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First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you. ~Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
Wine gives a man nothing... it only puts in motion what had been locked up in frost.
This is one of the disadvantages of wine: it makes a man mistake words for thought. ~Samuel Johnson
In this thread: I just wanted an excuse for Basco to be drunk, talkative, and at the general RP public's mercy! Start a thread in reply to this top post and I'll run with you. Any AU, any timeline mark, any whatever. Throw him curveballs, I'm feeling like I want to let them hit him square in the nose >D
Our favorite privateer, garbed in his usual in red, green, and rather more crochet than is generally considered acceptable when in public, is slumped partially onto the bartop of a small, very weathered establishment of many years and many fine liquors. The regulars here are in general more scruffy but of just as ill-repute as our privateer, though they all share in common the desire to be left to their lonesomes.
The bar is located at a galactic coordinate in convenient range of several major thoroughfares, or as close to 'thoroughfares' as it gets for the buccaneering types who frequent the outer rim, skirting the edges of Zangyack-controlled space. Those edges have been fraying faster and faster these days, as political movement near the Empire's Core shook loose some of the less-loyal and smaller planets and planetary coalitions.
This small cluster of civilization is little more than a supply depot offering food, fuel, sex and drink to any willing to pay the asking prices; and those prices are invariably inflated by lack of competition and distance from the Core, both of which this place has in spades.
Over a muddled drink that cost him thirty Zagins more than he would pay for a comparable glass of clear liquor forty standard cycles older, Basco peers at the reflection of his own face in the rows of faceted glass and luci-crystal decanters lined up in front of the bar's mirrored back wall.
"I can't see myself in this thing," he mutters, slamming back the end of his sour drink with little enjoyment. The barkeep, thin from a preference not to suffer eating the food he serves for his customers, pours Basco another with a sidelong glance.
"Far from a clear reflection, kid," he says. "My bottles aren't meant for helping your vanity."
"Not the bottles," Basco mutters. Inbetween the throat of one flask and the column of a much taller, midori-bright bottle, there's a brightly-lit, clear space of mirror in which his two eyes look steadily back at him. His mouth's reflection is twisted by the curve of the angled glass just a few fingers' width below.
He stares at himself a few moments longer, trying to suss out anything familiar or significant. But there's nothing, and he slams another shot before lying his head down on the bartop. Sleep sounds excellent at this point.
Wine gives a man nothing... it only puts in motion what had been locked up in frost.
This is one of the disadvantages of wine: it makes a man mistake words for thought. ~Samuel Johnson
In this thread: I just wanted an excuse for Basco to be drunk, talkative, and at the general RP public's mercy! Start a thread in reply to this top post and I'll run with you. Any AU, any timeline mark, any whatever. Throw him curveballs, I'm feeling like I want to let them hit him square in the nose >D
Our favorite privateer, garbed in his usual in red, green, and rather more crochet than is generally considered acceptable when in public, is slumped partially onto the bartop of a small, very weathered establishment of many years and many fine liquors. The regulars here are in general more scruffy but of just as ill-repute as our privateer, though they all share in common the desire to be left to their lonesomes.
The bar is located at a galactic coordinate in convenient range of several major thoroughfares, or as close to 'thoroughfares' as it gets for the buccaneering types who frequent the outer rim, skirting the edges of Zangyack-controlled space. Those edges have been fraying faster and faster these days, as political movement near the Empire's Core shook loose some of the less-loyal and smaller planets and planetary coalitions.
This small cluster of civilization is little more than a supply depot offering food, fuel, sex and drink to any willing to pay the asking prices; and those prices are invariably inflated by lack of competition and distance from the Core, both of which this place has in spades.
Over a muddled drink that cost him thirty Zagins more than he would pay for a comparable glass of clear liquor forty standard cycles older, Basco peers at the reflection of his own face in the rows of faceted glass and luci-crystal decanters lined up in front of the bar's mirrored back wall.
"I can't see myself in this thing," he mutters, slamming back the end of his sour drink with little enjoyment. The barkeep, thin from a preference not to suffer eating the food he serves for his customers, pours Basco another with a sidelong glance.
"Far from a clear reflection, kid," he says. "My bottles aren't meant for helping your vanity."
"Not the bottles," Basco mutters. Inbetween the throat of one flask and the column of a much taller, midori-bright bottle, there's a brightly-lit, clear space of mirror in which his two eyes look steadily back at him. His mouth's reflection is twisted by the curve of the angled glass just a few fingers' width below.
He stares at himself a few moments longer, trying to suss out anything familiar or significant. But there's nothing, and he slams another shot before lying his head down on the bartop. Sleep sounds excellent at this point.
