Chapter Text
Baderon, I’tolwann, and more than a few patrons at the bar whooped and hollered as Synnove tilted her head back and chugged down an entire pint of the Drowning Wench’s finest ale. One gulp, two gulps, three gulps—
Synnove slammed her empty flagon on the countertop with a gasp, thud! of wood on wood surprisingly loud over the usual sounds of a tavern at night. The cheering reached a crescendo, and the Highlander smirked and bowed as she accepted her applause and more than a few congratulatory slaps on the back.
Baderon put his hands on his hips as I’tolwann slid a tray rattling with empty shot glasses and two huge bottles of whiskey down the bar to Synnove. “Ye keep drinkin’ like that, lass,” he said, “and ye’ll end up atop the Mizzenmast again, an’ I don’t think the Admiral’ll be keen on ‘elping you down this time!”
“My tolerance is much better than it was when I was eighteen,” she said primly, picking up the tray, “never mind Rere’s influence. Besides, the Admiral can’t complain overmuch when it’s her aethercannon prototype we finalized today!”
“Arcanists,” Baderon said in only partially-feigned disgust, the attempt otherwise ruined by the large grin on his craggy face. “That explains why ye and yer mad friends have invaded my fine establishment! Off with ye, ye degenerate!”
Synnove cackled at him, turned on her heel, and fairly skipped over to the tables she and her fellow arcanists had shoved together when they had tumbled into the bar two bells ago. The assembled arcanists cheered at her arrival, shoving dishes and empty flagons out of the way to make room for the tray, with one of them taking one of the whiskey bottles and popping the cork to begin pouring the amber liquid into the glasses.
Shaking his head, Baderon made to get back to the business of cleaning glasses and refilling flagons and tossing out troublemakers, when a chitter caught his attention. He stopped, and glanced down, one eyebrow going up.
Galette, sitting prim and proper on the bar stool right before him, blinked sweetly at him and purred.
The middle-aged hyur leaned down to bring himself as close as possible to the emerald carbuncle’s eye level, one arm on the countertop and the other propping his head up with his fist against his cheek. “Now, little miss,” he drawled, “yer ma has rules ‘bout unauthorized snackin’, and good ones, too. Don’t think I don’t remember the last time ye had so much sugar ye ended up launched over the ‘arbor in an ‘energy expenditure event’–” he raised up the hand flat on the countertop just enough to make quotes with them for emphasis, his voice briefly losing its usual Vylbrandian cadence to mimic the clipped, precise tone of a Gate assessor, “–that ‘ad ‘alf the city thinkin’ the Garleans or the kobolds ‘ad launched a surprise attack.”
The carbuncle blinked again. Then, she reared up to brace herself on the counter, and headbutted his other cheek with another loud, windchime purr.
Baderon glanced askance at her. “That’s blackmail, little miss.”
A chirp. Yes. Also, I’m adorable.
“That ye are.” He relented and scritched behind her ears, glancing over with an exaggerated motion to where Synnove was taking her seat and accepting a shot of whiskey. He looked to the patron just to Galette’s right—a greying Sea Wolf fisherwoman and a regular—who mimed tying her lips shut; then he looked to the patron on Galette’s left—another Wench regular, a Plainsfolk Yellowjacket—who made an ‘x’ over his heart and winked. Satisfied, Baderon leaned back and reached under the bar, pulling out a plate upon which sat a huge slice of Lominsan cream pie.
Galette’s front paws went tippity-tap tippity-tap tippity-tap so loudly that Baderon worriedly darted his eyes over to Synnove again while he set the plate before the carbuncle. Luck seemed to be with him, however, as the Highlander was laughing at something one of her companions had said, head thrown back as she sipped her whiskey, and oblivious to what was happening at the bar. His shoulders relaxed.
A delighted, though quiet, chitter regained his attention. Thank you, Uncle Baderon!
Baderon grinned and gave the carbuncle a gentle pat on the head. “Welcome, missy.”
(Over with the arcanists, Synnove took another sip of whiskey and shook her head. Like she never knew when people snuck treats to her sugar-obsessed eldest child.)