scowl etched into his face as if from a shard of glass, Savard shot daggers at Bastien’s grinning visage, too stunned and infuriated to even begin to put together a coherent sentence. Bastien was beneath words at that point, and without turning around to face him, Savard said what he had to say. “Was this… your idea, Lieutenant,” Savard slurred, “or his?”

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

The red brute chuckled mirthfully at his companion's comment. So, the little bird had some sadistic proclivities.. who would have thought? Perhaps he should have named him Shrike instead. "Come now, save it for your job's main course. The small fry aren't worth that much time." A man of his station deserved better than to treat tormenting rank and file underlings as anything more than an appetizer, and he would apply the same standards to the man whose company he enjoyed. No, Nicharion wanted the very best - everything he's accomplished would matter little if he couldn't flaunt it on a date. "Apropos, I have an idea..." he started as he took the first step to lead them to a tavern. They might as well finish planning the rest of this job along the way as to not suffer such distractions while drinking.

The night-turned-day took a turn for the unexpected when they walked into an acceptable establishment and spotted a mutual acquaintance. So much for waiting for more information to fall into his lap in order to carefully orchestrate an encounter... As it's been a while, Nicharion had half a mind to put on a not unlikely act of pretending not to recognize the little rat, on the off chance it'd rub Savard's meager ego the wrong way... but Crow clearly had a different idea. The red brute smiled and shrugged, signifying he was fine with playing along, then followed to take the seat to Savard's right. "Savard! We need to stop meeting like this, eh?" An odd coincidence to happen twice, but.. he'd seen stranger things in his life.

Alas, it would seem they were too late to get any quality entertainment out of their friend. Savard could barely form intelligible words... and called him lieutenant? Interesting... for a man trying to get him assassinated, he took surprisingly little care into keeping his intel fresh. Well, Nicharion saw no need to correct his mistake. "Eh, scratch that. Give us your finest ale, bartender." Nicharion could understand the appeal of cheap drinks for the right occasion, but looking at Savard right now... he was the one paying, anyway. "I'd rather have you drunk than shitfaced like him." He shot his companion a half-lidded glance and a grin, as if it wasn't already clear enough what he meant by 'having him'.

"Oh, and fetch me a nice bone. Perhaps.. deer." There was a bit of fur stuck between his teeth and it was beyond infuriating. Now then... "Interesting that you think I'd seek you out on purpose, I don't recall anything I said last time that could possibly give the impression I wish to see you again." It couldn't hurt to feign ignorance to the entire assassination plot for the time being, just in case it makes Savard say anything... unwise. Having an entire deck of potential reasons to arrest him would be entertaining, if nothing else. "Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood today." As if to emphasize that point, their drinks were delivered with opportune timing. Nicharion wasted no time and downed half of his cup in one go; if he remained sober, his patience wouldn't endure Savard's drunkenness for long.

manip + code: clae

so we'll run to the sea—

Bastien could blame his rashness on the trill of adrenaline still in his veins infusing with his overt desire to antagonize Savard at the first opportunity.

Fortunately, it didn't appear he would be punished for acting rashly, if the wolf's rancid breath was any indication of how deep into the bottle he'd sunk. "Good call. I'd assumed the stench was someone's vomit, but... I suppose benefit of the doubt is sometimes too generous." Over Savard's shoulder, he made a dramatic show of wrinkling his nose distastefully. He was made more grateful for Nicharion's last minute order change when the drink arrived and didn't immediately intensity the somersaults his stomach was doing, courtesy of the aforementioned odor.

Plus, it gave him something to occupy himself with while he was being pointedly ignored. Not that it could keep him at bay for very long, just for as much time as it took for him to choreograph a dance on Savard's last nerve. "I don't see why you're looking so glum, chum." Bastien's breath snaked against the wolf's cheek, his head coming to plop on the shoulder his arm had previously coiled around, but his eyes were on their mimic's. "Wasn't it you that told me I could have him? Or are you feeling left out?"

—and find no captain waiting

code // art

Savard had lived a charmed life, but by no means an easy one. Born to a household of no renown and little prosperity, Savard fell into a sordid lot before he even learned how to speak. It wasn’t the life he wanted, but rather the life he had. He had been through a lot, done far more terrible things than most wolves can think of. He lost his brother on a cutthroat deal, got arrested, spent close to a year in an Imperial cell. He should have died at that dock, but fate had a funny way of offering him a second chance, a chance that, on some days like these, he felt like he had wasted. All that maneuvering and all those skillful tacts, all those semblances of characters that are born and not taught, being better than the Renown or whatever the fuck it was some wolves were after these days… all of it to end up in some shithole tavern, flanked by the last two wolves in all of Rionnach he wanted to see. Was this what his second chance led up to? This moment, which, if he were sober enough to process it, among his last? The gravity of the situation might have hit harder if he hadn’t been so drunk, so concerned… but if this is how it would all end, done in when his guard was lowest, at the paws of two cowards cut from the same cloth, then so it would be. Nicharion seemed to have a false air of formality about him, the sneering, sniveling croak of his voice as he comfortably took his spot next to him. The finest ale, he ordered, and a nice, chewy bone. For as frugal a prick as he was, how he managed to entangle Bastien in whatever there was between them was quite the feat. After all, that white-furred, red-eyed fraud enjoyed the lavish life, of getting what he wanted, and if he didn’t, he tended to break down and seek out whoever was offering the better deal. And from experience, Savard knew first-hand that Nicharion wasn’t exactly a charismatic flirter, as if subtlety, much like compromise, was offensive. But then again, maybe Bastien had a certain emptiness in his heart or compulsory need that the soldier fit the bill on. It wasn’t any of Savard’s business of course… him being so much older and all. But maybe that’s why these two were such a fitting complement to each other. Savard’s attention was pulled back as Bastien saw his chance to punch his quips in, commenting… something. It was hard to pay attention to words, being so fucking drunk and all. He didn’t see the point in giving Savard an inch of space, from getting far too close for comfort, to seeing it fit to retaliate against his desire to preserve his own integrity by involving himself with a wolf he had a problem with. Funny… Savard detested Nicharion and his arrogance. He was a fucking turncoat, in it for the money through and through, but under some false flag of… altruism. He thought he was so much better than all the rest… that he could take the freedom of a Guilder’s life with the protections of being a soldier. He ought to feel so fortunate that they hadn’t crossed paths years ago… because he woulda wound up dead before it had gotten to this point. The Savard of years past would have ripped that grin off his maw like flesh from bone. But Bastien? Bastien was… scared by what the real world was like. He couldn’t handle being under pressure… always the type to take the easy way out. He could be as big and as strong as he wanted… but when the going gets tough… it’s the mind that triumphs over the body. So why see things as the business that they were… when you can become one of Adamh’s fucking posterboys… oh wait… he’d already been one. For all that talk about hating the service and the wolves in it… he had such a way of sneaking back into that life. Looks like he didn’t nearly miss it so much after all, huh? What… was keeping your mouth shut and passing a thought through those dull, fucking white ears of yours too hard or somethin’… huh? He’s the type to break under pressure… an unreliable rat, just like his dear Lieutenant. It’s why Savard knew they weren’t cut out for life… those in the know, the old guard of the Guild… they don’t keep company with wolves like him. Hell… if he was in any outfit, they’d silence him, because why take a risk on a failure like him? Was he… saying any of this out loud? Sometimes it was tough to tell whether these things stayed in his head, or passed out his lips. Losing track of how much time had passed, Bastien opened to say some more things… his sarcastic quips about his state of mind… and a reminder of him giving him Nicharion’s name. That was… stupid of him, he’d be the first to admit. He tried to buy Bastien’s loyalty… but someone else swung in first. Weren’t auctions of that kind supposed to be based on incremental bidding, instead of going for whomever offered the least? But then again… maybe it wasn’t the Renown Bastien had been chasing all this time… something else entirely. Whatever… Savard’s preferences had always been different… and if romance was what Bastien was after… no wonder he’d been outbid. Nicharion must have offered him quite the… agreement. Speaking of… he could have sworn he heard that soldier babbling again. Something about… not wanting to see him again anyways… but insisting he was in a good mood nonetheless. As if that was supposed to make Savard feel any better about any of this. Savard looked ahead of him, contemplating to taste the ale, more expensive than anything he had had in quite a while. Of course, it didn’t help that he saw three… four… maybe three in front of him. He reached out with his paws to grasp his bowl, to bring it closer to him, but his paws seemed to go right through each of them. His aim, of course, was quite off, perhaps laughably so. He probably could use assistance getting the drink, not that he’d want it from either of them. Hell, he was probably a second or two away from getting kicked out of the establishment, if not getting cut off. Maybe he should cut himself off. Why was the room spinning? Oh.. the drinking… that’s right. Was it just him… or was there a sweet taste to the booze? Oh… oh no… Bastien had wanted Savard to spill his guts so badly. After all, that’s what all of this was about, why he went and ran to the big, strong Lieutenant and dragged him here, just to make a show of it. Well, he was getting it, right at point blank range, in all the formalities deserving of such an occasion. Careful what you ask for.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

It was quite apparent that Crow was far more invested in this interaction than Nicharion could ever muster to be, which was curious in its own right; the major couldn't help but assume now that the business disagreement was merely a prelude to a larger fallout, one that was more serious for Crow than Savard's attempt to hire an assassin was for Nicharion. That, or he cared about that attempt far less than the typical response would be... "Maybe he is a repressed and lonely prude. Shame you haven't seen how ruffled his feathers got when I told him he could lift his tail to get out of trouble." Either way, once his bone was delivered, the red brute was more happy to take it into his jaws and listen in while his companion took the stage.

But instead, it was Savard who started mumbling some kind of drunken rant. It wasn't worth the effort to focus on it enough to distinguish every word, but bits and pieces were clear enough. It would seem the rat was so convinced of his moral high horse that he couldn't think of anything else even when he could barely think at all. It was a pitiful sight, really, that someone so fixated on principles was misplacing the basis for them so severely. Some sort of idealized image of the Guild that couldn't be further away from the truth. Nothing is ever worth loyalty on an institutional level, and there only two paths a wolf can really tread. Either walk over anyone and everyone to get what you want, or try to treat well those who treat you well in turn, or at the very least those who can be useful.

By the looks of it, Savard had a knack for burning bridges with allies while sticking his neck out for wolves who didn't give a fuck about him. Not even the little bit to keep him company while he got drunk. Maybe on some level it's what he thought he deserved. Back when Nicharion had called Savard a gutter rat, he only mocked the nature of his line of work. But Savard seemed to be genuinely convinced everyone is inherently a rat, including himself.

The piece of fur has finally dislodged itself from his teeth and Nicharion took a break from chewing his bone to spit it out to the side. Just as he was getting back to the bone, Savard erupted with a mixture of his suspect drink and bile, a horridly smelling concoction that also severely contrasted the pristine white of Crow's fur. The major stared in shock for the first couple seconds, then felt immense relief for the bone that occupied his mouth and stifled his snorting. As much as he pitied his companion's circumstances... he couldn't help but find the situation at least a little amusing.

But he also quickly realized that it'd be a hassle if Crow caused a scene. As a soldier, Nicharion couldn't just sit by during a murder attempt, and it'd be even worse if the ensuing racket attracted a patrol from the street. So, with a harder bite he snapped his chewing bone in half, before roughly shoving Savard off of his seat. If he had any more in him, better that he aims at the floor this time.

Then his eyes turned to Crow. "You look-" he paused, strained, trying very hard not to laugh. "..like you could use a bath. I recall seeing a bathhouse along the way, you game?" It wasn't a bad excuse to try something new, at the very least. Bathhouses are notorious for being conductive to an amorous atmosphere... and Nicharion wouldn't mind washing the blood from his fur too, even if the color of his coat hid it well. "We could see if Savard drowns himself.. if he can even make it there, that is."

Nicharion cast a glance at Savard next, his nose wrinkling at the stench coming off from the rat now. "And you, if you want to act all high and mighty, stop being a fucking disgrace." Something... something annoyed him immensely about the state Savard was in. Perhaps it was that the wolf who went to such great lengths to *not* give him what he wanted was now being utterly pathetic. Not much of an adversary, is he? Or maybe a wolf that at least thought of being something more than a cutthroat deserved to live better than this. Savard's ideals might be inane, but at least he tried to have them, even after seeing the worst the world has to offer. That's more resolve than most can muster.

manip + code: clae

so we'll run to the sea—

Far be it from Bastien to disregard the amusing imagery his companion's remark evoked. He was just amused enough that the unsavory implication did not infuriate him–and mischievous enough to remain seated, his chest pressing firmly against Savard's back, ghosting breaths across the side of his face, rather than succumbing to the outage of his possessive heart. "He's been modest for as long as I've known him," he cooed, running a crimson claw down the ex-con's throat. Perhaps if he spared half a second's notice, Bastien might have noticed how, beneath his nail, the muscles tightened and released, as if pushing down something stubbornly trying to escape. But he thought he had an alcohol-assisted advantage, and gave the matter no further thought than that malicious grin and enough generosity to restrain the urge to dig his claws in deeper.

"A tough nut to crack. That is, if you don't know which buttons need pushing." As if to demonstrate he let his claw meander through the tan, brown, and russet bands of fur until he mistook a withdrawn breath for the reaction he was hoping to elicit. "No need to be so shy, Savvy. We won't judge too harshly if you aren't as well-endowed." Though he'd prefer to leave that to the imagination.

Bodies still flush, his right ear's proximity to Savard snared him two undesirable prizes. First, the incoherent babbling was that much clearer than if he'd been sitting upright. Second, and possibly the more egregious of the two, it filled his nostrils with rot, as though the other half of Savard's ramble had curled up and died there long before they'd arrived. He couldn't help but to lean in. After all, a drunken man was often more honest than most priests.

Curiosity, the merciless bitch, would certainly come for him, but Bastien couldn't afford to fear her scythe until he felt its cold steel on his scarred throat. At least his beverage came post haste and was strong enough to suffuse his senses, so long as he nursed it close to his maw.

A more introspective wolf might have the gall to be offended by the baseless nonsense in the seconds before they took to heart the breakdown of their character. Bastien was not an introspective wolf by any means - not while he was sober, at least - and instead found the whole spiel to be nothing short of entertaining, so long as he didn't spill anything Nicharion didn't already know. It was among the risks he was taking by provoking Savard. Newly anointed by the blood of an unholy hunt- high on it - he hadn't stopped to consider what the consequences would be... and now the time to do so was long passed. Ah, well, hindsight and all that.

At least his gall went, seemingly, unpunished. The two marbles sloshing around in Savard's flooded brain seemed to only be competing his utter disdain for Bastien and Nicharion against the fragile moral superiority he, by the looks of it, was struggling to maintain. He must have been clinging too tightly when it shattered. Impressive, considering Savard couldn't even get a hold on his drink...

Bastien was starting - no, he had already fallen into the pitfall of his own arrogance, so convinced that he forgot the most important tenets, one he abided by strictly: To never let his guard down. It was low enough that the deluge of fermented bile crashed over it before he could extract himself from Savard.

As it spread through his fur, the liquid contents leaving behind a revolting residue, the monochromatic man fought back a similar reaction- one that rapidly devolved as he gradually took in the situation, Savard strongarmed out of his seat by Nicharion, his lover barely restraining laughter. His features collapsed, unbridled rage deepening the intense shadows. "Oh, he's going to make it there because I'm going to drag his sorry ass and drown him myself."

—and find no captain waiting

code // art

Somehow, Savard seemed to feel a lot better once he emptied the contents of his stomach all over Bastien. It was if a layer of bandages had been taken off his eyes, although by no means was he seeing clearly. It did, however, seem to lighten the load on his mind a little. If only he were completely sober, he would have gotten to truly appreciate the sight of Bastien covered in filth, as if his reputation didn’t already bear enough of that. He could maybe even dream in his head of the humiliation he’d face from the tavern patrons, from strangers, from clients even. With the amount of booze in him, Savard didn’t feel an ounce of shame for defiling himself in such a manner… if only that it meant he wasn’t the only one to lose face. But then again, maybe Bastien was accustomed to that sort of thing, about always ending up the loser. He had good company in that regard, at least. After all, from the moment Savard and Nicharion had crossed paths, who was it that always was the one to retreat, to walk away with nothing to show for all his half-hearted efforts? It was like he wasn’t even trying. Never before had he seen such a sorry attempt at detaining, blackmailing, or negotiating. But then again… maybe under all that arrogant Imperial cologne, he didn’t have it in him to cut it in the underworld. A smart wolf would have made his move by now. He barely felt the impact of being shoved from his stool, his body clattering to the ground, and into the puddle that had formed on the floor. He did, however, pick up on the words thrown his way, an insult of his lowly status from the hypocrite, and an enraged promise of retaliation from the laughingstock. Now, it might have been the alcohol fueling his ego, his sense of invincibility, or his almost nihilistic outlook at that moment, that he felt it a proper moment to continue to stoke the fire. And yet, it was hardly the intelligent thing to do. Slumping up to a swaying, seated position, Savard felt almost compelled to speak further at them, if only to incite them further. “You gonna run away again… *hic* Lieutenant?” Savard challenged, with a snort, “Coward. You had every chance to get to me… and you couldn’t do it. All that opportunity… wasted! And I’m the disgrace? Ha! You don’t got what it takes… it’s why you joined up after all… and took him in. Back in the day... if I were you, I'd run this town.” Savard’s judgmental gaze shifted towards the behemoth staring him down, but a moment’s away from tearing him apart, surely, if Nicharion were to but step aside. Part of him wanted to duke it out, really cause a scene in this out-of-the-way establishment. Either way… he had nothing to lose as he saw it. Hell, the highlight of his year had been saving some fucking pup’s life at the hands of a drunken brawler. Other than that, he was content to consider the enemies he had, and the friends that he didn’t. That, and pretending he had a purpose was all he had going for him. And if this was it… then so be it. “And you… you think I… *hic* buy you and him being a lasting thing, huh?” Savard continued, tilting his head to get a peak at the once white-furred wolf behind Nicharion, “you suck at commitment… always finding a way to screw up anything good going for you. Can’t stay loyal to anything or anyone. Does he even know you like I do… or are you a better liar than you are a fighter?” He seemed to be asking for it now… as if he expected the inevitable out of them. But that this point, he had dug himself a grave by getting caught so shitfaced. The least he could do would be to square up the hole in the ground and make it pretty. Even if it meant reading between the lines, and going right for the throat. “How does it feel…” he seethed, with bitter satisfaction, “to know that I’m the only reason you and him are… anything?”

everything he touched fell apart

code // art