_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

[Reggie might be a stud but he's still a n00b] 

He watches the light in her eye—how it dances and wavers, dangerously close to flickering out, though it preservers in those churning blue depths of hers. She is unhinged, the culprit sitting before her, sparkling and well-spun, its gut bubbling with liquid and its brim spilling the faintest trails of smoke. Safe? Ka’Ora asks. He knows the question she cannot piece together with words: Is it wise for him to become as inebriated as this trigger-happy tramp? Would it not put him at a disadvantage? He does not know how this would feel—how it would hinder his ability to protect himself. This could be a game he does not know, with rules he is not familiar with. He might be dealt a sorry hand indeed.

He sees the simper in her eyes, though, and the praise is there, however faint—and his ego is boosted because of it, and he throws his caution to the four winds. Keep watch, he tells his vigilant harpy; she beats her wings and at once, Ka’Ora dances on the wind, and she is gone.

He hears the rumble, and feels the shake in the ground as a distant explosion detonates. His brow cocks at her once more. “Bad girl,” he says, sealing his fate and approaching the object, muzzle lowered. His lips feel the cold, foreign glass as he mimics her technique, inhaling the air within, which he finds much thicker than he anticipated.

It is too much, way too much; he withdraws quickly, coughing into the grasses beneath him. He had not expected the searing in his throat, how it crept into his nostrils as the smoke spills from his mouth. He breathes through it, tears pin-pricking the corner of his eyes. His resolve hardens to steel; it has become a challenge.

He does not ask her for a second attempt; he brings his muzzle upward once more, and again his lips find the lip of the glassware. He is slower this time, inhaling the thick smoke, feeling it burning, burning, burning all the way into his chest. He does not let it best him, some weak, insubstantial smoke. He holds it there, expelling it only when he allows, releasing the smooth ribbon from his maw in a long drawl. It is not as skillful as those wings Shida had blown before—no matter. There will be time to learn.

He stands for the moment, eyes closed, senses focused and searching the change in his perceptions. It is not so subtle. It falls upon him much faster than expected—or perhaps it is better to say it lifts him, for his weight seems to disappear, and he feels as though he walks upon a path of clouds. His head swims—and as it does, the very air seems to thrum, and he weaves ever so slightly to its rhythm (and he does not know this). Laughter bubbles from him; it starts slow and quiet, and remains so, nothing more than a dark, handsome ribbon falling from his lips, rocking his shoulders slightly as it leaves his chest.

Muscles relax; joints loosen. He opens his eyes and though his sight wavers before him, he no longer possesses the tension to care. He looks upon Shida’s face, seeing her eyes, and he likes her in that moment in a way he has never cared to. “Well, then,” the words slip between the chuckling; he bites his lip, allowing the warm velvet to encase his back and shoulders, feeling a warmth kindling in his body so soon after being spent. “This is what you see,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “How often do you partake?”


"talk talk talk"