thoughtformed | [Video] Never trust a Scot's ale

[Creedy gives the camera a crooked grin, patting his hand almost affectionately on the keg beside him.]

Conrad, No offense on ya, mate. Your alcohol is well and fine for a tame man's tastes, but this here beauty is damn near impossible to beat. I think I'll be callin' it Northumberland Dragonsbreath. Finest... well... don't rightly have a type of alcohol to call it, but it'll certainly put a dimmer on anythin' you've 'ad before it. Me 'n Quinn 'ave been drinking my special black lable for years and we're still standin'. Well. He is. I'm still not so sure about the whole livin thing.

Well. It could use another week, but here's to you, New Moore. Wherever the fuck this is and whoever is responsible for it. Appreciate the not bein' dead bit.

[He taps out a fifth a glass and takes a gulp. To his credit, the grimace is only barely visible a second when it burns the whole way down and he manages to hold his cough, even if it sounds in the slight rasp his voice takes on.]

Doesn' get better than this.

[Do not take his word for it. Seriously. For your own safety. In the functioning world this deadly spirit is called Pruno or prison wine. It's made of moldy fruit and ketchup and distilled to near 160% proof in a manner of days. Two weeks to prime. It will burn you the whole way down and sink in hard and fast. But if you're clever and tip it back fast enough to keep it from touching your throat too much, or your tongue, you might avoid the taste and the fire that follows it.]

Now all I need is a steel barrel.

[And another five or so days to age it. But who's counting, really?]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He huffs with amusement but doesn't argue, for all he knows half a glass of this stuff is enough to make a man shitfaced after all.

Then again maybe he'd be smiling like that too if he'd been brought back from the dead.

All depends on what being dead is like, he supposes.

He knows that the secret to drinking anything made by Creedy is to not sip, hence he closes his eyes and lets the whole, vile thing slide down his throat. He's not putting up any kind of show so he immediately starts coughing and laughing at the same time. ]

Holy shit this is worse than what you cooked up when we were on the road.

[ An exaggeration. Nothing could be worse than what Creedy cooked up on the road. Quinn has a theory that it was made from fermented old socks. ]

If I die or go blind I am kicking your ass.

[Quinn's theory was not far off. Not that Creedy would ever admit to it. You could make alcohol out of nearly anything. And he had started without a stone's idea of the proper method beyond what he'd overheard in passing.]

Your eyes'll be fine. Not puttin any hope in for our livers, though. They're on their own.

[A rough laugh and he's grinning and tossing the rest of his glass back in one gulp. The trick, after all, is to gulp it all down in one swallow.]

Can't say I've lost my touch.

Make touch punch and I'm in complete agreement with you.

[ Quinn bumps his shoulder against Creedy's affectionately and fiddles with the now empty glass in his hand. ]

Might be worth thinking more about our healths now though.

[ Seeing as there's a real chance of living past forty in a place like this. ]

Take all the fun out of life, why don't you.

[Creedy bumps his shoulder back and shakes his head, still smiling as he stares at his own glass.

Here's the problem with second chances. He'd done right in his last life. He hadn't been a hero, or anything, but he'd saved Quinn's life, and that, really, had been enough. But he wasn't a hero for it. He'd been selfish about it. He wasn't going to watch Quinn get himself killed, so he took the risk instead, knowing full well how it was probably going to end. But that was the thing.

His life had ended. Now he had it back and he wasn't rightly sure what he was meant to do with it. Especially not in a place like this, where he felt more out of place than a jet plane in a dragon's sky.]

Take up yoga.

[ Quinn has absolutely no idea what to do with himself as well. He has no purpose here, no one has any particular use for him.

What is he here but an uneducated survivor of horrors that don't even exist to most people on the island? He knows how to make crops grow in burned soil, he knows how to slaughter various animals and cut them up, he knows how to make meals out of meager ingredients and how to make them last. He knows a great many things that will keep you alive in a world that has been all but destroyed.

He knows very little about how to function in the kind of society that died before he could really be a part of it in the sense of contriuting much other than his presence. ]

Bet there's actually classes here.

And it would sure beat doing nothing.

Not sure I agree with you there, mate.

[Creedy gave a wry grin, leaning against his bed and shaking his head.]

But you are right on one thing. We've got to find somethin' to do with ourselves. I'm about off me head here and I'm not sure how much more idlin' I can stomach.

Could always put on a show. You know, like we used to? Got to be kids somewhere on this island, and with these phones we could probably rig something up so we could broadcast it.

[ He knows that the kids here probably have more exciting things to entertain them than a pair of rugged idiots making fools of themselves, but it's still a thought. ]

[Video] Never trust a Scot's ale

[Action]

[Action]

[Action]

[Action]

[Action]

[Action]

[Action]