[Daemn K'rryl]

OoC: Trying to keep up, now that I'm not working 42-hour weeks. If I am dragging on though, feel free to knock me out and drag me away from the thread, cuz I know how annoying it is for all involved.

IC: If Johnny was just playing drunk, then he must have been a very good actor. Mind you, as Daemn gazed at him muzzily through bloodshot eyes, the jagara wouldn't have been able to tell the difference anyway. Johnny may have been stone sober, but Daemn K'rryl was so pissed he was almost blind.

The drinking had always been a casual thing - that is, while he often drank to excess he rarely binged just to feel wasted. It was just that as a night wore on, one shot of whiskey would turn into twelve in between gambling, hitting on waitresses and sniggering at all the losers in the establishment (ie everyone but him). However, since his loss in the tournament his blood alcohol level was almost constantly high these days.

Daemn did not take losing well. In fact, it had been the first time since leaving his home that he'd actually been defeated - not just beaten, but had his furry arse handed to him and left broken and bloodied on the forest floor. He couldn't walk through the streets of Malice without facing at least one derisive sneer from a passerby who'd recognised him, though that was probably his fault. The old Daemn - the proud, strong, invincible Daemn - would have just bashed the first person to laugh at him, thereby discouraging the possibility of a second. But he'd let it get out of hand as his injuries had slowly and painfully healed, and now there was no stopping the ridicule.

His heart just wasn't in it any more.

Rising from his seat in the back corner - away from most gazes, but unable to escape the snide laughter from one scrawny man close by - he staggered to the bar; one paw closed awkwardly over a small jigger with the oozing dregs of unrefined spirit leaking through his digits, the other waving vaguely in front of him to aid his blurring vision. Someone passing by brushed roughly across his left side, sending the inebriated katta spiralling chaotically into open space. His footpaws scrabbled for purchase for a few moments before he tried righting himself. Daemn pushed upwards, swayed dangerously and crashed onto his face.

Funny. That should have hurt. Maybe his nerve endings had just shut down under the relentless onslaught of corrosive alcohol.

So this is it now, Daemn, a voice said inside his head. It was the voice of the upright, arrogant jagara warrior who had strode into the fortress of Malice earlier, eager to test his skills, eager to win. It was a voice that had faded, drowned, dimmed gradually over the past few cycles. Flat on your face, unable to stand, laughed at by those who would normally fall before you. You're pathetic.

The jagara made a noise at the back of his throat as he levered upright on his wrists. Casting around dimly, his flailing paw caught the jagged remains of the shotglass - apparently he'd smashed it as he fell. Head sunk and crestfallen, he staggered to his feet and shambled the last few yards to the bar, where Johnny was mouthing off to the barkeep with fire in his eyes. Daemn winced at the noise as he ordered another nip of Amberpoison whiskey. "Bein' keepin' it down, hombre. Summa' us ain't bein' feelin' so good, ai?"