The Marks of Breeding

We started at the Hawkswind, danced and drank Kaleidoscopes with seven layers of color in each cup, tried glasses of Brain Hemorrhage and ate funny brownies, and worked our way on from there. We danced at Calaband's Cavern and got sprayed with fluorescent paint, and drank Scumble at the Pink Cockatoo. Priest refused to go into Divas when we ended up there, saying it was an abomination; he seemed to be in his religious persona again for the moment. We left him at the door, and when we came out, he was gone. After that, we really relaxed and let our hair down. Between the excitement of what we just managed and the relief of getting shed of the Priest's uncomfortable presence, I think we might have been giddy even without the music and the drinks.
The seven of us danced and drank and laughed our way through the Nowhere In Particular Bar, where the bar's doors never led to the same place twice, and The Church, a deconsecrated chapel turned dance-hall, and the Bad Hospitality, and the Roaring Donkey, named after the talking donkey who had once acted as bartender. Her grandson, who wore a pair of cybernetic arms to serve drinks and washed the glasses with a towel on his tail, brayed with laughter whenever somebody told a good joke. At the Hairy Lemon everyone was entertained when an independent singer tried to get up and give a poetry recital. It was very entertaining seeing who could hit him with a lemon from the display at the bar, and everyone took a turn until he ran off the stage. We drank glasses of Dark Side of the Force and danced at the BBC, a club which had been made out of the hollow shell of a crashed C-47 Skytrain from the second World War, and ate at the Mellow Mushroom.
Eventually, we all end up at Strangefellows, with a bottle of Valhalla Venom. I hadn't wanted to try it, seeing as how the bottle sweats blood, but after Ignacy ordered a drink of it and judged it good, we all gave it a try. It's delicious, like drinking a whole summer orchard in a glass, and it hits like a gold brick wrapped in velvet. Across from us, a pair of reptelloids are arm wrestling, and a circle of patrons are laying bets on the outcome. Down the bar,a machine sips neat ethenol and repairs something in its inner workings with a sonic screwdriver somebody forgot in the bar. A pair of teenage vampires out on a date are splitting a live chicken between them, using two straws. The steps ring overhead, and an elf, tall, slender and haughty, comes walking lithely into the bar proper. Everyone pauses for a moment, but the elf only looks around langidly and moves over to the bar for a drink. The patrons relax, and I turn back to my little group. Edgeworth was already quite drunk when we came in, and is entertaining himself by turning his drink into water and back into alcohol, until it can't take it anymore and catches fire. I lean back in the booth, grinning. I'm starting to feel quite tipsy, in the best sense of the word. Tonight is one of the best nights I've had in a long, long time. I grin up at Djhuety, whose eyes are alternating between gold and shining green, and clink glasses with Liam and Kaija. "To life, to dreams, to more drinks!" I say, feeling silly. With that, I down another shot of whiskey, enjoying the fire shooting down my throat and spreading through my core. I love whiskey.

blind drunk and wearing a fancy wig i somehow got at divas i shout "to flaming crabs and burning cities! and all the other good things in life" as i down another shot.

I giggle, pouring more liquor into Ignacy's glass. It might not be the brightest idea in the world, considering how drunk he is already, but what the hell.

Raising my glass, I smile with the others, and add my own toast, "To the friends we have made, may they prosper, and the enemies we cultivate, may they never find rest." I toss back the glass of electric green liquor and watch fascinated as the room begins to melt before my alcohol blurred eyes. Three bottles of various labels lie cast aside at the table and I reach down to refill my glass from the stock; a sorrowful look crosses my face as the remains of the fullest bottle barely fills the bottom of my tumbler.

With a Grin that feels like it will not end I move to the bar, coming back with a bottle for each of our group, the Dark glass keeping the light from hitting the drink within, "WASSAIL" I say thrusting my drink into the air, sure that we are going to be asked to leave soon before knocking back a large take from my bottle enjoying the taste more then I have in many years

"And to you," I nod, first sipping, then taking a long draft of the middle sweet drink. It burns my throat as it goes down, and almost with sadness, I see the room snap back into focus, though the colors seem more vivid and the occupants seem to move in slow motion. The elf at the bar casts a shadowed glare back at our table before turning back to his drink; shrugging I take another swallow of the liquor. The others seem to be enjoying the fresh drink, its effect varied from person to person, yet its overall mark heightening the sense of celebration among our little crowd.

I down another cup of the whatever-it-may-be, and blink, shaking my head slightly as the magics being used through the room sizzle across my vision, bright sparks and shining shapes. I must be drunk; normally I'd have work to see these kinds of magics. But with the drinks doing the work for me, I just take it in, giggling occasionally at some of the spellworks. This bar is absolutely covered in all kinds of magic, some truly nasty, but some actually quite amusing. Like the one that turns customers that don't pay into barstools, which hovers right over every bar exit. "I don't think I've had this much to drink since nineteen-thirty-three. Chicago World Fair. Amazing thing. But the drinks are by far the better here!" I say. giggling again. Behind me, on the back of the booth, Sylus croons and hiccups. I think mayhap he's drunk overmuch.

I nod sagely; "'Science Finds, Industry Applies, Man Adapts', I personally thought that the Sky Ride was over rated for how long the lines were" I sigh, "It really wasn't that exciting..." My empty glass shines ethereally, and I hold it up to the dim lights for closer examination.

"Oh, but I adored the Sky ride, it was..." then the fact seeps its way through the fog in my head. "hey, that fair was...what, a hundred years ago? Djhuety, you can't have...oh, right, timeslips, right? You jumped a timeslip?"

I shrug. "Not that I know of... That was only, what? Fifteen years ago?" I frown at the memory... "The world changes to quickly... everything I saw was outdated before I turned 18."

I frown just a bit. "Djhuety, I think you're a bit askance in your dates; when I came into the Nightside it was 2012. When..." Then a voice makes my heart skip a beat. The voice sends a shiver of terror down my spine. I know that voice all too well. Perfect, bell-like. And spiteful.

The sound of oil on ice... smooth, cold. "I bow to you, queen; your subjects speak highly of you." The elf stands over Liv's left shoulder, posed in a mock bow. "You have a mighty reputation among the demigods and river folk... A shame the waters they admire have been so muddied by the boots of the interloper."

Steeling myself, I turn with all the poise I can muster, standing from my seat. Languorously, the elf stands by our table, his every movement the gesture of an elegant predator. I tense as the elf slowly looks our group over, his golden cat’s eyes watching with cool disdain. He’s tall and slender, with a mane of black hair, his long pointed ears forming a graceful sweep on either side of his head. He looks us over as a hawk looks at a mouse; not with any emotion, but only with consideration. Hands in the pockets of his expensive leather jacket, the elf stares down at me, the way another man looks at a spider. He’s tall, taller even than Djhuety, and he looks down his nose at me, his smile cold. I stare up, forcing myself to hold his golden cat’s-eye gaze. No more running. Not anymore.
For a moment, I feel small and dull. He’s so beautiful, this member of one of the oldest Kinds, so tall and perfect. I ought to bow---I blink, and shove the glamour from my mind, looking up at him contemptuously. “I’m nearly a hundred years of age. I stopped falling for glamours at about thirty. Save the illusion for fools, elf.” I say coldly. "And I am no queen. I have never claimed to be. I am bard and traveler, no more, no less."

A look of irritation flits across his face for a moment. "You claim the title is not one of your choosing, yet you have followers none the less; you disgrace your blood still further in the denial." He stands erect. "We are royal, whether it is acknowledged by the incomers or not. But I would not expect that such a pretty voice truly understand the nature of our peoples birthright."

I straighten, and calmly pull down the collar of my denims and my tshirt, displaying the hazelnut tattooed on my shoulder. Everyone of Kindred blood knows the mark of the hazel tree, the mark of a bard, and few will bother a bard without an extremely good reason. The flash of surprise in those gold eyes is good to see. My lips quirk in a small, dangerous smile. “You are right; it does take far more than a pretty voice to walk the Hazel Road. Training, skill, knowledge of all the Great Tales and Songs and a great many of the Lesser ones. And experience, of course. Those I have gained. Blood means less than nothing to skill and training, whatever your great and oh so 'royal' houses may say. So I’d watch your tongue, man of the Court of Titania, for I am a bard with a bard’s power, and with the right to bear the mark of the hazel. Would you test the strength of a bard’s curse?”

"A surprise, a great honor bestowed." He shrugs, "But my people have suffered enough misfortune without your meager threat added upon it." He stoops close, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. "You may have gifts, but bear in mind; when the interloper... " His eyes dart pointedly around the table, settling on me a moment longer then I find comfortable, "has consumed the blood of your people, remember that it began with you and your taint." He straightens once again and begins to turn.

I glare at the bastard of a highborn elf’s back,bile burning in my belly. My hands ball into fists of their own accord. The rage burns off the fog in my head, leaving me sharp and clean and hard as a new sword blade. Some part of my mind is shouting for caution, but to hell with that. I will remind him of what it means to respect a bard, and the penalty for disrespect. Part of the work if a Bard is to speak the truth where it must be spoken, and humble those who think themselves mighty. So I speak aloud the most painful truth I can see on the elf. “And who are you to speak of taints and contamination, when you take drugs simply to feel whole and sane?” I say loudly, throwing the challenge like a weapon. He turns with all the speed of a cat, and stares down at me, all trace of a smile gone. The shock in those golden eyes is something I will treasure for years to come. “What,” I say, glaring up at him, “you thought you had hidden it? You hide nothing from anyone with the eyes to see. I am muddy-blooded, that is true, but I am no fool, nor am I blind. You’re an addict.” I say the word, sharp and crisp, and it rings with truth. “I can smell it on you, and I can see it. What is it? Cocaine, morphine, and something else…a long way to fall for one of the high-born sons of Titania’s court, of the lineage of Maeve the Bold. One of the grand elves of the great and noble houses, living in the world of men and dependent on men’s potions and poisons. You’ve made yourself dependent on the very ones you hate so dearly. And you call me debased.” The Elf’s face is full of cold rage. I smile grimly up at him, fiercely pleased to see him hurt and angered.

i lean close to liv and whisper the wig falls off my head "want me to burn him? cus yknow i could".

The elf shows his teeth, a pair of canines flashing as his hand falls to a pearl handled knife at his waist. "Bard or not, you'll pay dearly, precious," he spits contemptuously. I see Ignacy tense as I force my way through to get between the two, a flash of silver appearing in Liv's hand as well.
"Enough! Both of you will stop!" The strong, alkali taste of my words fills my mouth as I place a hand on each of their chests and force them apart.
The elf glances down, a murderous look in his eyes, "You're too diluted to force me to do anything, princeling..." The cold of his words washes over me as he takes my hand and twists it back on itself, causing forcing me down to my knees while he places the tip of his knife to the nape of my neck. "I'll happily rid the Sidhe of their mistake." I feel the point bare down, the bar gone quite in the background.

“Right, that’s it!” barks the bartender, and, stepping from behind the bar, he tosses a handful of something right up into the elf’s face. The elfin man screams, a high, inhuman sound of shock and pain and fury. Gold blood runs down his face from a hundred small pits blossoming on his white skin. I stare as he clutches at his mutilated face, as his skin blossoms with rings of unhealthy bronze around each bloody wound. Then I look at the ground, seeing the blackish flakes dusting the floor. Iron filings. The bartender has thrown iron filings. I draw back. The bartender throws another fistful for good measure, and the elf cries out again as his hands blister and bleed. There’s a sharp, sick pain on my arm as some of the iron misses its mark and hits me, and I cry out, clapping my hand over a rash of small opening wounds. Blood leaks between my fingers.
The barteneder stares down at the elf, his thin face twisted in a rather nasty smile.“You mess with the paying customers, with the good paying customers, and that’s the last time you set foot in this bar, boyo. Betty, Lucy?” he calls coldly, looking away from the elf, “Time to take out the trash.” From one side of the bar, two great women, sleek and muscled and frighteningly professional, come out swinging. They grab the elf, rub his face into the iron filings on the floor, eliciting more howls of pain, then knee him in the crotch and frogmarch him upstairs. I listen until I can hear the bar’s door open and slam shut. Then I lean against Djhuety, taking a great, shuddering breath. I’m shaking badly. “Elves.” I say, shaking my head, “I hate elves. Arrogant bastards. Are you okay? Did he-” I wince, taking my hand away from the wounds on my arm carefully. There are numerous shallow, bloody little pits, each ringed with a circle of poisoned flesh turning an unhealthy bronze. It could have been a lot worse, but it’s going to hurt for days. I suck air between my teeth. Reaching into my satchel with my good arm, I pull out a kerchief, and press it against the wounds to staunch the bleeding. I grit my teeth, the sick, dizzying pain of iron making tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

i simply slouch back in the bar coach and say "i could have burned him you know it would have been glorious" i pass out as i whisper something like "ive never burnt an elf before".

I sigh deeply, reaching back and scratching at the exposed flesh at the nape of my neck above where the knife point rested... "Don't let me do that again," My voice weak from tension, "EVER." Unconscious, I scrub the backs of my hands, a red-brown rash springing up in small patches across the back. I sit and pick up my drink; the noise of the bar begins to pick up again as patrons return to their drinks and conversations. The rest of our party sits stunned by the events, drinks sitting forgotten.

"Same here." I groan, "And brand me for an idiot for letting my temper slip its leash like that. I never should have...…cac na balor this stings!" I suck a breath between my teeth.

Reaching out across the table, I take Liv's hand and examine the angry red welts rising where the iron bit her flesh. "Gods, that looks bad," I run my thumb around one of the larger marks, "You going to be alright?"

Gritting my teeth, I force a pained smile. “I’m fine. It’s just an allergy. I’m allergic to iron, you’re not. You’re allergic to cyanide; I’m not.” Then I something catches my eye. Djhuety’s hands are spotted with ugly bronze marks, as if someone had spilled metal on them. I look up at Djhuety, my eyes wide. “Iron. You’ve got iron burns on your hands.”