Sweeney doesn't have more than a couple of decks to travel, and he sees no particular reason to wait when there's drink to be had. He hasn't changed clothes or made any effort to be different than he normally is.
Dorian opens the door, giving Sweeney a nod and a little grin. The door leads out onto a small hallway. There's three doors: one's open to a bedroom, one's open to a small kitchenette area, and one's closed. There's also an attic hatch on the top of the hallway.
"I've already poured two tumblers for us," Dorian says, as he gestures Sweeney to follow him to the bedroom. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die! Or at least, we deal with people bitching about the food."
It's always weird to Sweeney how different cabins are, Wardens' doubly so. Like what the fuck is all of this? There's no real resentment, his motel room does him just fine, it's just strikes him every time.
"Hm." The sound is a low sound of muted agreement. Seems plenty a good reason to drink. His expression is smooth if a bit dry. "Worse things ta bitch 'bout."
When he steps in the bedroom, he lingers near the wall by the door until things settle a bit more. He's not looking to assume or invade the man's space.
"Get in here," Dorian says, with a little laugh. His bedroom is very much a magpie nest. The bones of the house are late 1800s with vintage trim and vintage flooring. But the furniture is an eclectic mixture from all times and places. The bedframe looks solid and wooden, the bookshelves are filled with knick-knacks and old books, and the whole place looks messily lived in. There's a small side table with the half-drunk bottle of scotch as well as the half-full tumblers.
Dorian picks up one of the glasses and takes a little sip. Bloody delicious. "I figure I'm not going to do all that well on rationing—what with being a creature of hedonism and all. So why not spend the last few days before everything goes to shit living it up?"
Wariness clings to Sweeney, but he crosses to the table silently.
A creature of hedonism.
The idea bypasses his natural inclination towards gold, and he flicks his fingers as his hand lowers to pick up the glass. The twisted foil wrapping nestles between his index and middle finger, and Sweeney sets the truffle on the table before picking up the glass. He lifts it up but doesn't yet bring it to his lips.
Thank Bran he's working inventory or the rations would be burned through in two weeks.
"Ain't sure ya want me gettin' reckless in here." There's a lot of shit to break.
"Just a drink will do me fine." Sweeney tips the glass slightly in illustration, but still doesn't drink it.
Dorian watches the slight of hand (or spontaneous generation? he's not so sure) as Sweeney sits the truffle down on the table. He doesn't know why he did that, but Dorian's not going to say no. He sets his glass down and reaches for the truffle, unwrapping it slightly as the conversation goes on.
"What, you're a fighty drunk? Then we'll move out into the hallway before things get too bad. Don't worry about me, though—I can take a punch."
He pops that truffle in his mouth, noting that Sweeney still isn't drinking. Odd, that. Is he waiting for permission? "Go ahead and take a sip," Dorian casually says, talking with his mouth full.
"Don't need a drink ta fight, but I ain't a giggly drunk either." His tone is dry but casual.
There's a difference between taking a punch and breaking shit, but at least the man has some sense of taking things other places. Still, he seemed pretty keen on not dying, so avoiding violence may be the best while in each others company.
"Pacin' myself," he replies to the suggestion. Even when he's not trying to smother his thoughts, Sweeney ain't great at 'sipping'. And so he stands near the table, glass in hand.
"Go ahead and take a chug then," Dorian grins. He moves to pick up his own cup as he takes a decently sized drink of his own. The scotch burns down his throat and it feels bloody brilliant.
Fair warning given, Sweeney tips the glass back and empties it in one go, if only because he's able to hold all of the liquid at once, swallowing it easily. There's no response to the sensation of it, though he does take a moment to consider it with a tip of his head before setting the glass down on the table.
"Prob'bly why the Adm'ral ain't made ya my Warden." Because that would be an interesting day.
His chuckle is dry and precedes a roll of his eyes.
"That's just 'cause ya don't fuckin' know me from fuckin' Adam." It's not like how he's been in the last week is anything like how he actually is.
"Shit's gone sideways. I know's well as anyone how that ends. Hungry people, panicked people, folk lookin' ta make a markup off other folk's misery." He offers a vague shrug.
"Add ta that fuckin' list a horde of monsters that eat people when things get dodgy. Pays ta keep as much shit together as possible. Get ahead of the wave while shit's still dry."
"You're not wrong there," Dorian admits, with a little sigh. He hasn't seen a situation quite like this. But he knows enough to know that it's going to end up with a lot of people probably doing reckless things, especially the longer things go on.
"A part of me does wonder how long this will last. Sure, the Admiral said we'd full up at port. But how long until the next port after that?"
Sweeney shrugs and pulls a hand-rolled cigarette down from behind his ear. His presses it between his lips and speaks around it as he digs for his lighter.
"In theory? 'bout e'ery four months." He flicks the lighter open, inhales the cigarette to life, and snaps it shut. Savoring the first drag, his eyes slide along the ceiling.
"Course we both saw how the last one went, so fuck if I know."
"You saw how the last one went," Dorian corrects, as he takes another drink of his scotch. "I've only just arrived. The last nonsense I went through was that flood where people weren't exactly who they were supposed to be."
His brow furrows slightly. Had he forgotten? Is he starting to remember wrong again? Fuck, he's been doing so well.
Sweeney brushes it off. "Four months should be what's 'xpected, e'en if it don't show up. I'm hopin' ta pick up more seed the next time we're able. Maybe some dairy animals, if there's space for 'em. Ain't really my call when it comes down ta the brass tacks."
"While I won't say no to a cow if we can even find one, space is definitely going to be a problem," Dorian muses. Of course, there's another problem called 'how the hell do you take care of a cow,' but that's the veterinary staff's problem, not his!
"There's not enough space for the thing to roam. Unless we take the enclosure and just turn it permanently to cow storage," that's not the right phrase and Dorian knows it, "I've got no idea where to put it."
Sweeney listens, his expression deadpan. "Lotta animals make milk." Cows are quite inefficient, really.
He takes a long drag and holds it, his breath caught up as he nudges the words past, tendrils of smoke slipping with them.
"F'gured goats might work. Less space, good meat, an' they'll eat any sorta food waste." They'd still require more space than might be available, but it seems like a decent option.
"Goats have more personality than cows anyway," Dorian grins, as he finishes off his drink. Cows just...kind of stood around. Goats were bastards. Unsurprisingly, Dorian enjoys the bastard animals more.
"Then let's finish off the bottle!" Dorian says, with a grin. There's only enough for about three drinks left in there, so Dorian pours them each about one and a half. The glass is very full as he sets the bottle down.
There are plenty Irish toasts, obviously, but this doesn't seem like the proper setting. Sweeney cups the top of the glass, his palm hovering above it as his fingers rest vertically along its sides. He doesn't move to lift it.
"Do ya want somethin' general? Or ta the specifics of the day?"
He'll toast to most things, but if the man's asking, he takes that duty more seriously than the question is likely intended.
Dorian grins, raising his glass in the toast as well, before knocking a decent amount back. The scotch burns on the way down and he hisses out a noise of pleasure.
"Now this? This is good. The Admiral needs to get his shit together so we can drink like this more often."
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He finds the door and knocks twice.
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"I've already poured two tumblers for us," Dorian says, as he gestures Sweeney to follow him to the bedroom. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die! Or at least, we deal with people bitching about the food."
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"Hm." The sound is a low sound of muted agreement. Seems plenty a good reason to drink. His expression is smooth if a bit dry. "Worse things ta bitch 'bout."
When he steps in the bedroom, he lingers near the wall by the door until things settle a bit more. He's not looking to assume or invade the man's space.
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Dorian picks up one of the glasses and takes a little sip. Bloody delicious. "I figure I'm not going to do all that well on rationing—what with being a creature of hedonism and all. So why not spend the last few days before everything goes to shit living it up?"
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A creature of hedonism.
The idea bypasses his natural inclination towards gold, and he flicks his fingers as his hand lowers to pick up the glass. The twisted foil wrapping nestles between his index and middle finger, and Sweeney sets the truffle on the table before picking up the glass. He lifts it up but doesn't yet bring it to his lips.
Thank Bran he's working inventory or the rations would be burned through in two weeks.
"Ain't sure ya want me gettin' reckless in here." There's a lot of shit to break.
"Just a drink will do me fine." Sweeney tips the glass slightly in illustration, but still doesn't drink it.
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"What, you're a fighty drunk? Then we'll move out into the hallway before things get too bad. Don't worry about me, though—I can take a punch."
He pops that truffle in his mouth, noting that Sweeney still isn't drinking. Odd, that. Is he waiting for permission? "Go ahead and take a sip," Dorian casually says, talking with his mouth full.
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There's a difference between taking a punch and breaking shit, but at least the man has some sense of taking things other places. Still, he seemed pretty keen on not dying, so avoiding violence may be the best while in each others company.
"Pacin' myself," he replies to the suggestion. Even when he's not trying to smother his thoughts, Sweeney ain't great at 'sipping'. And so he stands near the table, glass in hand.
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"I'm not one for moderation myself anyway."
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"Prob'bly why the Adm'ral ain't made ya my Warden." Because that would be an interesting day.
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"What would I even do as your warden?" he laughs. "You seem to have your shit together more than most people here!"
Come to think of it, that's a good point. Why is he an inmate anyway?
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"That's just 'cause ya don't fuckin' know me from fuckin' Adam." It's not like how he's been in the last week is anything like how he actually is.
"Shit's gone sideways. I know's well as anyone how that ends. Hungry people, panicked people, folk lookin' ta make a markup off other folk's misery." He offers a vague shrug.
"Add ta that fuckin' list a horde of monsters that eat people when things get dodgy. Pays ta keep as much shit together as possible. Get ahead of the wave while shit's still dry."
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"A part of me does wonder how long this will last. Sure, the Admiral said we'd full up at port. But how long until the next port after that?"
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"In theory? 'bout e'ery four months." He flicks the lighter open, inhales the cigarette to life, and snaps it shut. Savoring the first drag, his eyes slide along the ceiling.
"Course we both saw how the last one went, so fuck if I know."
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Sweeney brushes it off. "Four months should be what's 'xpected, e'en if it don't show up. I'm hopin' ta pick up more seed the next time we're able. Maybe some dairy animals, if there's space for 'em. Ain't really my call when it comes down ta the brass tacks."
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"There's not enough space for the thing to roam. Unless we take the enclosure and just turn it permanently to cow storage," that's not the right phrase and Dorian knows it, "I've got no idea where to put it."
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He takes a long drag and holds it, his breath caught up as he nudges the words past, tendrils of smoke slipping with them.
"F'gured goats might work. Less space, good meat, an' they'll eat any sorta food waste." They'd still require more space than might be available, but it seems like a decent option.
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"Care for round two of scotch?"
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Even with his consumption lessening, even with the decrease of his desperation...Sweeney's never going to turn down a drink if it's one he can afford.
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"What shall we toast to?"
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"Do ya want somethin' general? Or ta the specifics of the day?"
He'll toast to most things, but if the man's asking, he takes that duty more seriously than the question is likely intended.
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His fingers slide down the sides of the glass to bring it off the table, though he doesn't raise it above his chest.
"To full bottles, full purses, an' full beds. May cunts keep to their corners."
Deed done, he doesn't stand on ceremony, tipping back the glass to empty it.
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"Now this? This is good. The Admiral needs to get his shit together so we can drink like this more often."
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