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“Duel me,” Morb says, twirling a piece of flint between his fingers. It’s late night at the bar and it just so happens that he and Pass are the only ones there and awake. “What? No- no, I can’t, I’d lose.” Pass laughs nervously, glasses clinking in his hands. It’s a fact. There’s a reason he’s sworn off fighting since the start of the season.
Morb came over around half an hour ago, claiming boredly that sleep didn’t take him, that he never loses, not even to such a thing as dreams. Pass knows him just well enough to see something swirling around his sea-blue-sky-blue eyes, but for the good of both of them, he doesn’t pry. “Duel me.” This time, it’s nearly an order. An order placed with a little bit of hesitance. Pass sighs, wipes his honey-stained hands on a rag, finishes stacking some bottles on the counter, and grabs a sword. He pretends not notice anything. It’s normal. Everything’s normal, everything’s fine. It will stay that way.
Morbius leads them to the small area in front of the bar. Empty, save for the small amount of mobs wandering around. Morb has killed them all by the time Pass has pulled out a speed potion, which he downs, more for the energy boost and less for the actual effect. He wouldn’t know how to properly use it anyway, not enough skill behind him to be worth anything.
Even with just a wooden sword and no armor, Morb is still frighteningly quick on his feet, parrying every halfhearted swing Pass attempts and pressing back ever so slightly harder. The adrenaline kicks in quickly after that. Pass’s subconscious knows that this is just a practice for them, for him to focus on something other than whatever was on his mind before. It doesn’t stop his feathers flaring in fear whenever a certain blow lands too close for comfort. Why couldn’t Morb catch anyone else? Why him, why not someone like Cog, Pom, or Kuno? He’s seen them all fight, and while it doesn’t know much about pvp, he can say with certainty that they’re all better than him.
Morb stumbles over one of the many holes littering spawn and Pass takes the chance to swing the wooden sword towards him. It collides with Morb’s shoulder roughly, the way it does when you’re unpracticed and have sworn off pvp for the months before. He stumbles a little, sucks in a breath, eyes widening before narrowing again as he takes a defensive stance.
Pass raises the sword up, preparing itself for another round of Morb striking at him from all sides, stars twinkling above. It’s a nice night, sometime nearing the winter, with the cool breeze ruffling up its somewhat long hair. His wings flare open, fluttering nervously. Morbius swings his sword again, narrowly missing Pass. It can tell he’s not trying very hard, in pity or in weariness. It’s not kindness, for sure.
The next few minutes go like this: actually, Pass changed its mind, it’s not going to think about it. It’s honestly kind of lame and more than pathetic, all his halfhearted, feeble attempts at doing much of anything against someone better than him in every way. Except for compassion, perhaps, but he never really knows, with Morb.
And maybe if he was any better than he was now, he’d manage to lose himself in the sound of wood against wood, more fumbled blunt force than the musical clanging of metal. It’s only until the strings that tie Morb’s sword together snaps, the blade of the item falling to the grass and leaving a useless hilt does he frown, and pause his movements. He stands a little straighter now, looking both more closed off and better than before. “Cool. Thanks.” Pass nods slowly, watching him throw the hilt into the ocean under his bar; any other day, it’d chide him for littering under his wonderful piece of land, but his palms feel rough and raw from the friction of holding onto his own sword, so it doesn’t bother. Its hands are much better off building and brewing, after all. At least Morb had the decency to offer a thanks, so he’ll take whatever win it’ll get.
He thinks he’s more or less unharmed. Maybe it’ll wake up a bit bruised tomorrow, but no deaths have happened tonight and he wants to keep it that way. Pass’s eyes flick to Morb, who is just standing there and staring into nothing- or maybe pieces of driftwood that have washed up against the shore. Maybe the distant hills. “I’m going back,” he murmurs, and it doesn’t care if Morb catches the words or not. Pass turns and climbs back into its bar.
-
He finds himself on the roof of the bar, propped up against the observatory-esque tower and soft carpet under his fingers. There’s a bottle of alcohol sitting next to him; it’s not opened, the liquid still within. Pass doesn’t even know what he grabbed, just put his hands around the neck of the first bottle he saw, one of the few laying over a table in the back. It lets its eyes drift over, a neutral frown tugging at his face as he reads the label. A cider, it reads in his own handwriting, not particularly old and nowhere near the designated time to drink. It briefly prides itself in having all the dates written down on every bottle. Making alcohol has always been a passion of his, after all.
Unfortunately, cider, good as it is, is not mead. Pass mourns the lack of mead briefly; he loves the taste and process of brewing it, he loves having a reason to construct honey farms and spend his time in a sweet-scented flower forest. He’s thinking about popping the cork off and taking a sip regardless when Morbius emerges onto the roof from god knows where. If he flew, Pass would have heard him. Maybe. It doesn’t have enough faith in itself for this.
“Hullo,” he greets boredly, pointedly not looking at the guy. Morb doesn’t grace him with a response, only glancing at the bottle curiously before his gaze returns to the sky. “Nice stars tonight,” he says, almost pointless. Pass doesn’t know if he should say anything at all, actually.
What does he feel, actually?
Pissed, maybe. Annoyed at having to entertain Morbius when he could have been working, frustrated that he’s the one to be sought out. Tired, drained, and wanting to be left alone? He got what he wanted already. Pass huffs, wings ruffling in the almost unnoticeable breeze as Morb situates himself a few blocks to his side.
Whatever. He’s not getting through the rest of the night without being at least a little drunk.
Pass reaches for the bottle, which had fallen on its side, pulling out a knife from who knows where. He takes a second to appreciate the job done to it: the golden thread tied where the crimson-tinted glass widens, the two ends tied into a drooping bow and slightly frayed from age. The brownish, rough texture of the paper against the skin of his fingers, which reminds it of romanticized letters sealed with wax and pressed flowers.
It does actually own a nice corkscrew opener, hidden somewhere below where he sits. It’s a pretty, flourished thing, carved carefully with symbols that look more embroidered on than forged. Maybe. He’s not super good with metaphors, or similes, or comparisons or imagery. Pass thinks he has always been one for logic. But, anyways, the blade he has in his hands right now is a much more simple, effective thing, sharpened at the end and almost unused. It jabs it directly into the cork.
Pass struggles for a few seconds before he manages to twist and pull out the now mutilated cork. Morbius is pretending to not eye him. If he laughs at it, it’s going to push him off the roof and not look down. He sets his knife to the side, planning to deal with the new problem later, and takes a sip out of the bottle. No patterned glasses placed conveniently in his enderchest, but there’s a saying that goes, beggars can’t be choosers. Not that it’s a beggar.
The amber liquid that drips onto his tongue is exactly as he expected. What kind of bartender would he be if he hasn’t tried all his recipes? Pass swallows the sweetness, and it burns slightly when it goes down his throat. He takes another sip regardless, and makes a promise to not drink the entire bottle tonight. He’ll wake up feeling awful tomorrow; he does not want to do that.
They spend a while in silence. Once Pass thinks he’s had enough, once the cut in his mouth starts burning because he bit it earlier, he sets the now-partially-empty bottle down, and blinks drowsily at Morb. “Don’t make me do that again.” Pass has enough resolve left in him to not glare at Morb. “I’m not doing this with you next time. Find someone else, or something.” Morb scoffs after a moment, and Pass thinks he’s going to bite a sharp retort at him, something like you’re not hurt, you’re fine. It went okay, but then he pauses, reconsiders. “Okay.” Pass raises an eyebrow, wings bristling uncomfortable. This is unfamiliar. “Okay?”
Morb makes some waving gesture with his right hand. “Yeah, okay. Fine. Whatever, who cares. Do you want me to say anything else?”
Pass supposes he could press for an apology. But then they’d start talking again, and he doesn’t want to talk, and it would surely result in one of them getting hurt. Probably him. Probably with glass, honestly. So he lets it go. Forgive and forget; if he held grudges, then he wouldn’t have been alive this long.
“No,” it says easily, and relaxes. The wall digs into its shoulder in an uncomfortable way, and the chill of the air is setting in where its skin is exposed. Pass is both too hot and cold, which is a sensory combination made in hell. Morb huffs a breath that sounds vaguely amused, and Pass tilts his head back to stare into the twinkling sky. “Should probably get you inside...” Morb sounds far away now, his voice distant even though Pass knows he’s only four blocks away. “Yeah. Hey, up, dude.” Pass makes some affronted noise and pushes himself up onto his feet, feathers fluttering to stabilize him. He almost collapses instantly, leaning against the wall. Morb’s probably laughing at him, posting shit about it in the serverchat. Pass will have to meet with god about smiting him off the server.
It does eventually end up inside the bar, walls providing enough of a barrier from the outside air that he’s mostly warm. It thinks Morb followed it from a distance away, but he’s probably gone by now. Off killing and killing and killing and killing. And scamming, committing assault, vandalism, and so many other crimes. When his impromptu speculation session ends, Pass finds itself standing in front of a bed. Who is he to refuse?
Yeah. It’s definitely going to have a killer headache tomorrow. But, lately, Pass has been more accepting of unfortunate events that happen to him.