[ He makes music, but whatever. As long as someone's on their way to get him, he doesn't care. He finds himself a nice (big) tree trunk to sit back against, idly strumming at his harp.
If Vincent wants to find him, it won't be a difficult task - once he susses out where the giant chocobo is, an abandoned stable or racetrack or something similar in the midst of the woods. From there, he only needs to follow the music.
Charle may be drunk of the point of being able to walk straight, but he'd be a poor bard indeed if he couldn't carry a tune even while deep in his cups. The jaunty tavern song probably has no place in the deep, dark woods, but Charle's voice carries easily through the trees, smooth and deep and only a little slurred. ]
Here's to the poorest poet ♪ Who always pens the truth ♪ Players, writers and wand'rers ♪ The minstrels and their tunes ♪
I'd rather live an honest lifetime ♪ With those with nothing to lose ♪ Than waste a night knee deep in shite ♪ That's polished slick to look just right ♪ I'd rather live a lifetime in the company of foooooooools ♪
[A metal chocobo makes for a unique landmark, and it’s the first thing any sensible a one-man search-and-rescue party should focus on. Vincent does just that, rifling through old memory; eventually, he recalls and old racetrack with faded billboards, the paint beginning to chip at the edges. A great metallic chocobo at the entrance, dashing forward with a rider on its back, a promise of what’s to come for any who are willing to pay the gil to see.
It’s nighttime, so there’s not a soul around, save for a song that lingers through the air like a ghost. He knows, then, that he’s found him — he’d know that voice anywhere now, equal parts unique and annoying pervasive.
Moments pass. The branches of the tree above Charle’s chosen spot shudder and shiver. Vincent looks down upon him, though almost impossible to see the in the shadows.]
[ Charle is too inebriated and too caught up in his singing to notice Vincent appear, but it's entirely possible that even were he watching for him, he would not have noticed. Vincent is just like that. Also, he would most certainly have words for Vincent if he knew the other man found his voice annoying. He has the voice of an angel, thank you.
As it is, Charle is startled right out of his song, a sudden and wrong note plucked out on his harp as the bard jumps. ]
By the Fury's tepid bathwater, Vincent! Do not sneak up on me like that!
[ Hist curse is shouted vaguely upwards, since he can't see his companion(?) in the gloom. ]
[It isn't the timbre of his voice so much as the association -- that cocksure grin, their first encounter with endless questions lobbed his way -- that categorizes it as a potential annoyance in his head. No getting around first impressions.
Not that this impression isn't much better, but at least even a drunken Charle had the sense to remain in one spot while Vincent roamed the woods like a dark spectre looking for him. Vincent lingers on his branch, gazing down at the man with the tattered edges of his cloak swaying in the breeze. One moment, he's there-- the next, the sound of leaves shivering, and the cat-like landing of boots pressed aginst the grass, too quiet.]
I didn't.
[Sneak up on him, he means. This is just how he rolls.]
[ Just because the intent to sneak isn't there does not mean that arriving somewhere near-silently is not sneaking. It's still very much sneaking! He blinks in confusion when Vincent vanishes from his vision only for his voice to sound in front of him, on the ground. Charle jumps for a second time, and nearly flings his harp at the man's head, only aborting the motion when he remembers he needs the instrument to make a living. ]
Stop that! And what business is it of yours how much I drink, hm?
[Strange how Vincent gives off the impression that he'd somehow avoid a harp to the forehead, even though said harp isn't thrown, and even though he stands there unmoving and unimpressed.]
You're too easily spooked.
[Is he bullshitting? Is he serious? Good luck finding out, with the majority of his expression hidden beneath that high, crimson collar.]
And it's business of mine when I'm the one who has to haul you away from here.
[That metal, gauntleted arm extends; an offer to help him stand.]
[ He gives Vincent a sour look for a second – he is not too easily spooked, Vincent is the one being a dramatic bastard and seemingly teleporting everywhere. Not that Charle has any room to talk about dramatics, so he holds his tongue at least.
Instead, hie expression smooths into something bordering on helplessness, a wide and hopeful smile accompanied by wide and hopeful eyes as he takes that offered hand and gets to unsteady feet. ]
However much alcohol it takes for you to carry me daintily away like the delicate flower I am – that’s how much I’ve had to drunk. Drink.
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finalflight2020-05-21 12:59 pm
@dramaticflair
Don't have a lantern? Can't use a little fire magic?
[Actually.]
Forget that last part. I'll come take a look. Make some noise or something.
no subject
[ He makes music, but whatever. As long as someone's on their way to get him, he doesn't care. He finds himself a nice (big) tree trunk to sit back against, idly strumming at his harp.
If Vincent wants to find him, it won't be a difficult task - once he susses out where the giant chocobo is, an abandoned stable or racetrack or something similar in the midst of the woods. From there, he only needs to follow the music.
Charle may be drunk of the point of being able to walk straight, but he'd be a poor bard indeed if he couldn't carry a tune even while deep in his cups. The jaunty tavern song probably has no place in the deep, dark woods, but Charle's voice carries easily through the trees, smooth and deep and only a little slurred. ]
Here's to the poorest poet ♪
Who always pens the truth ♪
Players, writers and wand'rers ♪
The minstrels and their tunes ♪
I'd rather live an honest lifetime ♪
With those with nothing to lose ♪
Than waste a night knee deep in shite ♪
That's polished slick to look just right ♪
I'd rather live a lifetime in the company of foooooooools ♪
no subject
It’s nighttime, so there’s not a soul around, save for a song that lingers through the air like a ghost. He knows, then, that he’s found him — he’d know that voice anywhere now, equal parts unique and annoying pervasive.
Moments pass. The branches of the tree above Charle’s chosen spot shudder and shiver. Vincent looks down upon him, though almost impossible to see the in the shadows.]
You write it yourself?
[The song.]
no subject
As it is, Charle is startled right out of his song, a sudden and wrong note plucked out on his harp as the bard jumps. ]
By the Fury's tepid bathwater, Vincent! Do not sneak up on me like that!
[ Hist curse is shouted vaguely upwards, since he can't see his companion(?) in the gloom. ]
no subject
Not that this impression isn't much better, but at least even a drunken Charle had the sense to remain in one spot while Vincent roamed the woods like a dark spectre looking for him. Vincent lingers on his branch, gazing down at the man with the tattered edges of his cloak swaying in the breeze. One moment, he's there-- the next, the sound of leaves shivering, and the cat-like landing of boots pressed aginst the grass, too quiet.]
I didn't.
[Sneak up on him, he means. This is just how he rolls.]
How much did you have to drink?
no subject
[ Just because the intent to sneak isn't there does not mean that arriving somewhere near-silently is not sneaking. It's still very much sneaking! He blinks in confusion when Vincent vanishes from his vision only for his voice to sound in front of him, on the ground. Charle jumps for a second time, and nearly flings his harp at the man's head, only aborting the motion when he remembers he needs the instrument to make a living. ]
Stop that! And what business is it of yours how much I drink, hm?
no subject
You're too easily spooked.
[Is he bullshitting? Is he serious? Good luck finding out, with the majority of his expression hidden beneath that high, crimson collar.]
And it's business of mine when I'm the one who has to haul you away from here.
[That metal, gauntleted arm extends; an offer to help him stand.]
I won't do it again.
no subject
Instead, hie expression smooths into something bordering on helplessness, a wide and hopeful smile accompanied by wide and hopeful eyes as he takes that offered hand and gets to unsteady feet. ]
However much alcohol it takes for you to carry me daintily away like the delicate flower I am – that’s how much I’ve had to drunk. Drink.