"My two natures had memory in common."
- 18th of Vhalar, 716 A.V
- “No, like this,” Andráska Venora snatched the joint from his friend’s fingers, took a sharp inhale, and stepped up in front of the candle light, bending his knees and arching his back. A moment of silence as the group of men crossed their arms and watched intently. And then, Andráska’s backside popped and in a beautiful succession, his ass cheeks shook and bounced under the thin fabric of his trousers. The muscles of his thighs creating a rhythmic motion, and he lifted a leg while he danced, and howls of laughter resounded from the tavern.
“What in immortal’s name is that?” Jeremy yelled, doubling over in laughter, “How?” he threw a hand over his eyes and struggled to breath.
“What-?” another soldier named Dorian shook his head, taking a drink of the bottle in his hands. He just shook his head and walked away.
At the response of his teammates, Andras exhaled the aromatic smoke that had been held in his lungs while he moved, chuckling as a kiss of light headed euphoria blanketed him, “I haven’t named it yet,” he hmm’d, grinning, “You like it?”
Jeremy continued to laugh, choked hiccups guffawing in the room as he tried desperately to catch a breath. When he was capable of forming words, he looked up at his friend with droopy eyes, “You plan on showing whatever that is, to your parents? At a fancy party?” He started giggling again, “I can’t breathe. Do it again!”
Some of the other men, who were most definitely inebriated, chuckled and tried to imitate the motion, but failed miserably.
“Your ass is too small,” Andras critiqued with a sleepy smile. He wiggled his eyebrows and turned, slowing his movements, each hip cocking and dropping, the flesh jiggling all the same. He nodded, “Use your thigh muscles and you can do this,” Stumbling a bit, he straightened up and took a deep breath to focus. In position, his butt began to shake, the weight shifting fluidly from one foot to the other as his backside shook side to side. “You, uh, kinda pop out your ass, then it just… sorta happens.” In truth, the noble had never had to explain it to anyone, let alone a group of grown men.
“You’re so gay,” one of the men commented sharply, chugging his beer. Andras snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Maybe,” Andras said suggestively, shrugging and taking another hit of weed, “Or a genius,” He started to smile again, eyes staring off into the distance, “Can you imagine a pretty girl doing this? Maybe the baker’s daughter?” She was thick. Delicious.
The soldier – Drake, scoffed, “Good luck getting a girl to do that, fag. Gays can’t be smart. That’s a fact.”
Andráska finally peered over at the pudgy knight, a man in his thirties who perhaps had a bit too much to drink. A spark of irritation danced in his eyes and the edge of his joint flared hot red in the dim room as he glared over at the older man, “You should watch what you say,” he warned lightly, noticing the lack of armor on the commenter, “People might think you’re projecting.”
It took a moment for the older man to catch on to the insult, but his eyes narrowed and he sneered, “What did you just say to me?”
“Oh, come on, Drake,” Jeremy interrupted, sensing the change in mood, “It’s just fun. And Andra has a point. The baker’s daughter really is-,”
“You’re defending him? So, you his little girlfriend, huh?”
Andráska exhaled another round of smoke and calmly put out the joint on the bottom of his boot. Tucking the rest of it into his pocket, he rolled his shoulders. He didn’t like this guy’s tone, for a number of reasons. The first one was the face of Alistair floating in his mind, his brother who he had semi-recently found to have kept boys in a closet. Dead ones, but….
His brother was the smartest man he knew, and he didn’t care if he was gay or not. Drake was stupid, most likely the son of an ignorant farmer or miner, brute strength and no brains. Under the fog of the marijuana, Andráska very much wanted to hit him.
Always a creature of impulse, he did.
Drake was waving around a bottle, his words muddling the faster he spoke, leaving a clear opening for the noble. Andra shot forward, eliminating the space between them in moments and throwing a fist at the man’s jaw. It was like colliding with a wall, but the man flew backwards, stumbling and falling to the ground, the bottle shattering onto the ground.
The homophobe was clutching his face, and pain was shooting through Andráska’s fingers. He flexed them experimentally and before his rival could orientate himself, he lifted a boot and kicked, sending his heel into the side of a bald head. Drake grunted, the sound lost among the other roars for bloodshed in the establishment.
Someone grabbed him and pulled him backward, separating the bold noble and the man with a busted brow. Something about the sight of red had Andra fixated on the wound he inflicted and he grinned, a crazed look in his bloodshot eyes, “If you liked what you saw, you just had to say something, Sugar.” he winked and kissed the air, laughing wildly.
A lesson to the dear reader: Historically, weed has been known to make one forgetful, hungry, perhaps a bit spacey and unable to grasp complete consequence. Alcohol… had the ability to make you mean, sturdy, and hell bent on getting what you wanted…
When Drake pushed himself from the ground, his ugly mug an expression of hatred, Andraska quickly remembered the difference. His eyes widened and he threw hands up to attempt to block the bludgeoning that awaited him. Pain shot through the side of his cheek, white flashing behind his eyes as a fist slugged past the barrier of his arm and against his skull.
“Keep your hands up! Watch out!”
Another assault awaited, a fist slamming into his unprepared core and doubling him over. His stomach tightened from the impact and jerked, nearly rejecting the food Andras had for dinner and spilling it all over the floor. He sucked in deep breaths and fell backwards, but was caught in the arms of a forming crowd. Hands patted him on the back and someone held a drink to his lips.
Andra tried to pull away, unable to breath and wanting to curl in a ball, but faintly, he could see Jeremy slapping his face and trying to ward off the furious behemoth that circled restlessly. An animal wanting blood. Anger roared inside him and Andras straightened, holding a hand against his stomach and wheezing. Taking the offered drink, he took a swing of unidentified alcohol and spat saliva on the ground.
Time for round two.
