God Is On His Knees (IC/Still Accepting)

[Perfect Neglect]

Numb fingers pulled at the straps that held his armor in place, allowing the ornate breastplate to fall gracelessly to the floor with a clatter. His belt and sword followed in kind before the knight slowly stooped to collect the pieces from the floor, returning them to their places in his quarters. He was working in a tired haze, but his mind was reeling over the day's events, and he had a sinking feeling that sleep would not come to him.

He had overheard Serah's scolding of Bjarke down in the prison and had quickly exited before anymore drama could come of it, intent on speaking to Maximus about the situation-- though he had been denied the opportunity. The king would see no one before the evening ball, and Bastian had left feeling concerned, frustrated, and rather dejected. The man had never withheld information from him like this before, nor had he ever so blatantly refused to speak with him. Surely there was something he had done to warrant this behaviour from his king, but he could not discern what that something was. All he wanted was to throw himself at the man's feet, implore an explanation, and correct whatever error he might've made. There was, of course, the underlying desire to be pulled into Maximus' arms again-- pushed down against his bed, and made to forget the recent happenings for a time… But that was a trivial, selfish matter. Even if he was never to have the king's affections again, he still felt desperate to speak to him and assess the situation at hand.

Dinner had, unsurprisingly, gone no better than the rest of his chaotic day. He had returned to his quarters and dressed for the ball, only to find that the king had called in the Falcons as additional guards for the party. While Bastian was relieved to see the number of guards about the court, his presence was becoming less and less necessary. Two armored men had already taken their places near the king's table and, for a time, Bastian merely paced about the court, trying to ensure that nothing looked out of place. Nothing did. In fact, many of the Northerners were not even present at the ball-- no doubt off drinking in taverns.

During a lull in the goings on, Bastian had decided to again speak to Maximus, even if only for a moment, but upon his approach the man had smiled at him and given him a discreet signal to stand down.

Bastian was lost. It was strange, really-- how one small gesture could so greatly affect him-- but the dismissive wave had sent the Knight Commander away with a clenched jaw, his arms tight at his sides, head down.

Unsure of what else to do with himself, the man had returned to his quarters to shrug off his armor. There was only one thing he could think of that might help him find a bit of peace.

When everything was back in place, Bastian sank down in a wooden chair and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but still possessed enough resolve to focus, reaching out with his mind-- hoping he would find another to be willing. He had to search only for a moment before he felt the familiar, comforting sensation of being lifted away as his body went slack in the chair. Seconds later he opened his eyes to find the world falling away from him as the smooth motion of wings carried him over the darkened forests of Vanqland. It had been too long since he'd allowed himself this pleasure; the feeling of freedom-- of everything he'd left behind-- and perhaps that was why. After he'd assumed his other form, this was no longer how he spent his days-- he had given himself completely to his work and to his king and there had been no hesitation to do so. For years there had been no regret in his decision, never a second thought about why or what he had done, but tonight was marking firsts of many.

Before he could further contemplate, however, his consciousness crashed back into his body, causing a violent jerk that nearly caused him to fall from the chair. He hadn't the energy to sustain his connection with the other, and the brief session had left him all the more exhausted for it.

For a time he sat motionless in the chair, willing his body to fail-- to let him sleep-- but the respite still did not come. Distant sounds of the party could still be heard along the corridors, and the knight felt a sudden compulsion to be away from the palace.

Donning a simple black vest over his shirt, the man slipped out of his quarters and set a silent, steady pace for the town. He had no idea what he would do once there; he'd never truly taken a day off before and a part of him still felt that he was abandoning his king-- but he had been dismissed for the evening. The mere thought of the occurrence caused a bitter sting in his mind, and he pushed at the thought, willing it away.

Tired eyes scanned the various lodges and pubs and the knight finally settled for "The Dancing Bear." It looked to be moderately crowded, and the sounds of laughter carried easily into the night air. Hesitantly, Bastian pushed open the door and slunk inside, claiming the only available seat at the far end of the counter.

It was loud, but he was quickly adjusting to the sounds and smells-- particularly to whatever many of the patrons were eating. It then occurred to him that he had neglected to eat today-- but the thought of it made his stomach turn. Resting an elbow against the bar, he lowered his head into his hand and closed his eyes.

"What'll it be, deary?"

Lifting his head as the voice reached his ears, Bastian focused his gaze on the woman in front of him, his expression blank.

"Seven 'ells, donchu look right awful."

Bastian continued to stare at the woman.

"Ah'll getchu somethin' strong then?"

"I--…" he started, but was quickly interrupted as a glass was slammed down in front of him.

"Never seen ewe 'round here before," she said, pouring a dark, amber-coloured liquid into the glass, "this'un's ahn me. Donchu be gettin' use to it, but a 'andsome boy shouldn't be lookin' so put out." She gave him a quick grin before pushing the glass toward him and sauntering off to dole out drinks to other patrons.

Directing his attention down to the glass in front of him, Bastian contemplated the foul-smelling liquid, eyes glazing slightly as he stared into it.

 

[Jerelin]

It felt like months had passed since Elric had last been at the Capital. Of course, it had only been a week or two at the most that he was absent, but the emotional and physical drain of his journey had skewed his perception of the passing time. No one should be forced to exile their own blood, but there had been no other choice. His father, rest his soul, had left a brother as lord of Mountaingate, a neighboring area just on the eastern border of the great Pinecliff. After Aldris's death, Elric had been thrust into the daunting roles of Duke and Head of the Massur Household; however, the Lord Uncle of Mountaingate felt as though his claim was overlooked. A war for Pinecliff could have been fought at that moment, but due to the interference of Rolfe and the other Northern lords, the Lord Uncle had retreated back beneath his mountain to treat his wounded pride.

Elric had wrongfully assumed that the threat had been diminished. It had been two decades since the disgrace and in that time, dear Lord Amis had passed and so had his son, leaving the claim to Mountaingate to Elric's second cousin, Guarin. Undoubtedly, with the call of the great Dukes and Lords to court, Lord Guarin saw fit to avenge his grandfather's wishes and press what he thought had been claim to Pinecliff.

Betrayed and enraged by a letter received about the incident, Elric was forced to abandon his promise to sweet Elizabeth and leave the castle in the dead of night. The matter needed to be resolved immediately before lives were taken, though there was no doubt that a few would die to protect their Lord Duke's claim. Once at his home, the men of Mountaingate detained and their leader, Lord Guarin, taken as prisoner, Elric delivered swift justice. Some advised him to be more harsh on the man, but Elric would have none of it. "Too much of my family has died during my lifetime," he explained when being advised by Rolfe, "I will not shed the blood of this cousin."

Instead, Lord Guarin Massur was exiled from the North and his title of Lord stripped from his honor. This resolution left Elric with the sick taste of regret and his stomach ached with dread. Before his departure, ravens were sent to all of the great and minor lords of the North, informing them of Lord Guarin's betrayal and exile. If he was seen in the North again, he would be executed. On the road back to the Capital, alongside Tekkan, Rolfe, and a few other of the Pinecliff Guard, Elric wondered if he had made the wrong decision, but what was done was done.

Within a reasonable amount of time, Elric had returned to the capital, a darkness overtaking his spirit. The evening ahead of him would be holding a ball. He was already dreading it with a great intensity as he bathed and trimmed the beard that threatened to overthrow his facial features. Despite his ignorance about the royal happenings that occurred in his absence, there was no doubt that his return would have made its rounds to the people of court. It was important that he attend, no matter how far his mind was in other matters.

 

[malina]

Her head felt fuzzy after her mental breakdown and the alcohol from earlier wasn't helping matters. Marcella moved as if she were underwater, taking double the time to do anything. Removing her bindings let her breath freely for the first time that day and she pulled on her usual oversized tunic, wincing slightly as it brushed over her rashes. Though it was more comfortable than her chainmail, the loose material meant that her itches would be vastly amplified with the breeze. It'd been a hours since her last body scouring and already Marcella seemed to feel tiny hairs bristling all over her body. To her, it felt like a jungle of vines was threatening to burst free at any moment. The only places she felt free were her burn scars - though they did not come without their own problems. Some nights she swore she could still feel the fire. She frowned before retrieving her bucket to fetch more water from Hilda.

The scene below was exactly as Marcella had left it. Drunks spilled out of every chair in sight and she had to lift up her tunic to avoid the puddles of drink that spotted the tavern floor. Hilda seemed to be in a good enough mood surprisingly enough. Marcella had known her to be a woman who hated work and the never ending amount of mugs that needed filling wasn't something she would have expected Hilda to be smiling about. As if picking up on Marcella's thoughts, the innkeeper in question came waddling over to take her bucket. "Good evening, Hilda. Ma-"


"Oh, gimme that!" With a flush in her cheeks, Hilda began to pump water into the bucket with a spirit like she'd never seen before. Marcella watched her curiously while trying to stay away from the patrons simultaneously. "You look happy today Hilda," she prodded cautiously, "Did something happen?" "Am always 'appy gel, always 'appy! Why, I never let a complaint fly from me mouth, ne'er!" She grunted, pausing to struggle with the spigot before resuming the water's flow. "A bleedin' saint, that I am. Should be mermelized in the Vatican itself for takin' care a these fellas e'erday!"

"Memorialized." Marcella corrected her quietly. Her interest in the small talk had waned however with the sight of a familiar looking man at the far end of the counter. "What wassat Mwarcella?" Hilda had finally coaxed enough water out of the spigot to fill the bucket. Her shifty eyes quickly picked up on who Marcella was staring at and with a little growl she pushed the bucket into her hands. Water slopped down against her tunic, snapping Marcella's attention back to the dumpy innkeeper. "Ees 'andsome, ain'tee? Some fancy Capitol boy. There ain't no common folk to be lookin' like that. Ah told ewe this wassan place for class! Some'uns finally seein' it." Suddenly the reason for Hilda's good mood all made sense.

"Is this what it's all about?" Marcella teased. The absurdity of the situation made her want to laugh. A noble in the Dancing Bear? Hilda's red cheeks flushed even more but she stood adamant in her words. "Go ahn see for yourself. Ahn you're welcome for the water." Watching Hilda walk away left Marcella with a twinge of guilt and a growing suspicion of the patron. Something about him did seem familiar, despite the shadows covering his face. Marcella took a few steps in his direction before stopping. She had what she'd come here for, the wet spot of her tunic confirmed that. But yet still... she sighed as she gave in to her curiosity. The day had been such a mess already that there was nothing that could make it worse.

She pushed her way through the drunken crowd and before long arrived at the far end of the counter. "Excuse me," she began hesitantly before pausing. When had she been so invested in a stranger? Though Hilda's reaction had been amusing, did it really matter if a nobleman was in the building? You're already in this deep, she gently chided. No point in turning back now. She leaned over slightly to get a better look of the man drinking and her heart leapt into her throat. Her suspicions were confirmed on the spot - it was the guard from earlier. Though there was a distinct lack of difference between his armoured self back at the castle grounds, there was no mistaking his steely gaze. "You look familiar." She choked out, barely holding on to her bucket. "What are you doing here?"

 

[VengefulPeanut]

"Y-you know..." Marlon cut in, his tone slurred before his sentence was interrupted by a hiccup. "Iiiiii... have an idea!" His mass crashed into the table as he tried to point to Robert yet somehow he didn't spill a drop of beer. The two had sank a fair few tankards and in combination with the hard liquor they had consumed back in the barracks the effects were very blatantly on show. Robert giggled at Marlon's lack of stability, his shoulders bouncing and head bobbing.

"Yoooouuuuu're drunk!" he laughed. "Yoooooooouuuu... are gone." Marlon's eyes flicked upwards before he pushed himself backwards, straightening himself in his chair. A severe look crossed his brow as he frowned at Robert.

"I am not *hiccup* go-ne!" His eyes drifted beyond the blonde knight before they shot open in surprise. Whether he was trying refocus his vision or whether Marlon had genuinely seen something Robert wasn't sure so, craning at the waist, he turned to observe the new visitor to the tavern - Bastian. "Okay... m-maybe I am *hiccup* gone. I'm seeing things... impossible things."

"What's he doin' here?" Robert's arm fell limp at his side as his posed his question, a question Marlon met with a quizzical look. Well, it was a quizzical look or a look of discomfort from a bowel movement, they looked very similar and one couldn't be sure. The two observed as Bastian conversed with the girl who approached him. Visibility was low and blurry so they couldn't quite make out her features however before their snooping could continue they were interrupted.

"Alrigh', handsome?" The girl's voice was youthful but screechy and from what Robert could tell she looked to be in her mid-20s. She materialized behind them from almost nowhere, her looks not noteworthy but somehow strangely appealing, her aroma hanging somewhere between ale and cheap perfume products. Looking up at the girl like a child about to be scolded Robert swallowed hard.

"A-are you talking to me?" he asked in a weak tone of voice. A snort drew his attention back to his Marlon who had raised his right arm upwards.

"The line!" he blurted in a hushed tone, though not so subtly that it would go unheard by everyone else present. Whether it was the wink or the two thumbs up his companion was giving him Robert was unsure but a rush of exhilarated confidence washed over him as he looked back to the girl. He gave her an alluring grin, one of that only a devilish rogue who had loved a thousand women could bear. Alas, Robert was not an alluring rogue at all so the smile came across as anything but appealing. It was more like the right side of his lip had seized up, really. Still, 'the line' couldn't fail. It had been expertly crafted by the two men, inspired by God's greatest gift to man (ale), engineered to be the pinnacle of seduction and sex appeal. This was the moment. Robert took a deep breath and steadied himself.

"I - I mean... whattt's a prinnncess like you doing in a dungeon like this?" His words slid from his lips with a purr and a flick of his eyebrow... maybe a teeny tiny slight dribble which he quickly saw to. While 'the line' certainly was the worst thing ever concocted by the two, the girl slid down and sat on Robert's lap, causing him to go red with embarrassment.

"Princess, eh? Are ya goin' t'be my knight in shining armour?" She ran her hand down the side of his face and he looked to the floor awkwardly.

Come on, Robert. You've got this.

"I... erm..." he stuttered looking back to her. He needed a line - something, anything to seal this deal. If only he could impress her he could get on with discovering the meaning of 'beer lenses'! Wait! She likes knights! "I... erm... like pplaying with ssswords?" A loud bang followed the delivery as Marlon's head slammed into the wood of the table from the shock.

"I didn't realise you were that way affiliated," she grimaced awkwardly, climbing off of him. "Are you and him... you know...?" she asked, motioning towards the lamenting Marlon. Robert gasped with shock, waving his hands clumsily and dismissively.

"Wah? No! I... I can explain..." It was too late. The girl had moved on.

"I... I like playing with swords?" a low growl emanating from Marlon's mouth asked before he raised his head again. It was the most sober he had sounded all night though his sloth-like demeanour proved otherwise. Before Robert could recover from his embarrassment however Marlon was already screaming over to Bastian. "Captain! CAAAAPT'IN!" This couldn't end well.

 

[Perfect Neglect]

A few moments passed before Bastian came to the realization that he should probably be drinking what had been poured for him, and he refocused his gaze. Whatever it was the woman had poured did not smell appealing, but he supposed it would be rude to reject her offer-- and what else had he come to a tavern for if not to drink? The knight had never been a drinker, the most he ever consumed being the occasional chalice of wine that was usually proffered at him by Maximus, but he hoped imbibing might help him find sleep. It certainly seemed to help others, anyway.

Plucking the glass from the counter, Bastian tipped the contents down his throat-- and nearly choked. It felt something akin to what he imagined broken glass would be like if swallowed and he squeezed his eyes shut as they threatened to tear up. The man to his left chuckled at his reaction to the drink, and clapped the knight on the shoulder. "Tha's not somethin' yeh usually drink all at once, lad," he said, his voice thick with amusement.

Bastian managed to clear his throat and gave the man a small nod, eyes still watering slightly. How anyone managed to drink that at any sort of leisurely pace, he was wholly unsure.

Despite the initial unpleasantness, the drink had begun to spread a slow warmth through his throat and chest-- but before he could really enjoy any of the sensation, the barmaid had returned.

"Knocked tha' back fast, didn'tchu?" She was smiling at him and reaching for a bottle, presumably to refill his glass.

"Well, I--"

"Not t'worry, 'andsome. Plenty more!" Still beaming, she grabbed his glass, refilling it before he could protest. "No need t'be shy," she said with a broad smile, "ewe need anythin' , jus' call for Hilda." And with that, she again moved off to tend to other calls for food and spirits.

Bastian sighed and stared down at the glass once more, giving the liquor a rather woeful look. He could simply leave, but despite the commotion and mildly unwanted attention of the barmaid, he wasn't unhappy with the location-- he felt almost drawn to it. Something about it was almost comforting in a way-- knowing that there were establishments outside of the palace where he could go and not be immediately recognized. Not that he was looking to make this a habit, but it was acceptable for a sleepless night after having been dismissed from the ball. Why had that occurred, though? What had he done to upset the King? His mind reeled as he slowly lifted the glass and took a considerably smaller drink of the burning liquid, forcing it down. Had he angered Maximus because he'd gotten to the garden too late to be of any use? Perhaps that was it. He should've forgone sleep that night-- he knew the Northerners were coming, he should've stayed awake, been more vigilant. He took another drink. Yes-- that must've been it; had he been there sooner, whatever encounter with the Pack might've been prevented… But why had Maximus chosen to go alone into the gardens at that hour-- and unarmed? Another drink-- and he cleared his throat.

Before he could contemplate any further, a soft voice drew his attention and he swiveled his head around in search of its source. Cool eyes fell on a familiar figure, and it took only a moment for him to put a name to the soft features and unusual energy emanating from her. The woman's statement was followed up by a question that made the knight arch a brow at her.

"I could ask you the same," he said, allowing his eyes to skim over her new attire. "Traded out the armor, I see." His voice was little more than a murmur, intended only for Marcella to hear. Not that it would matter to the patrons-- and not that many were sober enough to even comprehend, but he felt that such discussions were best kept hushed. "I take it this is where you're staying, then?" he asked, his gaze falling to the bucket in her hands. He was unsure if this was just happenstance of if he'd been subconsciously drawn to the place because of the foreigner.

About to comment on the situation, he was interrupted by a too-familiar voice, causing the knight to go visibly rigid.

Was that Marlon? What was-- well, drinking, by the way he sounded. And if he had to guess, he'd wager Robert was with here with him.

Not in the mood to discuss why he was in a tavern and feeling wholly embarrassed that he'd not taken notice of them sooner (so he could have chosen a different establishment), Bastian kept his back to them, ignoring the calls. A few patrons looked around the tavern, but no eyes seemed to linger on him. Perhaps if he ignored them long enough, they would assume they'd been mistaken; from the sound of it, Marlon had already had quite a lot. Unsure of what else to do, Bastian tipped his cup back to finish the rest of the bitter drink-- willing the two to lose interest and not wander over.

No sooner had his empty glass touched the counter, Hilda was back, again smiling at him-- and giving a knowing look to Marcella, and Bastian was beginning to get the impression that she was paying him far more attention that the other patrons. She seemed amused at Marlon's behaviour and was chuckling to herself as she again brandished a bottle and reached for the captain's glass.

"Please not that," Bastian said hurriedly, reflexively pulling the glass toward himself. He was beginning to feel very warm, and he didn't think he could force himself to suffer through anymore of that particular drink.

 

[malina]

Armour or no armour, Marcella felt the same calm and controlled presence the Kingsguard had exuded back in the palace. If that didn't squash any last doubts about his identity his comment about her armour certainly did. She set the bucket on the bar counter and simply nodded. It had seemed so easy back in her room. Without the sight of the Kingsguard in front of her it had been so simple to dream up her plans... but now Marcella found it hard to damn herself as her plan called. Now with the possibility of her death life, no matter how cursed hers was, was all too precious to throw away. For the first time that night, Marcella let her more selfish thoughts enter her mind. Did she really value some farmers' lives over her own? What made them more worthy of life than she? The niggling voice in the back of her head whispered of lycantrophy and it was getting harder to ignore by the minute. Luckily for her, Hilda and a pair of drunks bought her some time to prepare herself.

"I'll take one, Hilda." "Broken yeur vows, eh Mwarcella? S'alright. Ain't never met no 'oly man ou could resist a good drink anyways. A mug of sin for the holy mistress." She tapped her nose knowingly before pouring out the foul liquid and carrying on her way. Marcella watched her receding figure with a sensation akin to nostalgia. No matter how nosy and rude the innkeeper had been to her, she had come to view her as something close to a friend. Though it was a lowly bar Marcella was going to miss the place. She stared down into the depths of her cup, watching the swirling bubbles of the alcohol. "Dragonfire whisky. I always thought it was a bit dramatic." Marcella took a brazen gulp from the tankard before coughing immediately. Rather than go down her throat, it seemed to have gone up her nose judging from her searing nostrils. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve before she continued. "I'm not going to ask you why you're not answering your friends," she gestured towards the pair of what she now suspected to be Kingsguards, "and as you know, we both have secrets to hide." Another gulp of the drink made her foolish or bold enough to continue. "You once told me that I wasn't human. And you're right. I'm not." Her voice cracking now, Marcella blurted out her secret perhaps a little bit louder than she wanted to. "I'mawerewolfandyouneedtoarrestmerightnow."

 

[VengefulPeanut]

Noticing that 'Bastian' wasn't answering him, Marlon sank back into his chair with a sharp gasp, his hand travelling to rest on his ribs. After wincing, he looked to Robert with an embarrassed glint in his eyes. "Must not be him..." he mumbled, the slur still prevalent in his voice.

"Sz-that... or he ignored you," Robert responded in a very grim tone before waving his tankard about, his head falling to one side. "I wouldn't put it past 'o'captain of mine'." Marlon nodded in agreement before seeing the last of his drink to the bottom, Robert doing the same.

"W-what *hiccup* are we doin', Robert?"

"No, no, no, no, no." Robert shook his head about is if it bore the weight of an anvil, most of his upper body moving with it before he crashed on the table. "No depressive d-drunken talk... we've got *hiccup* enough of that to come. 'Visions that we bury underground return to abuse us'." Marlon snorted at Robert's last comment.

"I ssaaid you-you need to sstop going to those poetry performances."

"And I said *hiccup* nothing wrong with poetry. You're jjuuusst angry because you neeed to be more i-in touch with your feelings." Robert defended with a mischievous smile causing Marlon to howl with laughter. He had laughed so much at the idea, the striking pain in his ribs broke through the painkillers and alcohol leaving the knight literally trying to stop his sides from splitting.

"...And we wonder why it's hard to find you a girl."

The two continued bantering between one another but were subject, like everyone, to the sudden change in atmosphere caused by the girl at the bar declaring she was a werewolf. Both Robert and Marlon sat taken aback for a moment, watching in awe as the girl demanded that Bastian arrest her. The saying 'never a dull day' sprung to Robert's mind before he rose from his seat... a little stumble to complete the maneuver, of course. Following Robert's lead, Marlon did the same, both standing ready to interrupt if needed. The atmosphere of the tavern was tense. Most people eyed the girl up and down, ready to pull her apart for her curse, others reeled in fear. The danger of a mob forming was very real and the situation was far from good.

 

[Perfect Neglect]

When neither Robert nor Marlon made motion to approach him, Bastian relaxed somewhat and allowed his attention to shift back to Marcella. Curious as to Hilda's behaviour as she poured the girl her requested drink, the knight watched in silence-- though he was storing away the tidbits of information the innkeeper was letting slip. It was entirely possible that she was only jesting with the girl, teasing her for whatever reason people tended to, but it was also possible that this was useful. The first thing Bastian's mind had jumped to at the mention of "holy" and "vows" when addressing an Italian was the Vatican, but he supposed that was quite an assumption to make from such talk. Why, though, had the girl been so secretive about her reasons for being in court?

Blinking and giving the young woman a look as she sputtered and wiped at her eyes, the knight felt a small amount of inward satisfaction that he wasn't the only one in the place unaccustomed to drinking. Dramatic or not, he found the name of the beverage to be rather appropriate. Marcella, however, was quick to continue her words, though Bastian found little reason to point out that the men were more counterparts than comrades-- especially after today. It had been obvious he'd hit a nerve with the two knights, but he wasn't sure how to go about addressing it and, truthfully, it wasn't what he wanted to think about at the moment.

"Everyone has secrets," he replied dryly, watching as the girl took another drink. It seemed as though she was trying to bolster herself for something…

Her sudden confession took a brief moment for Bastian to process-- and only a second more for him to realize exactly how loudly she'd said it; half of the tavern must've heard, and the chatter immediately lessened.

Sparing a quick glance around, the knight noted that Robert and Marlon had gotten to their feet and he fixed a cold, almost dangerous gaze on them for the briefest of moments before turning back to Marcella-- and laughing.

The sound was strange to his own ears, as it wasn't something he'd ever done before, and he certainly wasn't feeling amused at the moment. Rather, the noise was an imitation of someone else's laugh: generic, but pleasant enough to sound genuine. Tipping his head up to gaze at Marcella and giving her a too-pleasant grin, Bastian reached out to claim one of her hands. "Next time we're acting out such a fantasy," he said, ensuring his voice was loud enough to reach the patrons staring them down, "do try to be a bit more passionate when you ask me to arrest you." He laughed again and got to his feet, his posture forcibly relaxed. "But I apologize," he continued, moving his hand to her waist, "I wasn't aware that doing this in public would make you so anxious. I think it's best we retire for the night and soothe those nerves." He was half-cooing the words at her, the toothy grin still splayed over his lips. This was not how he'd wanted this evening to end-- but apparently there was just no end to anything tonight.

Sweeping the bottle of whiskey from the counter and pressing it into Marcella's hands, the knight pulled the leather pouch from his belt and dropped it on the counter with a smiled "thank you, Hilda." He was overpaying, but that was of little matter; right now, he just wanted to be out of sight and mind. Collecting Marcella's bucket from the counter and sliding his hand back to her hip, he ushered her away from the bar and toward the stairs. Conversation had mostly returned to normal-- there was considerably more laughter now-- and Bastian could only hope that the patrons had bought into his rather brazen façade. He was confident that Robert and Marlon would still be concerned, even if just over their captain's behaviour, and he hoped they wouldn't do anything foolish. He would have to address the issue with them at a later time.

Once the two of them were on the staircase and out of sight of the other patrons, Bastian dropped his hand away from her hip. His smile had been replaced with an unreadable expression, though it was clear he wasn't thrilled with what had just transpired.

"Are you completely mad or do you just have a death wish?" he asked, his voice hushed.