<span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans">“I'm out with you, aren't I? I never promised to be any fun,” Vasyli growled, his irritation climbing based on his unease. He was somewhat lax, draped like silk over the cool stone railing, it tamping down some of his nervous nausea. He didn't like change and he wasn't sure why he was feeling the way that he was, at least not until Kevice asked if he'd smoked anything but tobacco. His mind was slow, and he had to repeat that several times in his head to glean the implied meaning.<br/>
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“Excuse me?” he said, turning his eyes from the view back to Kevice. “That wasn't tobacco? What the hell was it then?” Some sort of sap he said? That didn't make it anymore familiar to the elf.<br/>
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“I told you I do not venture into sordid establishments.” He had assumed, and he hadn't bothered to ask. Kevice seemed so relaxed and casual, but then again he probably should have known better. The bastard ate fire and swallowed knives. He groaned and then pressed his forehead down against the cool stone, wanting to be able to close his eyes and have full function over his body again. With alcohol, he was intimately familiar with the way it worked. He knew how to control it. With this, he didn't, and he'd not been tentative. Not Kevice's fault, he realized, but rather his own. Kevice was prattling on about Vasyli being no fun but he didn't care in that moment. He was on about something else, Osran, and then the girls.<br/>
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“How can you chat up anyone like this?” Vasyli wondered, thinking Kevice likely had a higher tolerance. Either that or Vasyli's own pounding heart was making him that much more lightheaded and nauseous. His respiration was higher than normal signaling his mild panic, his legs only partially holding himself up, laid out at an angle.<br/>
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“What sort of way am I supposed to be feeling that is desirable?” His voice was snappish, not meant for Kevice to take the brunt of, but showing his ire about the circumstances. He didn't like what had been brought upon him, at least not right then and he didn't understand why people often did this sort of thing to himself. Then again someone could call him a hypocrite. He had his own preferred poison. He was trying to resist the effects on his body, pressing himself up, wondering if he might be able to make it home, into his own bed where he could rest it off. More spinning indicated that this would not be the case, yet this time he gripped Kevice's shoulder, the other hand still propped on the railing. He was trying to reason with himself to take it easy, to slow down like Kevice had suggested but his nervous energy was working against him.</span></span>