In which terrible things happen

[desilusionante]

[In the interests of the timestream being not at all consistent in this journal, this must clearly have happened before the last post. And yet not after it at all. Because fuck the Loom, that's why

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[fittichundgrin]

[Oh dear. This could go poorly. Taking the seat of some man who had given up, clearly, on winning and walked off.]

Now, Yue. What, pray tell, are you doing?

[fittichundgrin]

[Aitor was sitting on an obscenely good hand this time. Dropping them in front of her. His smirk now.]

[desilusionante]

Ah, well. So it goes...

[Since you don't have a shirt for her to grab, she just pretty much has to lean all the way across the table to kiss you. Hard. In front of a bunch of soldiers while neither of you is currently in possession of a shirt. And then just lean back again rather casually. Someone's learned from watching.

This is, sadly, pretty tame for what she grew up with.]

But the way I see it, I win either way.

[fittichundgrin]

[He might have seen this coming for once. Maybe it's just how uncharacteristically bold she's being, that Aitor's picked up on it. Kissing back, with the full audience there because, why the hell not.]

Insofar as I guess I need to cut this short and take you back to the manor, yes. You've been drinking, haven't you?

[desilusionante]

...In my defense, it's very good brandy.

[Yes. Yes she has.]

[fittichundgrin]

[Picking up the pile of clothing and odd items, bundling them up, and sticking them under an arm.]

Come now, I believe you've got quite enough out of these nice men.

[desilusionante]

...I feel vaguely patronized to, but alright.

[:T Lucky for her, she still retains...well, enough of her motor function. One might wonder what would inspire such dedication to the booze-fairy. But that's for later.]

[fittichundgrin]

Well, I suppose that was a bit rude of me.

...Do you want to play another hand of cards to decide, then?

[desilusionante]

...Rodas, I'm running out of clothes. That doesn't seem like a terribly good idea, despite what I'm sure they'll tell you.

Not, mind, that I'm in the state to argue if that was, in fact, your aim. But if that's the case this seems a little circuitous.

[fittichundgrin]

[You'd almost think he knew you were going to respond like that.]

Shall we be on our way, then?

[desilusionante]

[>:< Jerk. And other words I will likely remember when I'm sober.]

That seems wise.

[fittichundgrin]

[Offering his arm. Do not say he is not a kind owl. owo]

[desilusionante]

[Yaaaay arm. That I will...discreetly be leaning on en route to the manor oh god no more brandy.]

[fittichundgrin]

[When they get away from the soldiers his smug attitude vanishes into a hushed, concerned tone.]

What prompted this sudden need to drink so heavily?

[desilusionante]

...The short version is I could still feel blood under my fingernails that had never been there even after I woke up, this time. The longer version I'm going to need to be sitting down for.

[So about that part where I'm possibly completely insane?]

[fittichundgrin]

[Not responding to that, other than to get her inside and away from prying eyes. Let them talk, this is serious.]

I see... Blood under your fingernails?