Legolas blinked hard and fought with his eyes to keep them from blurring. His jaw clenched, his expression grim, and his muscles tensed to attack, he looked the ultimate picture of a warrior. The chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward. His serpentine gaze had been known to send orcs and trolls fleeing but, somehow, it had lost its intensity—his latest enemy must have invented some form of transparent mithril shield! Bah! He gritted his teeth, clenched his left hand into a fist and released it, and narrowed his eyes.
Another one! She put back another!
Mentally he growled as he watched her pour the thick alcohol down her throat dramatically and snap forward, slamming the empty glass onto the tabletop. Blast! She cleared the stray and somewhat frazzled hair from her face, smirked, and her heated gaze fought for mental control over his. A shout went up from the men behind her and another mark was added to the tally of their drinks. Her cup was quickly refilled but she remained as still as stone, watching, and waiting.
"Pen a i tadui sogo. Darbell, Legolas, darbell." (Drink one and then the second. Stay strong, Legolas, stay strong.)
Legolas ignored the encouragements of the elves behind him—they were not in his place and had all but one refused to partake of that particular spirit. Legolas fixed his steely gaze on the woman across from him and sneered—he didn't trust his voice at this point. He could remain perfectly composed, without the slightest hint of drunkenness, until the very moment when he passed out. Unfortunately, he had not yet tamed his voice to that level of inebriation and it often betrayed him.
Legolas snatched his glass from the tabletop, abruptly, leaned back, and poured the sharp liquor down his throat. It burned him to drink it—it was so strong it had worn his throat raw and the fumes of it twisted his poor, suffering stomach. He snapped forward as she had, slammed the glass down, and locked eyes once more with his challenger. He had participated in games such as this before, but not with liquor so potent or so scathing, and he was not ready to give up just yet. He was Legolas Thranduilion! He had been drinking the strongest of wines since he had been old enough to hold the goblet! He would not lose so much face as to be bested by a mortal waitress in the seedy back alleys of Minas Tirith.
A cheer went up from the elves and the men across the table hissed. Another mark was placed on the tabulation, this time beneath Legolas's name.
"Lightweight." The room went silent and Legolas narrowed his eyes. The woman across the table from him, mortal as she was, had managed to achieve that which Legolas strived for—she had perfect control of her voice when totally and obscenely inebriated. Blast! She daintily lifted up the glass and drank it down as one would water. Legolas arched an eyebrow as she set the glass down with a 'tink.' Cheers erupted from behind her and Legolas could almost feel the competitive anger boiling in the elves behind him.
"Hm." Legolas knew that was the only sound he could risk making—his voice would betray him given any opportunity. He lifted the glass up in a slightly more masculine manner and drank it down the same way she had. He tried to prepare himself, but in the end he was forced to grimace. It tasted as though he were drinking acid! Horrid! It left a burning fume in his mouth and scorched his sinuses—he got the distinct impression there was sulfur in this Eru-forsaken concoction. A few of the men behind her laughed as he grimaced, but she did not. Legolas straightened up and set his glass down—he smirked, momentarily, but the expression faded as he heard a remark from one mortal to another, just off to his right.
"I know they're immortal, but can elves die of alcohol poisoning?"
"I've no idea, we should probably get a doctor down here soon though—Anora's going to pass out soon."
The elves perked up at this and the men all hissed for silence. The glasses were refilled and Anora lifted hers first. Legolas hadn't the faintest how they could identify her as drunk—her hands were perfectly steady, her expression was veiled, and her eyes were sharp as any of their own. She threw back her drink and slammed the glass down on the table, it landed unsteadily, unlike it had before, and made a bit of noise before it righted itself.
"Forty-two, Anora. Forty-one, Legolas," the man with the scorecard read aloud and the men cheered riotously.
Legolas lifted his glass and winced as the elves behind him began to chant 'Aglar,' glory. Legolas narrowed his eyes, but found quickly that he could no longer focus. He downed the drink in a single motion, slammed the glass down, and blinked hard as he fought to keep his eyes fixated on the bleary figure of Anora. He clenched his hands together and leaned forward on the table—the elves behind him took this to be a sign that he was ready to continue and would continue no matter what, oh how far from the truth they were. Another drink was poured, and Anora downed that one too. She leaned forward afterwards and shook her head as she swayed a bit. Victory was at hand!
Legolas grabbed his glass and drank it normally—the burning aided his mind in recovery for a few moments, but he quickly slipped back into the numb swirl of the alcohol that filled his blood. The elves cheered and he winced. Anora moved for her next drink, she slung it back, but there was a groan and a hiss from the men. What had happened? The Sindarin he heard clued him in to what his eyes could no longer see—she had missed her mouth and ended up tossing the liquid over her shoulder. She was drunk! Legolas grinned as he picked up his next drink—only this one and he would defeat her!
With all the power in his drunken limbs, Legolas forced himself back into his chair, lifted the glass, and dramatically swung it around to his mouth. Perhaps he had swung a little too overdramatically because the momentum from his arm knocked both he and the chair off balance and left him on the ground. He tried to sit up, but his head swam and his vision spotted over—blast. He lied back down on the floor and stared, idly, at the blur of color, light, and shadow above him. It was then that the doctor arrived.
The final score was Anora, forty-three, Legolas, forty-three. It had been a tie, but in the end, really, it had been the bartender who won. Eighty-six drinks did not come cheap.
Disclaimer: In the end, really, isn't it the lawyer who wins?
Author's Notes: Seeing as Quenya is developed from Finnish and thus, somehow, in a similar language pool, I used Japanese syntax for my brief Sindarin.