freya has never been much of a drinker. drinks have always marked occasions for her - bubbles when she took the morningstar name at eighteen, red wine over a fine steak following the wake of ALEXANDER STONE, and most recently an attempt at wrangling feelings flayed by her own selfish delusions. what else is there to do after a meteor nearly ends your life and what little you had left, you gave only to have it spit back in your face?

she hisses through another shot of tequila. her stomach protests exponentially, but she swallows back the bile in her throat and swings away from the man who brought it to her in the first place.

her clothes were scavenged from a secondhand store. most of her wardrobe collects dust in sootopolis, lost to a territory that maddeningly remains untouchable.

she claws her way through the crowded bar in a plight to shake loose the scum from the soles of her flats. it's hard to lose her in a crowd, what with her braided silver hair. the crest upon her neck, pokeball at its center, is a topic of conversation, but most passersby don't know her well enough to make it a connection to 'councilwoman once upon a time.'

eventually she lands right next to another blonde at the bar and reaches forward, waving her hand out in a futile attempt to get the bartender's attention.

"'s this place alwaysso packed?" she asks, tongue thick in her mouth, words slurring. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli
outfit

☉

leering faces with sideways smiles. how many of them know what it means to be hunted? how many have felt choking grasps around their throat, everything they've ever wanted and will ever want torn from them before their eyes? storm blue gaze scrutinizes them, trying to focus on individual faces, but they shift incomprehensibly, raucously. 

unwelcome/unbecoming aid comes and shortly after some sort of drink. pearl dust swirls within it, looking like a galaxy. her fingers dimple the glass. she forgets she asked a question.

the answer comes anyway, ignoring her short-term memory loss, and she nods.

"i don'usually drink." she looks around again. "or gamble. but isthe end of the world, so why - why not?" she takes a sip, sways. "d'you? drinker gamble?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

the person who has captured her interest right now is not nearly as shit-faced as she is (not many are). if the place wasn't as packed as it is right now, there's a very good chance the bartender would have stopped serving her a few drinks ago. then again, she's very good at keeping a sober face. it's only when she opens her mouth that:

"ah, 't always comes down ta blood, mhm. maybeee that's why 'm way i am, y'know?" killed her mom and made her dad give up (but he didn't. he was just sorry. so sorry he couldn't give you everything you needed, freya. and he's sorry still - if only you knew. if only you knew.)

freya lights up, though, when elisabeth laughs. 

"oh, ohhh," she sings as she clinks her too-full glass into elisabeth's. "see, thassit. brief. brieeeef. those people. the megalalapeleons. they wanna dead. us dead. 'n maybe we 'serve it." she grins, all teeth. 

"ehknow i do."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

"a trabble fate indeeded." so that must be it. it must be her fate to deserve the hand she's been dealt. it must be something laughing and spitting and howling at her and it must be deserved. she must pay for not saving her mother and her father and alex and emma and all the others who have come and gone. 

all this dust and these ashes and she's surrounded by them, by their walls, stuck in this sandbox with fistfuls of them. in her throat and her ears and her eyes and the stench of death, pretty ethereal skin stained gray. 

she laughs, sharp and angry, and slams her palm against the bar. "nenenenooo. but'm fernanana says a me, sghhhhh-hush-ush, no biting. no biting or they'll think emma megalolalapolan."

she stretches her lips, touches her fingers to her teeth. "see? no pointy. but artemis. artemis. hers is pointy. because she was worth it."

the look on her face tightens. soberly, she steadies her gaze on elisabeth's and inhales. exhales. 

burps. 

"h'you e'er wanna become a god?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

freya thinks she's making quite a lot of sense. freya thinks she might be saying too much and too soon. after all, this is just a stranger. after all, she's a wanted woman. or is she a wanted woman? no, she's unwanted. unloved and unwanted and unworthy.

fingers fumble for her glass. oh, that's a stranger's glass. but she's drinking it anyway and they're too drunk to notice. it's whiskey and it's syrupy sweet and idly, she knows this is the drink that will set her over and set her spinning and swirling and all of her insides up her front.

but not now. not yet. 

she grimaces. 

"hoogh, you. you get me. y'know? 'cause you know. i was one offfff'em, you know. pink ladies. mm, smelled so good 'n you want more an' more an' mhm. but it wassuh me."

she sits down very suddenly at the counter of the bar, and presses her hands firmly on elisabeth's shoulder, and places all of her trust in her when she says, 

"am gonna be sick."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

tw; retching / vomiting

it seems placing her trust in the florist is not the best thing. not for either of them, really. because that sickly feeling spreads from the back of her tongue, across her cheeks, and her stomach gives one very final and very sudden, um, no thank you, before expunging the poison from inside of it. 

more than a mouthful of whiskey and tequila and vodka comes back up and out of freya's dainty mouth. she lurches forward, hands blindly fumbling for elisa, her new best friend, and gripping her shoulders so hard she would probably fear breaking them if she were sober.

but she's not sober, as evident by the convulsing of her back as she retches all over elisabeth's front and into her lap. the bartender yells and a wide berth is instantly given to the girls as the rank smell of vomit quickly fills the air.

she tries to say something, but more spurts out from behind her teeth. her dizziness threatens her just then and very suddenly she is aware that she might pitch headfirst into elisa's lap, which means into the impressive pool that's formed in elisa's lap. so she recovers enough to veer sideways and instead fall onto the floor so hard her teeth shake in her jaw. 

she is dully aware of the bartender yelling at elisabeth to take her and get the fuck out. 

and all freya can do is mumble through a split lip, with furrowed brows, is, "my ma'am mlyslelf. my ham my hell. i. am. my-self."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

she is floating up and off the floor. no, wait, that's her companion lifting her arm and saying something to her face. her lashes flutter. the ground is just so cozy and she feels like she could sleep for an eternity. like one big slumbering dragon. wouldn't that be nice?

except there is a cloth being pressed to her lips and despite her best attempts to pffbt pffbt it away, it's persistent. so she sits up - too quickly, regretting it instantly - and obliges to being cleaned up like a baby. 

with her pride lost somewhere in the foul puddle behind them, she allows her blonde companion to drag her out of the bar and onto the street. from there, she sits heavily, and frowns down.

"m'home's gone. taken by'em rockets." she reaches for the blonde's hand. "c'n i have some water?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉