The Point Of Exile

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Girlish laughter bubbles from her lips, oozing out of her effortlessly. Her breath reeks of alcohol, and so do her borrowed clothes. She drinks with abandon, having long since left the poque table where she and Flynn had drained every loute from the pockets of the gamblers.

In truth, Milan did not pay much attention to Flynn when he dedicated a whole game to her learning. She was a bit.. preoccupied. Preoccupied with drinking, falling prey to a striking hazel gaze, and drinking some more. Her eyes flutter closed as she traces the lines where his hand was once resting on her leg as he leaned closer to show her exactly what his moves were. It feels empty now, without a reassuring weight to settle there. She frowns, turning her distracted attention back to him and trying desperately to hear what he's saying.

"-our chances were easily one out of a near dozen, but still he'd been able to-"

Pretty eyes, pretty hair, pretty pretty face. Curse his pretty lips. Why aren't they on her by now? Perhaps God does pick his darlings... Wait-

She blinks, unnerved by her own mind. Her hand, grasping an entirely spent pint glass, falls to the counter with a dull thud.

She did not just think about kissing him.

She blinks again, willing away the clouds murking up her sense of reason. Still, they cling to the edges of her consciousness like a plague, not so easily deterred by simple remedies. All the intrusive thought serves to do is remind her that she is solely and wholly intoxicated. She gently pushes away the crystal glass in front of her, frowning at the foul taste in her mouth.

Is it.. vomit?

Oh, God.

"Milan!" Flynn's exclamation snaps her attention back to him, and she swallows profusely, barely keeping the vomit at bay. "By all that is holy- you have had entirely too much drink, woman!"

She nods in muddled agreement before blurting out in a rushed slur, "Excuse me one moment I just need-"

Milan brushes past him, fleeing the room and bursting into a small lavatory. The contents of her night find themselves hurled into a waste bin, her stomach unsettled and throat raw. Everything seems to smear into junctures and snippets of time; in the following moments there is a subtle presence beside her, and then gentle hands lead her back to a small table in a shadowed corner of the room. Hazel eyes seize her attention once more, and she blinks back into reality.

"I've ordered a basket of dinner rolls to help settle your stomach," Flynn comments.

Milan murmurs a thank you, writhing in her own discomfiture.

"I thought royals could handle their drink? Is this why they kicked you out, m'lady?" He simpers, a ridiculous smirk on his ridiculous face.

"They didn't kick me out, mind you," she remarks. "I left out of my own volition."

"Oh, did you now?" He inquires, brow peaked in curiosity.

"Yes, you obtuse cow." He rumbles out a throaty laugh at that, and she glares. "Is that so funny? I hated it there, it was positively suffocating."

"I don't doubt so. I wouldn't last a mere hour at court," he says with a shrug, leaning back as the server slides the dish of buttered wheat rolls in front of them. Milan hastily snags one, ripping it in two and savoring the aroma of warmed bread. "So, what compelled you to ditch rose petal baths and satin skirts?"

"It's more than that," she counters with a mouth full of dough. "I was bound to a path made by someone else's hands, with a course that I would never be able to change unless I carved a new one by myself."