Hangover

[Shad]

In the stable of the Drachmas estate, the cat awoke with a hangover. It was an elven hangover, which is to say that it was the kind of hangover only induced by the Elf, who understood his limits and never overimbibed. So the pounding behind his eyes as he opened them to the light was mild, and the dry mouth not quite parched.

That he awoke with a hangover begged the question of why. Elf was not generally given to drink; he had learned years before not to drink in times of sorrow, and socially it was more fun to giggle at other drunk people. He drank on holidays, and when encouraged by others. And that was it.

The cat rose to four paws cautiously, testing his condition in the fight against gravity. He won, which meant he was no longer drunk. While this victory was satisfying and educational, he opted to hop down to the ground before attempting the two-legged version; the math of seven feet of elf + six feet off the ground just added up to very poor odds.

Whether he won or not is something of an arguable point. While it is true that he made it, fully balanced, to two feet, and that inebriation played no part in his defeat, it is true that a moment after shifting he did find himself on the ground. He had put himself there, it turned out, by reeling back in surprise from his own tabard (an athletic activity if there ever was one). Instead of the red and gold that signified his alliegance to Wyrmrest, what graced his chest was a familiar smear of black and red he only saw from this angle when peering over Fells's shoulder and drooling on her shirt.

"Elf," he muttered, "what did you do last night?"

In his head, the elf giggled.


((<3s for all y'alls))