liquor is quicker {{Marcello&Mihai
Jul 29, 2015 22:42:50 GMT -5
Post by Mihai Roșu on Jul 29, 2015 22:42:50 GMT -5
Aside from the periodic visits from members of the Spades court–mostly just the Queen and the Ace–Mihai didn't have terribly much to do. It was probably for the worst, because it was during those moments that he found his mind wandering and his fingers itching for something to dispel the resurfacing memories, ghostly wisps of a life that once was. He'd survived heartbreak before, in the form of a dead surrogate mother and a lost friend, but perhaps twice was a little more than he could bear. Children had a lot of life ahead of them, a lot of memories to forget, less comprehension of their circumstances; now, there was nothing to keep Mihai from realizing that he was painfully alone, secluded in a kingdom he held no love for, with people who he could pass by without incurring a glance. Perhaps he could hope for no better–he could only imagine the faces his friends and family would make now if they saw him like this.
The survivalist in him told him he could always reinvent himself, become someone new in this unfamiliar place with the help of the Queen of Spades. He had been of utmost help, even Mihai had to admit, setting Mihai up at a place like this and dropping in from time to time. His willingness to oblige disconcerted Mihai–it was much more than he thought he deserved as some no-good exile from the kingdom of Clubs, even if the offer to reenter into court life would probably not be so forthcoming. It would spell nothing but trouble between the kingdoms if Spades took in a political untouchable from Clubs, not that Mihai expected nor even cared for such a gesture if it appeared.
He didn't know how well he'd fit into court life again. There was an unbearably lonely feeling to imagine passing under tapestries of blue, with a spade embroidered on every edge, even if the richness of the court life being exuded would remain unchanged. Every greeting, every gesture, every footstep in the long castle halls would be a painful reminder of how closely he was failing to imitate what he had in Clubs. It would simply be too foreign, too much of a replica all at once.
The thoughts tended to strike him after a long day of doing nothing. Normally, he tried to busy himself–a habit very different from his indolent preference back in Clubs–whether it was by cleaning, or picking up groceries, or receiving the occasional guest who still wanted to make use of his potions and charms. He liked it best when Arthur dropped by, as those visits indicated not only time for discussion but perhaps also some curiousities involving the discipline of more magical sorts. However, not having an official job meant that work wasn't particularly forthcoming when he wanted it, or needed it, for distraction. Those days, which happened more often than not, usually ended up with his paints and herbs carefully sorted away, fabric newly mended, and dust swept out of the house. But housekeeping could only occupy him for so long, so by evening he would be left with still hands and a growing, disquiet gnawing at his gut.
Whenever he felt that aimlessness, his thoughts circling in his head with no beginning nor end nor direction whatsoever, he left the small, isolated estate the Queen had granted him and took the dirt path leading deeper into the heart of the capital. Alcohol and conversation were a good mixture to distract him from his more untoward moments, and he made use of them shamelessly whenever he crept dangerously close to tearing all his hair out as though it could make the thinking go away. Whether one was healthier than the other, he couldn't say, but it was easy to choose which one he preferred.
He shuffled into a pub just as the sun was going down, not stopping for so much a glance at its patrons before he took a seat at the bar. "Vodka," he muttered to the bartender. He wasn't out to drink like he was courting someone–drinks that worked a pleasant buzz were out of the question. Better a sledgehammer to his brain instead–the sooner he forgot everything but the headache pounding behind his eyes and the nausea that rose with each step he took, the less miserable he was. He knew very well what he must look like, hemorrhaging coins until he was pissing drunk, and it wasn't like he was oblivious to the wary looks the locals cast him. He had already become a small oddity in the capital since he showed up–as though earning a reputation for starting bar fights wasn't enough, the spells and wards he'd been selling became another point of curiousity. People only got more suspicious after he was swept away to some estate near the woods and quit selling his skills on the street, but that was natural. People talked. Mihai just didn't particularly care what they said about him. As long as enough of them were willing to sit next to him, drink in hand, and listen to whatever drunken nonsense spilled from his mouth, who cared?@marcopolo
