2019-06-22 - Alcohol for Breakfast?


Sif and Ambrose appreciate the liquors of their worlds. Ambrose tries telling a story while drunk. Torte is not Sif's favorite dessert.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Sat Jun 22 04:42:26 2019
Location: Asgardian Embassy

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Having agreed upon an evening to share food, drink, and stories, Sif meets with Ambrose in the small garden section of the Embassy brownstone's rooftop. The water feature installed there helps reduce the general noises of the city surrounding them, though doesn't entirely cover it. Unsure of what might or might not be acceptable for a Midgardian sharing of tales, she opts to keep things simple, no decorations that might normally be seen at a dinner party on Asgard. It really isn't a party anyway, with so few people participating.

She made sure to leave the furs behind. Midgard is almost unbearably warm to her. Likely doesn't help that she's still wearing jeans, shirt, jacket, and boots.

Her contribution to the evening is beverages, which she selected with the assistance of one of the Midgardians employed in the Embassy. She also brought a modest amount of Asgardian mead, having been told in no uncertain terms that it is lethal to Midgardians in more than tiny quantities. The tiny glass… glass she was given and told 'no more than this' was eye-opening, as one of her usual tankards would fill the tiny thing at least sixteen times over.

The Einherjar were cordial to the master-thief, even if his sign-in last time was from upstairs and not through the front door. Sif's presence no doubt mollified the worst of concerns. This time, he's escorted to the rooftop and greets Sif with a lift of his hand along with a small smile. He's not effusive in his greeting nor in his dress; uncertain as to what would have been appropriate, he chose to wear a dress-shirt in a steel-blue overtop a white undershirt and, unusually enough, black slacks rather than fatigues.

The Jackal also arrives bearing a small bakery box which he sets down on the small table nearby. "Milady Sif," murmurs the man, before he sketches a courtly bow not seen since the crowds of Queen Victoria. "I am honored to be within your abode once more…with a proper invitation this time." He grins cheekily before glancing around the rooftop. "This appears to be a charming place. I am reminded of my own backyard. I should install a fountain, however. It would be soothing to hear."

And to drink out of in the dog days of summer.

Sif returns Ambrose's greeting with a bow of her own that seems far less formal in comparison before gesturing to the small seating area where she's set the selection of beverages. Most are bottles that would be familiar to anyone who frequents a liquor store, but there are a few oddities, including a pitcher of what looks like fruit juice and a container of the almost immediately recognizable Asgardian mead.

"I wasn't sure what your preference would be, so I chose a variety with some assistance." The only really noteworthy thing about the various liquors is that all are either interesting looking bottles, or have labels with imagery that must have caught her eye. Like the plain seeming clear bottle with a grey label that is mostly take up by a red dragon.

"I see," replies Ambrose as he takes up one of the seats. He makes himself comfortable briefly before seeming to remember the white bakery box. "I've brought along a chocolate torte. I was informed by the young man behind the counter that it is the best in New York City. I suppose we'll have to discover if he makes a liar of himself." He taptaps the white box once more beginning to tear it open along its perforated edges.

While he does this, he's openly eyeing the selection of bottles and beverages available. His peel-back of the top of the white box pauses when he espies the yellow-tinted glass bottle. It's corked, shaped like a pear, and contains not only what appears to be an intact venomous snake, but also a highly-venomous scorpion.

His cerulean-blue eyes flick back to Sif and he laughs incredulously, holding her gaze with his brows lifted. "Milady Sif, I never took you for an overtly risky woman. You are aware of what that concoction likely contains?" he asks as he finishes revealing the torte. It glistens with fresh ganache and smells heavenly, dark and thick of cake with a touch of cloves to further deepen the taste.

Sif's eyes also look at the odd pear-shaped bottle. "…no? It seemed unusual. Though the shopkeeper could not answer when I asked what manner of sorcery was used to put the creatures inside the bottle." She lifts said container to look at the cobra and scorpion inside more closely, revealing a normal-enough frosted bottle behind it… with cerulean blue liquid inside.

The chocolate torte is revealed and she sets the bottle down again to look at the pastry. "This is food? This doesn't appear to be much of a meal."

"I admit that I ate dinner before I arrived and, as such, thought we might indulge in dessert. If you are concerned of its…richness, milady, have no fear. Start perhaps with one piece and see what your mouth tells you. If you've an inclination for more than one piece, I won't stop you in the least," Ambrose assures her even as he plucks out two plastic forks tucked inside the broken-down box. He offers one to Sif and then takes a forkful of the torte.

"As for the bottled serpent-craft, I think we should indulge in it another time. It will likely go poorly with the torte. However, if I may assume, there is something I've heard tell of time and time again through my various connections throughout the city. Mead?" The Jackal can't help the slow curl of a smile, enticing, charming, beguiling — of course he wants to try the fabled brew. "I suppose that might go well with the chocolate…?"

"Of course. I was not expecting to drink them all tonight, they merely seemed interesting." Not that they would affect her overmuch if she decide to do so, even the one that is likely laced with venom.

When Ambrose asks about the mead, she smiles as if she'd been expecting that question. "I was informed that I'm to not allow you more than this much as it could be lethal to Midgardians." She lifts the shotglass to illustrate, even though she knows two Midgardians that seemed quite cheerful but otherwise unharmed by a tankard each. "Do you prefer this tiny container, or to thin the mead with water?" That IS a viable option in her opinion, she has seen children sample the beverage in this manner, though only when very closely monitored by their parents.

Ambrose slows in his chewing and gives Sif what's most likely an insulted frown, at least at first, when he hears of the small amount he will be allowed while on the premises of the Embassy. He licks his lips and gestures at her with his fork.

"I know you think me no more than a cub, but I assure you, milady, I can handle at least…two pure, un-watered shotglasses of your mead. I had a past-time in drinking those of sturdier livers under the tables in Shanghai." His grin is all challenge now. "Come now, at least one more shotglass?" He's very raring to see how this goes.

Sif looks at Ambrose searchingly. "I was very strongly advised, otherwise I would not hesitate. Perhaps just the one for now? I suspect it would not reflect well at all on Asgard if a Midgardian were to perish from our beverage."

Instead of pouring the mead, even that one little shot glass, she takes up the plastic fork and claims a corner of the torte to taste. It's … VERY sweet, almost excessively so, though she's noticed that overly sweet things do seem to be very popular on Midgard, as are foods that almost literally burn her mouth.

"Then it appears I shall have to prove myself. That is well and good. We are both warriors after all. How better to do as such than beginning with the first? The second will follow soon enough." The brunet seems confident in his own self-assessment. Talbot's probably massaging his temples or at least intending to do so shortly.

He watches Sif's face as she takes her bite of torte and can't help the small smile. "Well? A penny for your thoughts on it? Must I go back and inform the young man that liars receive their due comeuppance at some point?" Or is the torte good after all?

Apparently appeased by Ambrose's concession, she pours the one shot's worth of mead for him before filling her own tankard. "I think," she says slowly as if choosing her words carefully, "that I am not the best person to judge Migardian foods. I have never tasted this before, so I would not know if it is superior or not."

Oh so very diplomatic. And she covers up any other comments with a swig of her mead. She drinks it like Brits drink their beer.

Her response is enough to make Ambrose laugh. It's a rare sound, light in surprise rather than growling in the back of his throat and behind his teeth. "Your diplomacy is to be lauded, milady. You would have been an excellent inclusion at the consulate." Still, that…is his shotglass of Asgardian mead.

He pinches the small glass and sniffs at it carefully. He sets the fork down beside the torte and then licks at the surface of the mead, almost canine-like. Its taste is mulled around on his tongue and he gives her another smirk.

"It's sweeter than I expected. «To your good health»," he says in Farsi, which no doubt translates just fine to Sif's ears —

— and then he shoots the glass without a blink. The whole thing. In one sitting. Smacking his lips, he looks at her and then spreads out his arms as if to say, look, it's done nothing!

Sif watches Ambrose sample the mead in a rather unusual manner and doesn't seem all that confused by it — after all, how is she to know what the proper drinking customs are where the man was raised? But then he just tosses back the entire shot in one go, and while for her that's seemingly nothing as a single swig from her tankard is at least that much liquid, she's clearly concerned about how it's going to affect the Midgardian.

Opting not to take another taste of the torte (for now, at least), she takes another swig of her own mead while watching Ambrose alertly. There were indicators that she was told to watch for if medical assistance was required.

Ambrose forks up another mouthful of torte and leans back in his chair, so very confident that he's going to weather this storm in his usual supernatural manner.

"Whilst we see what comes of the mead, do allow me to share a tale. You are a warrior and given I am as well, albeit one of singular means," he demurs with a roll of his free hand to one side, " - it will be a warrior's tale. How to begin."

He sucks on his canine tooth again, eyes off to one side, and then sighs. "With a man who aspired to climb to a thorny throne in a kingdom of scarlet and jade…in Shanghai. Shanghai is far from here, many miles and across an ocean, and when I lived there, I ruled my personal kingdom unbeknownst to many. This man, who called himself Black, had not only a vendetta against another warrior-clan, but against myself. You see, we were not companions, not at first. Our initial clash ended in blood and ire. We clashed more than once afterwards and after nearing successfully killing one another, we came to a peace. It was…unsteady at first, but peace. We also had a common enemy." Ambrose allows himself a sliver of a cold smile. "We had many a battle, but the final rout came when…when…oh bloody hell, that is…"

He lifts up his hand and stares at it. "My god, it tingles like ice-fire." Sif is given a surprised stare followed by a more woozy slow blink.

Honestly a bit impressed that Ambrose seems so completely unaffected by the mead, Sif listens to his story, though it seems a bit lacking in the details that make an excellent tale by Aesir standards. And then… then the mead clearly hits him. She promptly puts down her tankard.

"Ambrose, this is what I was concerned would happen." She stands from her chair and steps over, ready to pick the man up and call for medical assistance.

The Jackal is shocked by the amount of concern on display. "No…no-no, m'lady, don't worry about me! It's not more than a tingle at best. I assure you, please — sit," he insists gently, gesturing to her chair again. "I was attempting to regale you with a tale. It is a good one, I promise you."

Ambrose points at her chair again, lolling just a little in his own. "Sit, sit. I've honestly a tale of daring-do and an entire building burning down."

Too late, Sif is actively worrying. But, Ambrose claims to be fine, so she'll give him the benefit of the doubt. For the moment. Moving back to her chair but only sitting on the edge so she can get back to her feet in a hurry if needed, she watches the man carefully. "Then do continue, Ambrose."

She is never pouring a shot of undiluted mead for a Midgardian again. Ever.

"Thank you, m'lady, you are…sho kind." Now the slurring of inebriation is kicking in. Ambrose leans back in his chair again, his expression going content and relaxed moreso than Sif has ever seen. It might be an indicator of succor found in liquor to the experienced eye.

"Now'm, where was I…? Yesh, the theatre. So, our enemy was a warring clan and th'idiots decided to kidnap me. Yesh, me," he insists, placing a palm to his chest. "Now, Black, he was not approving of thish, and when he came t'find me, we ended up accidentally setting the theater on fire. I think it was a matter of wiring…? Someone pulled it from the ceiling. Regardless, I took on thish behemoth of a man, taller than me by a head — no, two heads — with my bare hands and strangled the life from him while bleeding of mortal wounds!"

He pauses and frowns at her suddenly. "…no, wait, I strangled the other ruddy fuckwit with my bare hands. The other man, he…mmm…guns?" His hand flops heavily to his thigh. "Regardless, there was much blood and we barely made it out before being caught afire ourshelvesh, myself 'nd Black."

Wow, this guy needs coaching on his Aesir-level storytelling.

If he were Aesir, Sif would think he'd been drinking steadily for HOURS. It's truly disconcerting to watch firsthand how differently Midgardians react to mead. That tiny glass was … insignificant. And yet.

"And this was in the realm of Shanghai? How many centuries ago?"

"Oh, no more than a century ago. I am but a young cockerel in comparishon to you, m'lady, you and your beauty," the Jackal replies to Sif, giving a gallant if drunken wave of his hand towards her. "It wash in the realm of Shanghai, yesh, and what a place it wash. The nigh’ life wash unparalleled. A man could grasp any vice he wished in’is hands with nothing more than a shnap of his fingersh."

He tries to snap and fails. And fails again. And squints at his hand like it's broken.

Coordination is failing, she's seen that state before in her fellow warriors. It's likely about time to pour the man into a bed and let him sleep. But first…
Sif gets a clean tankard out and fills it with water. "Drink this, please." She sets the tankard in front of Ambrose, and really hopes she doesn't have to feed it to him.

"Oh, that ish…" Ambrose leans forwards in his chair and almost faceplants on the table. The furniture jounces in places as he grabs at it to stop himself and he laughs in a husky manner even as he slumps back into his seat.

"Oh-ho-ho, ish water! Oh, that'sh — " Apparently, this is goddamn hysterical to him. He ends up clutching his stomach and whooping there on the rooftop. At one point, he wipes at his eyes and give Sif a bleary little smile. "F'give me, m'lady, I am…deep in my cupsh, yes, I am. I should rectify this…"

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The air around him shivers close to his skin and he can be seen to shudder once, as if someone drew a cold finger down his spine. Then, with a sigh and a sniff, he blinks as if waking up from a dream.

"That is…extremely potent liquor," he allows with a modicum of rueful respect (and no more lisp) as he takes up the tankard of water. Down that goes in a few gulps and he sighs, giving Sif a crooked close-lipped smile.

Sif was NOT expecting the sudden recovery from being that badly inebriated. She's never seen anyone go so abruptly back to sober, unless it was Loki faking having been drunk in the first place.

"It … does take a bit of getting used to. Though, I was of the understanding that Midgardians were much more affected by liquor than Aesir." Now she's considering the bizarre assortment of Midgardian liquors again.

Ambrose leans in to grab another mouthful of chocolate torte. He needs cup his hand beneath it to avoid crumblets from falling and pauses the bite before his mouth to look up at Sif.

"Midgardians…? -ians. Of…Midgard…? Oh, that's bloody right, the tree. Regardless, those of humanity do tend to be more receptive to the state of inebriation, yes, and you've got a motley collection of examples of ways to accomplish this." He eyes the yellow-bottle and then the frosted bottle with what appears to be fluorescent blue liquor. "I do dare you to sip from that one there," he nods at the Hpnotique in particular, sporting a smug little smile that screams a disbelief that she'll follow through.

Sif looks at the frosted bottle, and can only think that some of the healing tinctures from the healers rooms could not be much better. So why not? She reaches and plucks the bottle from the group, uncapping it easily. Her tankard still has mead, the tiny glass is over by Ambrose… meh, fine, whatever.

She puts the bottle to her lips and drinks a few swallows of the lurid blue liquor straight from it. Then, she seems to be considering the flavor for a few moments. "It reminds me of a beverage from," she seems to be really thinking about it. "Vanaheim? Perhaps Alfheim. Spiced berries made into a drink usually served to children with breakfast."

She doesn't really register the alcohol content at all.

Ambrose folds his arms now as he leans back into the chair. His lips curl at the corners in a truly puckish manner — he picked that up from Talbot, no doubt, who can smile like a sphinx.

"I have yet to meet someone from that place. Vanaheim," he echoes. "I shall have to look it up on a dreary day over tea. By all means, kill the bottle." He draws a circle at Sif with his fork. "Unless you think you cannot. Your people do drink potent liquor after all."

Sif looks at Ambrose a bit oddly. "I was born on Vanaheim. I was trained to be warrior on Asgard." She considers the bottle, then takes one more swig before recapping it to set aside. "I think I shall save the rest for breakfast." Looking at the other bottles, she picks the plain seeming one with the gray and red label next. "The shopkeeper recommended this one. I thought the creature depicted on the bottle to be a worthy adversary to hunt."

He's not laughing with some great effort judging by the roll of his lips, and Ambrose regains his aplomb soon enough after working through the amusement of liquor for breakfast. Granted, he's had days that necessitated this, but not for a long time.

"Then I suppose I can claim that I have met someone from Vanaheim after all. But do you think so? Hunt the creature?" He eyes its design and hums thoughtfully to himself. "…I suppose one could do as such. I would choose to engage from afar rather than run in myself. I am but crunchy and taste good with ketchup, to quote the modern age." He smirks.

"Truly? Then I shall ask the feasibility of going on such an adventure." She fumbles a bit with unstoppering the bottle then takes a swig of the amber contents. Her eyes narrow a bit as she seems to consider the flavor of this drink, then sets the bottle back on the table.

"It tastes of burnt wood and soil."

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