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♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them (or mine pick up yours?)

Prompt 8: Clamor

Who: Strammund Grehmerlsyn, Mi’ke Tia (who belongs to @donpom-loredex)

What: The barkeep at Strammund’s usual haunt has called in a favor.

Where: A back alley tavern in Ul’dah.

When: *shrug*

Content notes: alcohol, drunkenness, nausea, vertigo, nonconsenting physical transportation(?), food mention

"HEY!"

Strammund continued, unperturbed. No sense wasting his breath.

"Hey, don't-- Hey, man! Put me down!" A fist swung woozily at the back of Strammund's head, knocking his bandana askew.

Heave-HO. Strammund pushed against the floor and slowly stood, a very drunk -- and surprisingly dense -- Seeker slung over his shoulder like a sack of very animated popotoes. The young man hollered, beating his hands against Strammund's back and lashing his stub of a tail.

"Quit wigglin'," Strammund warned as he made for the door, one arm wrapped securely around the back of the patron's knees. "Crack yer fool head open if I drop you."

His undignified cargo changed tactics: "Now hang on a minute, let's be reasonable! Just put me down and we can talk -- urgh -- talk it over!"

Having moved through the door and a little way down the walk, Strammund did, indeed, put him down -- kneeling and setting him on his unsteady feet. Strammund stayed down, holding out a hand to make sure the miqo'te wouldn't fall over before he could catch his balance.

"Star's spinnin', is it?"

"Ugh."

"Sit." Strammund pointed to the bench just behind him. The miqo'te resisted -- until the floor pitched under him, and he sat. Strammund offered him a tight smile. "Not real familiar with ouzo, are ye?"

"Of course I'm familiar with it!" he began, jerking his chin up -- though from the sudden greenish tinge in his tan face, he instantly regretted the sudden movement.

"Drank it dry hammer, eh? Sneaks up on you, like. It's the sugar."

"Why d'you give -- urk -- give a, a damn?" Yellow eyes glared blearily at him. The young man -- he couldn't have been older than twenty -- was gradually working himself up into a lather. "What kind of bouncer sits and talks with the drunk he's ejecting, anyway? You're supposed to toss me out and dust off your, your hands, and go back to your post. Worst bouncer I've ever met!"

Strammund shook his head. "Ain't a bouncer. Just know the barkeep."

"So do I!" came the reply, accompanied by the clumsy jab of a thumb against chest. "Best buds, her and me -- she would never throw me out! Mi'ke Tia, best customer she ever had." Something similar to understanding slowly dawned on his face. "...but, oh, I get how it is." Mi'ke, as his name apparently was, reached out poke at Strammund's breastbone with a drunken smirk. "You're not even a real bouncer! You're just-- just some jerk taking matters into his own hands!" Mi'ke launched into a series of taunting insults covering everything from Strammund's bouncer credentials to his choice of headgear.

Strammund quirked an eyebrow, letting Mi'ke talk without either agreeing or disagreeing with him.

When it became clear that the stream of excited words and accusatory jabs was not likely to wind down, Strammund interrupted him: "You oughta eat somethin'. Stay put, or don't." He pushed to his feet and headed off toward one of the vendors around the square. With luck, Mi'ke would be there when he returned.