11th Frost 4622
The fifth day of consecutive wine binge drinking tasted as good as the first to Mer. Wine was not a rare commodity in the Olsen household by any means, Meredith drank it by the decanter. Sometimes Meredith even drank it without a cup, just straight from the decanter. Despite how free the libations flowed, Mer was kept on a relatively short leash when it came to alcohol. Rare occasional cups of wine, and there was once a beer, but spirits were not a thing. Much like with other activities previously unafforded to him, when offered half a cup of wine as a gift upon arriving in Novilund, there was no limit to how far the Sil’Norai would partake.
The gifted cup was afforded to him by the virtue of boasting his status. Mer Sil’Sunderland, son of Meredith and Viki Olsen, close confidants to the Reeve of Sunderland. Titles got him the first cup, and he so assumed every cup there on after. A tab was made up! A running total of Dranari Farthing seemed to creep frighteningly so every passing day. Mer was no thief, it was a misunderstanding. When confronted by the man who had begun it up, a sommelier, Mer put on a big show about the man being mistaken and to check his books. Gifts were gifts! He seemingly skated by, doing the same to yet another two merchants, until they bound together in an alliance to collect their missing Dranari Farthing.
Thus on the fifth day of his consumption, having found the remains of a bottle to sate his newfound desire for the reddest of wines, Mer wandered Novilund on the hunt of further drinks. Perhaps a beer! He had missed the taste of beer since being afforded it that singular time at home. Still, the taste of wine was too tantalising to abandon. It mattered not that his teeth had a dark red stain to them, his tongue taking on a far unnatural hue to what it was normally. The flavours! They were simply far too divine for the boy to care about his appearance all too much.
The noble boy made his search dressed in simple tunic pants that were split at the bottom to present the glimmers of leg. A tailoring decision made by himself, to which the poor un-plucking of thread showed. Unlike how he made his introductions with Hakon the mage, Mer had chosen to dress properly in one of his more ornate blouses. Still, even if a blouse had replaced the chain shirt, the top was strewn widely open to allow the dance of flesh that was his chest. Brown locks of hair, that admittedly needed a slight application of dye as the silver roots of his heritage seemed to decide they wanted an encore, wore themselves atop his head in a messy and unkempt fashion. The signet ring of the Olsen family sat around a chain dangling from his neck, pridefully so, like the proof of admission to the consumption of the finer things Radenor could offer to him.
He walked with a stagger like the night prior hadn’t exactly ended. The noble was admittedly not so noble in his venturings.
