Cold Approach

Uncharacteristically, the tavern he frequently visits in Stokbon was sparsely populated that night. Although there were many contacts who would gladly buy him a drink or two, Astor was completely alone, trapped in his own thought. He was sitting on a large wooden chair with one arm limply propped up by the chair arm, his digits hanging from the end of it. In his other hand was a half-finished ale that had gone stale by now. As he saw in front of the fireplace, his gaze was enthralled by the crackling fire that was flickering and swaying in front of him—the detective was tired and disconnected from his environment.

Slipping into a light nap for a brief moment, he saw the Spider Queen again, feeling his body sliding down the spiral of teeth that was her mouth, his flesh getting caught on the diagonally-pointed teeth as pain spread like a rapid fire across every inch of his body. The surreal nightmare felt so real that he immediately jerked awake. He was in cold sweats, his skin hot, with a burning sensation behind his eyes. Although he had never been afraid of spider, dying to Arachna the Spider Queen and obtaining arachnaphobia had made him unhinged. He was experiencing virtual PTSD, something he had never consider he would ever get to experience in a video game that was supposed to let people disengage from the real world.

Straightening himself from his slumped position, Astor tried to finish the last of his drink, but the staleness made it unbearable. Spitting the gulp he just had back into the mug, he quickly stood up and rushed toward the bar counter to top off. However, along the way, he accidently slammed into someone at least a head shorter than him. Fortunately, the alcohol miraculously stayed inside the mug. Recovering from the collision, he quickly apologized to his victim.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t see you there,” he spoke with a disengaged voice, not even looking at whom he was apologizing to.

@Selena

 

When Astor snapped out of his momentary lapse, he came to realize that there was no one around him and that he had been imagining the sensation of bumping into another warm body the entire time. Feeling like a complete dumb-ass that he literally apologized to freaking air, Astor turned his head from side to side, figuring out if anyone had seen his embarrassing blunder. Thankfully the bar was pretty sparse, and of the patrons that were around, no one was actually sober enough to even distinguish a potted plant from a woman.

Bee-lining toward the bartender, Astor rudely slapped coins onto the table. "Give me the strongest you've got, master. I think my depression is starting to make me hallucinate and imagine ephemeral things," he said.

The bartender did not take kindly to the gold coin scratching the surface of the glass table, not to mention the table's flawless surface could have cracked from the force Astor used. Despite that, he kept his calm and mixed a drink too potent for the future king.

"Dysk'vyel, Elven drink as strong as poison, strongest we've got," the barkeep spoke with thick accent that originated from beyond Falderen.

The moment the drink changed hand and the scent entered Astor's nose, he was immediately knocked out. The barkeep was not joking when he said the drink might as well be poison in a cup.

At that moment, Astor decided to log out of the game for the night. He was clearly becoming an alcoholic in game and started to waste a lot of time in bars and taverns while playing as of late, which he shifted all responsibilities on the death affliction and the virtual PTSD he was experiencing.

One could only hope he could pull himself out of that rut...

/exit thread