thecapitol | Partying like its 1969

Who| Sonja and anyone who wants to join her
What| Partying it up like a fantasy barbarian
Where| The Swift Cut
When| A few days after the victors crowning
Warnings/Notes| This is Sonja, so expect sexiness, alcohol and lots of meat and possible fighting. As a side note, as many are aware, I'm not exactly speedy with my replies right now.

So, Sonja was hungry, frustrated and itching for a good tumble. And while she found this "restaurant" to be in very poor taste, it still served the most meat out of any of the other place. Mix that with a mug if alcohol, which tasted like piss to her, and she was content. Now all she needed was a pretty thing to keep her company and it would be near perfect.

Still, she couldn't help but glare at some of the stares she may occasionally receive before going back to her food. If they want a fight, then they could start it. No sense in getting further into trouble. Not now anyway, that could be for later. Once everything cooled down then she would freely break their noses and crack their skulls.

But no, instead she focused on her drink and food, the table she was at was a mess by now, and she was starting to feel a bit tipsy, excellent. "More!" She cried out after finishing another mug.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Brock has been in this godforsaken place for over a week now. When he first arrived, he went on something like a three-day bender just because he didn't want to deal with everything, the implications and what the future held. As he began to sober up, though, he found that there were maybe some things that he could do here that could make a difference here. That was always more important to him than anything else; something to focus on instead of impending personal miseries and horror.

That said, he's still pretty interested in drinking. If only because most people tended to be a little loose-lipped when they're well enough into their cups.

This particular restaurant isn't one he's been to before, having skipped it when he was going on his extended bar crawl last week. It's... interesting. He might not get any information here, but maybe he'll get like a nice piece of lamb or something.

Or, he thinks as he notices the redhead over there screaming about booze, a nice piece of something else.

He signals to one of the weird barbarian-dressed employees that he wants to buy that woman a drink, and she's summarily bussed over another mug, courtesy of that blond guy over there.

Oh Samson, she's just going to quirk an eyebrow at you before looking at the drink with high suspicion. The last time she was given a drink by someone who wasn't a bartender, she was poisoned and left for dead in an alleyway. Well, then again that typically happens even if she gets from a bartender. So, what the hey, she heartily gulps it down and goes back to eating.

You're going to have to do more than just buy a drink and sit in the same spot, expecting her to approach.

Okay, well. That usually works. Brock quirks his own eyebrow at her reaction, because this might be more of a challenge than he's used to -- which he's not complaining about, mind.

He downs his own mug of beer before heading over, taking the liberty of ordering a literal whole chicken because wow she is just going to town on that food, huh. Maybe that's the avenue to take instead of alcohol.

"Hey," he says, arriving at around the same time the chicken gets plunked down by waitstaff. "This your usual haunt?"

Because she is dressed the part... is what he means...

Not every one person is the same, he should get used to this fact.

Just like how she doesn't seem to be impressed with the size of his muscles, but at least he took the initiative, that was something. Though what he would do with it was not yet known. "No."

A simple answer for a simple question. On that was filled with bits of food that had been stuffed into her mouth. The staff hardly seemed to care though, she was the one helping to keep them in business right now. "Am I to guess that it's yours?"

Well, she's to the point. That's something to be admired, among other things. But Brock is starting to get the sense that this woman appreciates directness more than anything else, so he changes tack a little.

He snorts, tilting his head slightly. "I think that's the way this usually goes," he says. Flirtatious guessing games, blah blah. "But no. I just got here."

The easiest way to get somewhere was to go straight. Something this person seemed to be sorely lacking. "Well then welcome."

What else was there for her to say? She wasn't in the mood for poems or woe is me stories. She was here for a good time, and nothing more. If anyone were to challenge that, then bad things would happen.

"Yeah, I wouldn't go that far."

Because, you know. Forced murder orgies and all that stuff.

She doesn't seem particularly interested in small talk, though, which is fine. Brock rolls his shoulder and jerks his head toward the door. "Anyway. Wanted to know if you'd be up for getting out of here."

Partying like its 1969

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