10:
Urala shook her head. Poor drunk fool, she thought as she tried to slid the jack of loqua out from under Don's passed out form at the tavern's bar. Don sat upright in the stool, a startled expression on his face. His arm jerked and sent the half filled mug crashing to the floor.
Urala's brows furrowed, but she said nothing. All the other crew members had long since retired to their respective homes and she was ready to close the pub. She went about picking up the broken ceramic shards from the floor. Don futilely rubbed the drunkenness from his eyes and joined her on the ground.
"I'm sorry." he muttered. "You shouldn't have to clean up after me."
"It's my job." she said simply.
"Let me help then." he offered. Don began to pluck up the broken mug.
"Don, you reek of loqua." Urala whispered. "Please leave this to me before you hurt yourself."
Too late. Don's hand swooped down with bravado at a ceramic shard. For Don in his inebriated state, the gash simply appeared across his palm. It was both long and deep.
Urala sighed and pulled out her handkerchief from her apron. She wrapped the plain white cotton around his hand and applied pressure.
"I knew you were going to get hurt." she murmured.
"Funny, I can't feel anything." Don replied. His gaze was ensnared by the handkerchief that seemed to be effectively absorbing all the stray red droplets.
Urala didn't say anything. She reached for the broom behind the bar and began to sweep up the remaining mug shards.
"I could go get Miss Fina to cast Sacri on your hand." Urala offered finally.
"Don't bother." Don grunted. "She's got her own things to worry about."
With the broken mug safely disposed of, Urala began to soak up the loqua off the floor. She kept her gaze locked on to her work.
"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Don said.
"You're bleeding all over the floor." she whispered.
"I'm sorry." he muttered.
"Don't be." she replied. "Just don't bleed on the floor."
Don chuckled to himself and began to apply pressure to his wound. As the adrenaline wore off and he began to sober, he noticed that the slash seemed to throb.
"I'll bring your handkerchief back when it's clean." he promised.
"Don't bother." Urala shook her head, but the corners of her mouth crooked upwards in a small smile. "It's already ruined."
"Oh." Don sat back on the bar stool. "I guess I'll keep it then."
"You should really have someone tend to your hand." Urala advised. "It will probably scar otherwise."
Don twisted a finger in his goatee. "I've already had someone look at my hand." he responded. "Besides, it'll be good if it scars. I'll have a reminder as to why I shouldn't be a drunken idiot."
"Do you really feel that it is necessary?" Urala asked.
"Why?" He shrugged. "Does it upset you?"
Urala turned her dark eyes to Don's palm. She tossed the loqua drenched rags into a bucket. She took his hand in hers and began to tie the loose ends of the handkerchief tightly into place.
"Well?" Don's voice was gruff. "You didn't answer me. Does it upset you?"
Urala kept her eyes on her work. She could feel Don's hot breath on her cheek, bitter with the odor of loqua. She secured the handkerchief with a knot.
The door to the tavern opened. Kirala walked in and shot her sister a stern look. Urala dropped Don's hand and dodged back behind the bar.
"What's going on?" Kirala demanded.
"Don, he—" Urala stammered as she pointed to Don's hand.
"I broke a mug." he offered. "Cut my hand up in the process too."
"It's because you drink too much." Kirala said curtly.
"I didn't realize that you were an expert on these things." was Don's snide answer.
"One doesn't have to be." Kirala spoke through clenched teeth. "One only has to look at you."
"Please don't argue." Urala pleaded.
"You think this is drinking too much?" Don barred his teeth at the Yafutoman architect. "You should drop by Esperanza sometime, darling. This is nothing!"
Kirala balled her hands into fists. "I've been to Esperanza." she whispered. "As I recall Captain Vyse even chose to recruit Esperanza's biggest drunkard into his crew."
"Stop this." Urala's voice raised an octave.
"I know what I am." Don snarled. He stalked over to Kirala and loomed over the woman.
She met his furious glare with a level look. "Apparently you do not." Kirala said. "Alcoholic."
"I know what this is about." Don crossed his arms.
"It should be obvious." Kirala retorted. "Your wanton foolishness is repulsive."
He faced her squarely. "Aika's dead. You can't change that." Don didn't bother to hide the contempt in his voice. "Let me deal with it my way, just like I let you deal with it your way."
"Kirala, let it go." Urala tried to place herself between Don and her sister.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Kirala hissed.
"Oh really?" Don laughed. "What have you been doing in your shop this entire evening? Tell me, Kirala, what does smashing nails into a single block of wood accomplish?"
"Don, please!" Urala begged. She placed a hand on his arm and he finally took notice of her.
It was too late. Kirala's jaw worked furiously, but the words refused to form. Her lip finally curled up into a snarl.
"Pig!"
Kirala's work-hardened fist had the density of concrete as she slugged Don in his loqua reddened face. The hit caught him completely off guard and his head twisted at a bizarre angle before he came crashing down onto the hardwood floor. Kirala shook her hand out and marched stiffly from the tavern.
Don ran through a mental checklist to make sure all of his body parts were accounted for. He gingerly fingered the bruise that was already forming along his jaw line and decided that it would be in his best interest to stay lying on the floor for the moment.
Urala shook her head. "You shouldn't have done that." she murmured.
Don shoved himself up onto his hands and knees. His brows furrowed and he caught her black eyes with his brown for a moment. Urala turned and followed after her sister.
"I'm sorry." Don muttered after the empty doorway. The words seemed to echo around the lone man in the pub.
Don gathered himself from the floor. He began to brush himself off, but in his intoxicated state it devolved into him slapping different body parts rather than brushing.
Don mumbled incoherent obscenities at himself as he headed behind the bar. He picked up a fresh mug and set it beneath the tap. His hand paused above the tap and he considered it a moment. One more glass and he could forget about everything that happened that night. No, the sharp pain was still there in his palm. It would scab over tomorrow and in the days that followed it would scar. There would be no way to erase this evening from his mind completely.
Urala's cotton handkerchief was browned with Don's blood. Don swore violently and shoved the empty mug back where he found it on the shelf behind the bar. He cursed again and even involved the mother of the Purple Moon in his next stream of obscenities for good measure. Don was sober.