Brewfest has been a complete blur for me thus far. So much of my time during this holiday has been spent keeping order at the Harbinger base as well as filling in at the Tourney grounds for all the missing squires drowning in the kegs the Dwarves have so cheerfully brought along for the ride.

The Argent Crusade (and their partners, the Silver Covenant) seem appreciative of my efforts. As liaison for the Harbinger crew and our Captain, this is an important step in a long waltz I have undertaken. I must endeavor not to feel pride in my slow advancement up the ranks in the Crusade's respect; this is what has been tasked to me, I will fulfill it perfectly, without allowing misplaced pride to waylay me.

Duties completed for the day, I return for the last time to the Dawn to leave my key and portal insignia for the Lady Spennig; after all, if she should so happen to return at some point in the future, she might need them for the future Keeper of her grounds.

I linger, of course, detained by memory and an overwhelming sense of loss for all that had come before within these walls that would not come to be ever again.

As I am dallying, feigning excuses in my mind to stay through tidying up, I am given a most peculiar surprise in the form of one very tipsy, nervous elf stumbling his way through the portal.

I have not seen Master Merosiel in nearly a half-year, and we had never been particularly close--nothing so familiar as to merit the label of friendship--yet I find that in seeing his familiar face once more after so long, I am immediately overcome with a strange pressure in my throat and chest that forbade me speak for several minutes.

His crooked smile is strained when it is flashed at me, and silver eyes seemed less bright than I recall, but he seems genuinely pleased to see me.

It is then, however, that his emotions choose to batter at my weakened, lowered guard: pain, loss, despair, they all smack into my face and drown me under their tide so that I am unaware at first of how I cling to the edge of the bar counter, gasping softly.

So much loneliness inside him, for so long, that I very nearly choke on it all before I wrest control back and force him out beyond my flimsy protective shields. By then I am noticing that he's got his long, lean arms around me and those silver eyes are peering down in concern. His body is warm compared to mine, and I am tense in his loose embrace, fearing another relapse amplified by his touch.

It does not happen. Either I have managed some true semblance of control for a few unsteady moments, or he has recognized the source of my 'mild' reaction, because the sensation of his feelings are a muted buzz in the back of my head, like the fuzzy tingling of inhaling the foaming head of 'a good beer.' However he has reigned himself in, I find that I no longer tremble quite so much, and the vise gripping my lungs loosens mercifully so.

Scent tiptoes next upon the heels of his emotions. He reeks of bourbon, as if he has fallen in a lake of it and then forgot to change his clothes before coming here. Yet, when I offer to take his half-empty bottle from him, he cradles it close as if it is a precious jewel, and when I point this out a little dryly, he smirks in silence and then chugs down a gasping mouthful rather than hand the bottle over.

I have seen that kind of behavior before, and asked after it enough to glean a kind of understanding for the nuances given over to drinking habits. His is one of an attempt to siphon courage from his (likely pilfered) spirits.

We talk, then, he and I, and I am reminded during of another time, the last time in fact, when we had conversed:


(Drink?) Merosiel had signed to me, and I was forced to respond with a gentle reminder of:

"This one... does not drink, Master Merosiel."

(What good are you then?) He countered, ears forward to show he was not truly displeased with my answer.

I recall trying to find the most uncomplicated way of explaining, and settling for an unsatisfying continuance of: "Drinking is... problematic."

This had then netted me a puzzled look, a hiccup, a grunted, "Huh?" aloud, and then a wrinkled nose when I touch my gloved hand to my masked lips. I had hoped at the time that merely pointing out the obvious (literally) in reminder would suffice, but his quiet "Oh" and continued blank stare ended up reminding me of just how soused he had become.

Still hopeful, and uncomfortable with discussing my meaning, I waited while he mulled the gesture over, and also waited while he took several swigs of bourbon, brow furrowing in exaggerated thought.

(I don't get it,) he had admitted then with tucked ears, squinting. His signs had been sloppy, his elegant hands reduced to uncoordinated attempts at communication.

"You have seen... this one's face." I supplied, but even this evasive hint failed.

"Ye-e-e-eah," he had agreed easily, drawling the slurred affirmation out somewhat yet saying nothing after.

"My face." I repeat with a sigh, realizing that his obtuse reactions will force my proverbial hand and literal action. His ears prick forward again in interest, but not in realization, because he notes with a considerably stupid grin stealing over his face:

(You wear a mask.)

"...Yes."

(Take it off?) My surprise is such that my reaction becomes visible to him, I know it; I can feel my brows lift and my eyes widen, my body stiffen and my tail twitch.

"If it is... all the same to... you," I hedge anxiously, "Master Merosiel, this one... would prefer not to."

And that had been that.

The circumstances are familiar to me, for here he sits now as I write down my observations and drink in the quiet between us as surely as he slogs through another bottle of cheap bourbon.

"Ash'a," comes his unsteady, slurred voice; not all of it is alcohol. It is often easy to forget his handicap--I wonder if he forgets mine sometimes (without the aid of drink), or if it is as glaring to him as it is for me.

"Yes, Master Merosiel?"

(Where's your room?)

The silent question is distracting, puzzling, and for a moment I wonder if I have read his hands right.

"Upstairs."

He looks away from me, nurses his bourbon for several moments in delayed, oddly dainty sips. Then those silvery eyes slide back to stare at me, boldly meeting my gaze. I cannot decide still if it is the brazen look or the question that has me yielding this time and looking down at what I have already written here.

The image of his long, grey fingers framing the words (Sleep with me?) seem burned into the backs of my eyelids. Abruptly I can make little sense of my own writing, and stare blankly at the pages under my palm.

"As you like," slips out without my consent.

I find that I have no desire to retract it once said, and that my heart knocks against my ribs in a response I remember but have never understood.

When I look up, Merosiel's jaw is slack, his face a mixture of stunned incredulity that is then mirrored in the silent (Just like that?)

From some buried part of me, amusement wells up, and I prod it aloud by countering with: "Do you... wish for this one to... say no, instead?"

(Well, no, it's not that--Astarin, I--It's--I'm not--I don't--)

His hands stutter for him, a slurry of words that trip and stumble together until even I cannot make sense of the tangled mess. Reluctance is so palpable I would not need any talent at all for reading him, but something about the way his mouth twists has understanding clicking into place.

"Ah," I say, and then, "I know."

His ears tuck in shame, but his eyes say confusion, and I step around the counter, leaving my journal behind to give him my reassurance that we can all have handicaps, and still find some kind of comfort.