Nir could do nothing more than cringe at the suggestion, immediately shaking his head and vehemently agreeing with Vivian. Right now he wanted to keep himself as far away from the stuff as possible; after all, it was almost certain that this 'training exercise' was going to end in an inquest or something. "I don't, really, it's... it's not my cup of tea, I can't even stomach the taste!" Alright, so maybe a little of it was trying to look cool and mature in front of Vivian, but only a little. She seemed much better at dealing with intense pressure and conflict anyway. Better to just align himself with her as close as he could and let her deal with it.
Either way, Vald really didn't seem to care in the slightest, just shrugging his shoulder and spinning the bottle between his fingers with a lopsided leer. "Suit yerselves!" he barked with a sharp laugh, nearly letting the bottle slide between his fingers before catching it around the neck and slamming it back onto the counter with a little too much force for it to be intended. It earned plenty of feather-ruffling from the three Storm Rocs and a sharp screech from one, enough to pierce the ears if neither of them shut out the noise fast enough. "Better keep ahold of them nerves then, kiddies. 'Cause these ones smell the shivers on yah. Don't like 'em. S'like a lotta animals, they can sense the fear on yeh, take advantage of it." He pointed a finger at Nir'wei first, then Vivian. "Yous better remember it. Else, s'not just you that yah put in danger, nuh. S'ya friends and stuff, too. If'n you feel it start, take a swig. Heh, it's the responsible thing to do!" Nobody as utterly drunk as him should have been as sincere as he was, giving this advice, but there was a look in his eye as he swung back and forth between them both that seemed very serious about the advice he'd just given them, offering the bottle one more time before pulling it back and leaving it twirling in one hand.
"Mm'h! Good, yeh both know that much at least, makes me job a helluva lot easier. These big birdies be great for fightin' on, equally good fer fightin' other winged riders, or 'gainst men on the ground, if'n you know the right weapon to use when yer on 'em." For emphasis he pointed up at a polearm hanging above the stall, nailed to the ceiling beam by the shaft. It looked like a regular halberd, only the shaft was incredibly long, more comparable to a pike or a two-handed long spear than a regular-sized halberd's handle, and the axe-blade was more of a half-moon, large and round instead of short and straight. "That's the ticket. Special made, mm'h. Use 'em plenty meself, long reach for gettin' it close to ground, or over the wings. Get lucky, y'might get the chance to use one! Maybe! Heh, if yah impress me." The grin he shone them both when he turned back and peeked over his shoulder was obscenely smug. Vald wasn't just getting off on teaching them, he was straight-up getting off on holding superior control over them both, especially when he was inebriated beyond the ability to form full sentences, and he didn't bother to do a thing to hide it. "And ehh, yeh, no supernatural stuff 'bout any of these ones. Just big, sturdy, smart, dangerous, and fast as all hell."
It was almost like he'd been waiting for Vivian to ask. "Right-o, first step! 'Stablishing trust. Pick yer mount, feed 'em this, out 'yer hand, don't flinch. Wait 'til they eat the whole thing, give 'em a few strokes an' pats... make 'em comfortable, dun get close to them wings 'n' beaks." The two strips of bloody meat he pinched between long-nailed fingers looked far from fresh, but when they each grabbed for them and hesitantly approached the huge creatures, the raucous they caused in their eagerness was deafening, practically throwing the others aside for a chance to feast on scraps. There wasn't much picking of mounts... the exercise did it for them. "Good! Now, less get down to bissniss."
Vald was slurring so badly he often had to repeat himself three or even four times before he could get even a single message across. He was so uncoordinated he nearly punched one of the Storm Rocs in the face and had to be carefully negotiated into sitting on the floor for the rest of the session. He was undisciplined, disorganised, childish and surly. But for the next three breaks, he talked non-stop. How to recognise problems in the beaks, the claws, the eyes, the wings. How to recognise if the wings have been clipped and what to do about it. What to do about broken blood feathers and how to remove them. The man loved to talk and span yarns as he went, throwing out meandering tales that only rarely had some significant insight hidden away between long drawling lessons on the importance of proper maintenance. Something about one of his former squires falling to their deaths on the back of their Storm Roc due to improper care and attention to the strength of its wings prior to the flight.
By the time he sent them both away again, his bottle was empty, abandoned on the stall floor. "... an' THAT is why y'should never get inta' a brothel witha honeycomb an' a jackass," he finished, nodding sagely to himself. "Now... there's this beautiful lass down'th Whore 'n' Bitch, or... Harlot 'n' Hound, whatever. Told 'er I'd be there... uhh. Now. Soooo... clean up 'n' stuff, 'n' you can thank me later." Without even a backwards glance the Avriel suddenly stood up, saluted at them both with a wide toothy grin, and hurled himself through the gap in a nearby window. Leaving them both with a whole stall to clean, three very expectant Storm Rocs to feed, and a good deal of explaining to do when they made it back to the reception again to explain just why the hell their instructor had disappeared.
