#tealias

❝ hey, marston. rise and shine. ❞ from where she sits on a log, sadie reaches out and nudges the man with her foot; taciturn though she often is, the long years and shared experiences have edged her voice with fondness. not that she's about to tell anyone that, least of all john himself. by way of apology, she sets a mug of coffee down beside his bedroll, freshly brewed over the now-banked campfire. one of them, at least, has been up a while. ❝ if you got a hangover it's your own damn fault. you're too fuckin' old for me to have to drag you away from a drunken bar fight. ❞

if he's also had to pull her away so she didn't murder someone, well...shut up.

Not for the first time in his life, Ilbryn rails against his lack of magical talent. It's a slight against any healer, let alone an elven one, but the forces of the arcane have simply never been within his grasp. Perhaps if he were a better, more pious man some kindly deity might take pity on him and make him their cleric, but he's not holding out hope. If magic hasn't sprung from his fingertips thus far, he doubts it ever shall. Still, he makes do.

"Don't worry, I've seen worse," he tells Bas, voice gentle and eyes focused. The gash on the tiefling's leg is ragged and ugly, but not as deep as Ilbryn had first feared. "I doubt it will even need stitches, though I should like to dress it, just to be safe." Slender fingers dip into his healers bag for a vial of clean water and the herbs he keeps on hand for occasions like these. He pours a little on his hankerchief and begins to dab at the blood, gently.

"By the by, Bastian, have you any interest in poetry?" It's asked with the air of a fleeting thought as Ilbryn wipes away the drying blood and rummages in his bag again for herbs. "Or folk songs for that matter-or any kind of story, truly." Ah-there it is: a small pot with honey, witch hazel and yarrow crushed together. Keeping his tough and voice light, Ilbryn begins to pack the wound with the mixture.

@tealias / sullivan: "i don't speak italian, but he ain't happy."

it's difficult to recall if he's ever seen gia truly furious before. in his years with the team, he's certainly caused his occasional upset and left the man quite displeased, on rare instances perhaps even angry, but though he remembers countless conversations of rapid, agitated italian, he struggles to come up with a single instance where his team principal has actually been this livid. there's a chaos in the garage that goes far beyond the usual post-race bustle. far more people than necessary, probably more than allowed, and his gaze searches for his team mate who - miraculously - has made it out of the absolute wreckage of a car largely unscathed, finding him sitting still as a statue next to his race engineer with the only sign of life being the occasional shrug of his shoulders or nod of his head. he shouldn't be with a doctor, they cleared him too early, he knows gia would agree if he paused his tirade a second to breathe and think clearly. as it stands, he is currently busy tearing into otto frank with a viciousness that almost impresses aaron. much as that man makes his skin crawl on occasion, he hardly ordered his driver to turn finn's car into a pile of burning carbon fiber. it looked horrific on the tv, the replay only hitting the broadcast once it was clear finn made it out alright, so he has no difficulties imagining where the edge of panic in gia's voice actually comes from. they are all family after all.

the dry laugh is entirely involuntary and he immediately pays the price. the pain jolts through his body and he lets his head fall back against the wall with an almost concerning loud thud. didn't need to - like it was planned. or even chivalry. like he left any room for hesitation long enough that he might actually have stopped himself. like he does not know how senselessly stupid and, frankly, borderline embarrassing the whole ordeal had been. like he would not be crimson with shame at how humiliating this whole thing truly was if his blood wasn't too busy dripping out of his nose. he sits with his head tilted back only briefly before he remembers you're not supposed to do that and immediately leans forward again, forearms on his elbows and shoulders slightly hunched. because he's in pain and because he does not want to look at sullivan while he waits for what is surely about to come. he will tease him. he will certainly point out how truly pathetic he is at fighting and he will, rightfully, laugh at him. he'd care more, perhaps, if the throbbing wasn't doing its utmost to make it impossible forming coherent thoughts.

"he was a fucking prick." he wonders if it's even audible with how he tries to wipe at the blood with the hem of his own shirt - it's ruined anyway, might as well make some use of it. and it's true. finn can count on one hand the amount of times he's actually gotten into a physical fight which, given how much he enjoys verbal ones and how truly energetic he can get in those, just shows how lucky he's been in the past. this time, though, it was well earned, even with finn's initial lack of personal involvement. in fact, it was almost an accident he'd overheard it to begin with. a dig at sullivan, something finn initially interpreted as flirty banter between the pair, followed up by something that dug so deep, was so personal, he barely gave sully - the one it was aimed at - any time to react before he threw a punch. and yes, in hindsight he could've handled it a lot more maturely but it felt good . it felt satisfying hearing the faint crunch, it felt fucking exhilarating seeing the shocked expression, the glimpse of crimson, hearing the gasp. and the brief second he caught sight of sully, staring in utter disbelief and something that almost read as wonder, twisted something in his stomach that felt so thrilling he would've probably chased that feeling with a second punch had the recovery of his opponent not been so swift and his fist perhaps a little less hard. after that? a blur. and now finn wishes he'd been hit harder as to not having to remember any of it. he doubts looking at sully will feel much like a thrill now. then again, perhaps dying of shame will be a quick way to go and he will not have to endure whatever jokes the other is cooking up for long.

there is a thought that, despite his very best efforts, he can not quite seem to shake. gnawing with increasing annoyance at the edges of his mind and leaving him distracted enough that he misses a good part of the speech the team principal is delivering with leveled enthusiasm. it should be harder. even with his more recent upset with his team, even after everything he's learned in the past weeks, it should probably be a lot harder to throw away a legacy at the mere promise of a new one. maybe later, if asked, he'll claim he grappled with the decision. he might say he lost sleep over it, that it was not easy to leave the team that gave him everything (the team that took everything). he might lie. it should be harder, but it isn't and aaron finds himself with his leg bouncing restlessly, waiting for otto to finish his monologue so he can finally put ink to paper and make it official.

otto, flawed as the man may be, makes no promises of family, of home or purpose or even belonging. there's no talk of prestige. otto talks about winning, about opportunity, about statistics and the car, about plans for the team and progress. factual, almost analytical and aaron finds that he appreciates that a lot. perhaps all of this would've been enough to convince him. perhaps it would've sufficed to make him feel like he'll get an actual say in his own future and he would've signed either way. but if otto wanted to prove to aaron that he has an exceptional eye for strategy, he does so by sealing the deal with repeating something so simple and yet so brilliant, aaron almost chuckles. a name. his name. the reason he sits here in the first place.

he can feel gia's eyes on him and it is making him squirm. his first DNF with the scuderia - bound to happen, of course. even he isn't naive enough to think he can make it through his first season with a top team without a slip up, careful as he may be in how he takes his lines, but the fact that he expected it at some point does little to soften the blow now. his team principal isn't upset, looked stern for just a second and immediately softened when he noticed there were no visible injuries on him. part of him wishes he was angrier, that gia would match his own fury and direct it where it belongs: palone.

the object of his rage sits, just like finn, with his team principal waiting to be called upon by the stewards. like two naughty high schoolers waiting to be scolded in front of their parents, only one of the kids did absolutely nothing wrong why the other is clearly out of control and needs to be expelled.

finn's fists are clenched and so is his jaw as he makes the grave mistake of glaring at the other driver again, stretched out in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankles looking so calm - no, smug - it makes his blood boil. he's proud of this. sullivan is actually proud of this like he didn't ruin both of their races. he opens his mouth to say something to him and infuriatingly, the other driver beats him to it - the anger brings a flush to his cheeks. gia shifts before the words register, there's a hand on his shoulder as if his team principal knows fully well he will have to hold him back, the way a dog owner can tell when their dog is about to start a fight. there's a squeeze and finn knows what it means: don't let it get to you. he is trying to wind you up, don't let it get to you finn. don't give him what he wants.

a century and change hasn't dulled amalia's enjoyment of pretending to fit in with the upper classes, enjoying the feeling of getting one over on them; it's a joke, and they are the butt of it. she's had many years to perfect her act — and her accent — and it's fun to glide through, avoiding the food and enjoying the dancing, all while sizing up her next meal, or a new necklace. often, she's alone, the one vampire among humans. but often is not always; tonight, she has company. it's been a while since she and alderic preyed on the same ball together.

❝ oh, darling, ❞ she says, a little condescending, ❝ there's no need to admit it. i can tell. ❞ the band finishes their song and pauses, shuffling sheet music around. it's distracting, even among the hubbub of conversation. ❝ you ought to ask me to dance. ❞