Sweeney's brow lifts, and his head lolls to one side as he regards the man.
"An' who said I was lookin' ta get off it?"
He's not. Not while it's keeping him out of Hell. Not while there's nowhere for him to go where he isn't starving and without his Luck or his chance for a battle.
"Then let me amend that. You'll never become a warden unless you talk about things with someone. And if you say something now like 'well I'd never want to be a warden to begin with,' then I'll amend that statement even further to say that you might not want to be a warden, but based on how things are right now? You certainly don't want to be an inmate."
Dorian is very much on Team Having Your Own Bathroom Is Good.
Sweeney is an Irishman, Dorian is a hedonist. He gives Sweeney a grin before rooting around his cabinet to pull out a bottle of gin and two new glasses.
"As far as I'm concerned, I'll happily ration the food but not my vices. I've used up the last of my cigarettes already—better I go through nicotine withdrawal now, when everything's relatively stable, than when we're a week away from going proper Donner Party."
He pours them both straight gin, filling up the glass three quarters of the way full. While Dorian could make a cocktail if needed, Sweeney seems like the sort of man to take his alcohol straight.
Given a couple of bottles and the want to actually taste the drink involved, Sweeney has a different preference, but when there are ports and storms and visions that won't stop eating away at him, rubbing alcohol serves perfectly well. Drinking anything refined enough to reduce the chance of blindness does him just fine on any other day.
"Mm." It's a short sound of acknowledgement that's pressed through Sweeney's nose as he pulls a drag.
He exhales and taps his ash, not mindful of where it falls. His fingers slip down the sides of the glass from the rim, catching it and sliding it along the table's surface until it finds the edge, where he drifts it downward to hang by his thigh.
"Might be better comin' from you or whoe'er in the Greenhouse could get it through, but there'd be a boon in plantin' a few rows of tobacco." His supply is ample, but he isn't about to be sharing it, especially on that scale. Besides, it be nice to have something fresher on occasion.
"I'll bother whoever's in charge," Dorian says, with a little nod. That also means finding out who's in charge of the Greenhouse which would be...annoying, but also needed. He's fine bothering people.
"Because you're right. I think people would be fine sacrificing a little patch that could grow food in exchange for not having to deal with the entire Barge hitting withdrawal all at the same time."
He inhales pure air deeply before shifting his head in clarification.
"'less ya got some way ta magically speed up the process, it's still gonna take ya 'bout four months from seed ta cigarette. Three if yer lucky." Growing shit takes time. Sometimes that isn't convenient.
"I mean, we've got...what, fucking wizards and vampires and things like that on board. I'm sure someone somewhere has plant magic or something like that."
Dorian's expression says that he knows 'plant magic' is stupid as hell, but how else is he going to describe it? It's plant magic. That's it.
Sweeney would never assume it wouldn't be available, just that it shouldn't be counted on. Not that he thinks Dorian would do that necessarily. Just getting things out in the open before any issues arise.
He nods once in acknowledgment. "I'll keep an eye out fer seeds in port. I know there's a bunch'a types in the greenhouse, but I f'gure that may not'ta made the cut." Being that tobacco is a pure indulgence (and something that's apparently regulated for some Inmates). Course, so are fucking flowers, and they have plenty of those.
"I'll keep an eye out as well," he nods. Though note to self: find out what the hell tobacco seeds look like.
"I'll also keep an eye out for canning supplies, preservatives, things like that. We're going to need a shit ton of salt, I can tell that much already." Hmm, what else will they need...more booze, definitely, and Dorian takes another drink of his gin.
"I'm lookin' ta go traditional as quick as possible. Self-sufficient if we can. Fer the fuckin' sake of all this 'not as powerful' shit."
It's easier to throwback for one that's lived multiple lives off the land without refrigeration. It's just a matter of getting the infrastructure in place and people open to the idea of lacking some creature comforts.
Also, he's gonna stock up on whatever alcohol he can afford.
"The more self-sufficient the better. After all, we're on a space barge in the middle of nowhere. It's not like there's a bloody power grid we could hook up to if things go poorly."
There's not really anything they could hook up to if things go poorly. They'll all just be floating in space, a lovely little pile of dead people and Dorian, someone who's in a constant circle of death and revival.
The thought's awful. Don't mind Dorian as he downs the rest of his drink to drive it out.
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"An' who said I was lookin' ta get off it?"
He's not. Not while it's keeping him out of Hell. Not while there's nowhere for him to go where he isn't starving and without his Luck or his chance for a battle.
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Dorian is very much on Team Having Your Own Bathroom Is Good.
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"An' who says I ain't lookin' ta be a Warden?"
He also sees benefits to it, though less in having a shower and more in having a Lounge key.
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There's a teasing tone in Dorian's voice. He's somewhat serious, but he's also giving Sweeney shit for the sake of giving him shit.
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"I am the kinda drunk that likes ta pick fights." He blinks slowly before his gaze slides to the table and back.
"Just ain't the sort that gets drunk on a quarter of a bottle of Scotch."
Doubly since he's been working on his moderation. Makes it easier to take the man's shit without giving him what he may be unintentionally asking for.
Doubt blood will come easy outta this carpet.
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"In that case, shall we both get a little drunker? I've got a bottle of gin squirrelled around here somewhere."
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"You pour, I'll drink."
He's been an Irishman since long before there was an Ireland. He's perfectly content to partake of whatever the man puts in the glass.
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"As far as I'm concerned, I'll happily ration the food but not my vices. I've used up the last of my cigarettes already—better I go through nicotine withdrawal now, when everything's relatively stable, than when we're a week away from going proper Donner Party."
He pours them both straight gin, filling up the glass three quarters of the way full. While Dorian could make a cocktail if needed, Sweeney seems like the sort of man to take his alcohol straight.
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"Mm." It's a short sound of acknowledgement that's pressed through Sweeney's nose as he pulls a drag.
He exhales and taps his ash, not mindful of where it falls. His fingers slip down the sides of the glass from the rim, catching it and sliding it along the table's surface until it finds the edge, where he drifts it downward to hang by his thigh.
"Might be better comin' from you or whoe'er in the Greenhouse could get it through, but there'd be a boon in plantin' a few rows of tobacco." His supply is ample, but he isn't about to be sharing it, especially on that scale. Besides, it be nice to have something fresher on occasion.
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"Because you're right. I think people would be fine sacrificing a little patch that could grow food in exchange for not having to deal with the entire Barge hitting withdrawal all at the same time."
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"'less ya got some way ta magically speed up the process, it's still gonna take ya 'bout four months from seed ta cigarette. Three if yer lucky." Growing shit takes time. Sometimes that isn't convenient.
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Dorian's expression says that he knows 'plant magic' is stupid as hell, but how else is he going to describe it? It's plant magic. That's it.
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He nods once in acknowledgment. "I'll keep an eye out fer seeds in port. I know there's a bunch'a types in the greenhouse, but I f'gure that may not'ta made the cut." Being that tobacco is a pure indulgence (and something that's apparently regulated for some Inmates). Course, so are fucking flowers, and they have plenty of those.
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"I'll also keep an eye out for canning supplies, preservatives, things like that. We're going to need a shit ton of salt, I can tell that much already." Hmm, what else will they need...more booze, definitely, and Dorian takes another drink of his gin.
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"I'm lookin' ta go traditional as quick as possible. Self-sufficient if we can. Fer the fuckin' sake of all this 'not as powerful' shit."
It's easier to throwback for one that's lived multiple lives off the land without refrigeration. It's just a matter of getting the infrastructure in place and people open to the idea of lacking some creature comforts.
Also, he's gonna stock up on whatever alcohol he can afford.
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There's not really anything they could hook up to if things go poorly. They'll all just be floating in space, a lovely little pile of dead people and Dorian, someone who's in a constant circle of death and revival.
The thought's awful. Don't mind Dorian as he downs the rest of his drink to drive it out.