The local tavern is a seedy little thing, dark, dank, and smelling a little like piss.
Manuela finds that she doesn't quite care because as long as she's loose-tongued and loose-limbed, very little seems to stick. She thinks instead of her glory days spent on stages with crowds calling her name. Oh, the nostalgia! Memories curl about in her mildly addled brain, of how the music would thrum in her veins as she'd sing her heart out in the fanciest of venues.
Now all she feels is the searing alcohol that burns its way down her throat. It isn't terrible; at least she still feels. Worse could be said about other has-beens and what-nots who are past the primes of their lives.
She slams back the rest of her drink and flags the barkeep for another. There is a moment of hesitation before a glass is slid her way. Her fingers just barely ghost the edge of it before it moves again.
Manuela blinks. Drinkware doesn't just move—
"I think that's enough for one night," someone says, setting her drink to the side, just out of reach. She pouts, moaning softly. "Manuela," continues the man, "Come on—"
"Handsome," she blurts. At least, she thinks she does. Sounds like he is with that low timbre and those kind words. Her vision is blurry at best, and she narrows her eyes as a hazy shape forms. And then her mouth goes dry.
Oh, yes, handsome indeed.
The man laughs. "Thanks, I guess. Been a long time since someone called me that."
"And how long has it been since someone brought you back, hm?" She reaches out and manages to find his arm, trailing a finger along the length of it. "What do you say?"
He chuckles again, this time softer. "I say that we should sit here and let you sober up a bit. If you gather your wits, you might change your mind."
"Doubtful," she says.
The man flags the barkeeper down for a glass of water. "Here, drink this," he says, and Manuela accepts the cup with all the grace of a foal that's learning to walk. She somehow manages to drink most of it, only spilling a little.
The man sighs as she watches him, his blurred edges kind and worried. "You're nice," she whispers once she's drunk her fill. "Why are you nice? Men are never—Ugh, men."
He seems amused at her plight, at least. He smooths a warm hand across the swell of her back, and rubs it gently. "I promised Seteth I'd keep an eye on you. He'd never admit to it, but he gets worried."
Manuela snorts in a way that isn't very attractive. "Seteth, that old dragon." She pauses as the room spins just slightly. "Did you know the kiddos call him that? I hear it in the halls sometimes, it's hilarious."
"Truly," says the man.
"No way he cares that much. All he does is complain, you know. 'Manuela, watch your behavior'; 'Manuela, the students cannot be around such depravity'. Can you imagine? Me? Depraved?" Perhaps she is being dramatic, but she is mildly lewd at her worst.
That warm hand still smooths circles into Manuela's back, lulling her into a sweet comfort. It's something, at least. A little glimmer of hope in an age-old nightmare.
Not that her life is a nightmare, or anything. Manuela just needs to get back on her feet. Maybe Mr. Handsome is the right place to start, just as soon as she rests her eyes. Manuela drops her forehead to the counter, grimacing at the sticky and smelly wood. It's blissfully cold against her skin.
"Hey, Mr. Handsome," she murmurs, words muffled by the countertop and sounds of the tavern, "you never did answer my question—want to come back with me? I promise that I'm an absolute riot when given the chance."
"Oh, I have no doubt." The man sighs, but it's with amusement. "I'll make sure you get back safe. Just rest those eyes until then, yeah?"
"Hm, I like talking to you. Do you like my jokes?"
"Yes. In fact, I'd love to hear more."
So Manuela throws herself into wily seduction. She's a bit of a mess at times, and a sloppy drunk, but she has her assets and her humor. If she plays her cards right, she just might get laid. Finally.
The man seems to enjoy her company, laughing at her jokes, retorting back with quips. She delights in his face, as blurred and hazy as it is, but she knows that his smile is a keen one full of mirth, the sort that actually reaches his eyes.
And, true to his word, he helps her back to the Monastery, right to the doorstep of her room. He helps her out of her coat, and alcohol stained clothes, into something clean enough to sleep in. The man tucks her into the bed, his fingers trailing down the side of her face.
"You should stay," she whispers, a little less drunk and a lot more stupid.
"No," he says, "not this time."
For once, Manuela seems to have found a man that's entirely genuine. He pulls the blanket to her chin, and bids her a good night. Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
"Absurd," she murmurs drunkenly into her pillow. "This must be a dream. I don't get happy endings."
Manuela dreams of one that night—nothing but jokes and that Goddess-damned laugh that she knows she'll never forget. It's a nice thought, at least, even if it's only for a moment.
#
Manuela wakes the next morning feeling like she's been kicked in the head by a horse.
This is the standard, a well-known part of her daily routine. She sighs and then moans, rubbing at her throbbing head. Next, she winces at the sunlight that filters in through the window, rolling over to blot it out with her pillows.
For ten minutes, she lays there. Maybe fifteen if she's feeling particularly self-piteous. Hangovers are her best friends, comforting her through her trying mornings.
This morning she considers nursing the residual tipsiness with a little hair of the dog. No, she thinks, before she grabs the flask. Be responsible, Manuela.
Crossing the room is a chore, Manuela scuttling about on wobbly limbs as she barely holds onto her stomach. She hasn't had a hangover this terrible in at least a decade, and when she finally looks in the mirror, she cringes at her horrifying state.
It is a cosmetics sort of day, then. Manuela washes her face to remove the grime and sleep. Then, she sips at a dubious green tincture that sits in a jar at her wardrobe—thistle weed, ginger root, and peppercorn steeped in vodka.
"For medicinal purposes," she swears to herself as it burns her throat.
As she sets about caking her face with powder, she thinks. Manuela tries to remember the night before but is only met with fuzzed memories. Bits and flashes. Tavern music, a drink too many, her usual grousing as man after man ignores her advances.
She twirls her powder brush against the tip of her nose, frowning. But then, the rusted of her brain start to turn. The soft touch of a hand, warm against her back. Softs, kind words, and a cool glass of water against her lips.
That laugh. The one that's a little gruff, but inviting.
"Oh," whispers Manuela as she sits up straighter. "Oh," she repeats as her mouth curls into a grin.
She'd met her dream man the night before and he seemingly liked her back. Helped her to her room like a proper gentleman, and didn't take advantage of her grossly inebriated state. Manuela wouldn't have said no, but it was a nice change of pace, settling into soft sheets, thinking of a man who just seemed to care.
It's a goddess-damned shame that she cannot remember his face. Or anything past a vague, blurry shape, and the deep timbre of his voice. She hardly remembers her own name with the blasted headache that rages in her skull.
"It figures, doesn't it?" she sighs. "I finally found a decent one and he's gone in the wind."
Luck's never been on her side—except for the Goddess sparing her liver. But, there's one trick that's left up her songstress's sleeve.
"People underestimate me, don't they? Well, I'll show them. I'll figure out who this man is, and I'll court him properly."
Manuela smirks back at herself in the mirror, dabbing concealer underneath her eyes.
#
So, easier said than done.
Manuela has spent the better part of her morning playing hooky like a student, watching the men that linger around. None of them seem right—too short, too slim, the wrong gait as they walk. She might've been drunk off her ass the night before, but there's an inkling there, at least, that's buried deep in her brain.
She stands against the cool wall of the training yard, half-hidden by the shadows. Her gaze is narrowed as she watches Jeritza slap the flat of his wooden blade against a student's bum before moving to correct the boy's form.
"Jeritza?" Manuela considers it for about a second before she hides a snicker behind her palm. "No, no, definitely not. He wouldn't find himself within five feet of me." Jeritza doesn't even like to share a room with her at staff meetings.
And so, she moves on, combing through the entirety of Garreg Mach.
Alois she can immediately overlook. For a moment, she considers Seteth, but there's a tiny tug at the back of her mind—"I promised Seteth I'd keep an eye on you."
Manuela doubts that Seteth would pretend to be himself, not to mention his brand of tough love. Seteth is more likely to drag her away from the bar by her ear, than be a smidge interested in her. Not that she wouldn't climb him like a tree. She would. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
As the day wears on, the more faith that she loses. There are only so many men to be found at Garreg Mach that aren't her students.
"A figment of my imagination, then?" she murmurs to herself as she dumps slop onto her lunch plate. Surely not. She might've been sloshed, but she wasn't entirely out of her mind. Manuela can function even when at her mildly worst—so when drunk, she doesn't think she'd imagine the man.
Unless she's really just that lonely and desperate.
"At that point, I just dream them up. Less messy and less commitment, which isn't so terrible in the end." Still, it's all that she thinks about as she munches away. Her handsome hero, and how she might've foolishly let him get away.
Manuela sighs, stabbing her fork into a chicken breast rather aggressively. "I should have insisted he stay. Clothes on and for cuddles, at least."
A woman can dream.
#
By the late evening, Manuela has more than exhausted herself, she is thoroughly convinced that it's an elaborate hoax.
"It would be my luck, I guess," she bemoans, walking the loop around Garreg Mach for the umpteenth time. "I finally meet a man and he's just a dumb figment of my alcohol-fueled desperation."
If anything, it's on brand. Manuela is a mess, first and foremost, and relatively functional, second. She cannot imagine a man willfully saddling himself with the worst of her qualities. She rubs at her brow, trying to massage away that headache that persists.
"I suppose this is defeat. Perhaps a celebratory round at the bar for my intuitiveness? Or maybe I'll just barter a bottle off of Anna—drinking alone in my misery seems like a fun choice."
Manuela opts for the latter, sighing as she heads for the front gate.
#
Anna's cart is deceiving.
At first glance, Anna might look like a reputable merchant with a middle-class bearing. Not high-bred to the point of annoyance, but not low-class enough to scum one over with counterfeits and silver plated steel.
She's a nightmare to haggle with, though, and Manuela only resorts to buying liquor off her when she's inconsolable enough to want the good stuff.
"Anna," she says, greeting her with a sickly-sweet smile. "Have you got a bottle of Dagdan Bourbon? Don't care about the brand as long as it's pricey and smooth."
"I thought you went for bottom grade spirits?" Anna's tone is mostly teasing, but she raises an eyebrow in curiosity.
"I do," says Manuela flippantly. "There isn't a point in paying more when the result is the same."
Anna's gaze narrows, tapping her chin with a finger. "Debatable. Most don't drink with the express purpose of getting plastered."
"Yes, well, I've never claimed to be a role model." Manuela doesn't need to. Students come to Garreg Mach having heard the rumors of her overindulgence, so they're more than prepared to mostly ignore her.
Anna laughs. "What's the occasion?"
"Heartbreak? Men? My general existence?" Manuela snorts. "Take your pick."
"Oh? Did a man break your heart?"
Manuela groans, rubbing at her face. "Yes, by not existing. I probably should lay off the booze for a bit."
"And so you come here to ask for my best?"
"Obviously."
Anna chuckles, turning around to sift through her odds and ends. "You know, there's more to life than a good man. Ever consider a woman instead?"
Manuela's mouth curls into a secretive smile. "Honey, I was once a famous opera singer. With the theater, comes wild experiences. I've likely been with more—"
A man laughs, low and rich. Manuela's words stutter as she comes to a full stop. Anna blinks back at her, brow crinkled in concern. "Manuela—"
"Shh!"
Anna's mouth snaps shut. She sets a large bottle of her finest Dagdan Bourbon down.
"That laugh," says Manuela quietly. Something about it nags at her. Kind, with a deliciously deep timbre. Smooth and easy-going. "I've…"
A joke rolls off of her tongue, a little crude and crass, entirely unbefitting of a lady. But the man roars in return, and it doesn't seem insincere.
"That's him!"
"Him?" asks Anna, cocking her head to the side.
"That's—"
"I would think after last night you'd rethink something so strong, no?" Manuela turns and finds Jeralt Eisner smiling back, amusedly. "Unless you have a secret spell or something that staves off hangovers."
Jeralt. Jeralt Eisner. The man, the myth, the legendary mercenary and once knight of the church of Seiros. Manuela swallows thickly as she tries to process this new information.
"I—well, you know. A lady is allowed to have high standards."
Jeralt raises an eyebrow. "You certainly forgot about them last night while knocking back homebrew."
"Only because you were buying the rounds."
He laughs. "Honestly, it's good to see you on your feet. I thought you'd call in a sick day."
Manuela might be a drunkard and a mess, but she is not a quitter. She'd rather show up to a lecture half-dead and barely standing, than call in. "Appearances, you know," she finally says. "I have to keep at least a somewhat decent reputation."
"So, do you want the booze or not?" cuts in Anna.
"I—"
"Come to the tavern again," says Jeralt. "Just for a drink."
Manuela doesn't think she's ever said yes to something so quickly in her life.
#
The tavern is quieter that night because it's barely sundown.
Manuela and Jeralt tuck into a table near the fireplace and away from the bar, much to the barkeeper's surprise.
"Has Hell frozen over?" asks Jeralt when Manuela orders something non-alcoholic.
"No, I just—do you think that I drink myself stupid every night?"
Jeralt blinks back at her. "Yes. I've seen you do it."
Right. He isn't wrong. Manuela waves it off. "Maybe I just want to enjoy your company without puking in the hallway." A pause. "I didn't do that last night, did I?"
"No," says Jeralt with a soft chuckle. "We made it back to your rooms without much embarrassment."
Doubtful, Manuela thinks.
There is a moment that stretches between them. Awkwardness sits on Manuela's tongue, heavy and fat. "Thank you," she finally says. "For last night. Usually I'm just… stumbling about that late. Most don't bother to help without an ulterior motive."
"The dorms aren't far, but they're far enough for concern, especially when you drink yourself stupid like that."
Manuela knows this and she's never quite cared. "Still, it was nice. I'd like to do it again. Not to bring you back, or anything. The walking me back, I mean. It was a kind thing to do. I—"
Jeralt laughs again, and she kicks herself. She would sound like an awkward teenager, floundering about in front of a crush. Not that she has a crush. No, never.
(She does).
Manuela blurts, rather dumbly, "It was your laugh. I was so hungover that I couldn't… um, remember properly, as it were. I spent all day trying to find you and figure out who it could be. I'd given up hope, which is why the liquor at Anna's. But then I heard your laugh and I recognized it." To his credit, Jeralt seems only amused, the lines around his eyes crinkling delightfully as he smiles. "Goddess," she continues, "that sounds idiotic."
"No, it's—" He chuckles. "You know what? I'd like that too. Walking you back to your room later tonight, I mean. But we'd have to share a drink first. Properly."
"What, like a date?" A horrifying prospect even if it makes Manuela's heart tick faster at the thought of it.
"Do you want it to be?"
She hesitates. Sure, Manuela has bemoaned the lack of men in her life, but it's easy to do when they don't want to date you. Jeralt seems genuine in his request, waiting patiently for an answer. In for a silver, in for a gold, she supposes.
"Yes," she says with a smirk before flagging the server over.