"Would I have said a bar-full if I hadn't meant a bar-full, Bespoke?" Corrival demanded, and then waved a hand vaguely behind him. "Besides, you obviously missed the exceedingly full wine-wrack in the cellar on the off chance we run out."
Right at this moment, he had no intention of telling anyone else. Not even Erskine. It wasn't that Corrival didn't trust him; it was just that Corrival wanted his head on straight, wanted some kind of plan of action, before he went off half-cocked informing even other members of the Dead Men. Drinking might not help with that, per se, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.
At this time, that was all Corrival asked for. A little space, a little time, to go off his head before he had to be in command.
Which was why, when he arrived in the living-room, he pried off the boots, left his coat lying on the nearest chair, and made a bee-line for the bottle they'd left behind. There wasn't much left, so he downed it without the benefit of the glass, and then set it back down on the coffeetable--the first of many.
"Right, now," he mumbled, picking up their glasses and heading for the bar. "What shall we start with?"
It was a rhetorical question. The sorcerer picked something at random and poured them both a full glass, and thrust one into Ghastly's hands. "Bottom's up, Bespoke."
The contents of this glass vanished not exactly as fast as Corrival could make it, but faster than was appropriate for company other than a drinking buddy.
no subject
Right at this moment, he had no intention of telling anyone else. Not even Erskine. It wasn't that Corrival didn't trust him; it was just that Corrival wanted his head on straight, wanted some kind of plan of action, before he went off half-cocked informing even other members of the Dead Men. Drinking might not help with that, per se, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.
At this time, that was all Corrival asked for. A little space, a little time, to go off his head before he had to be in command.
Which was why, when he arrived in the living-room, he pried off the boots, left his coat lying on the nearest chair, and made a bee-line for the bottle they'd left behind. There wasn't much left, so he downed it without the benefit of the glass, and then set it back down on the coffeetable--the first of many.
"Right, now," he mumbled, picking up their glasses and heading for the bar. "What shall we start with?"
It was a rhetorical question. The sorcerer picked something at random and poured them both a full glass, and thrust one into Ghastly's hands. "Bottom's up, Bespoke."
The contents of this glass vanished not exactly as fast as Corrival could make it, but faster than was appropriate for company other than a drinking buddy.