Let's Play a Drinking Game

After days of remaining locked away in his cell, Artisan had finally started to drink. The rations given to him were not the same as having a whole keg to enjoy at your leisure, but his empty stomach meant he'd needed to drink much less to feel the effects begin in his mind. The more days that passed the more it hurt to be left behind, but Artisan's loyalty was stronger than most - the sentimental brute who wore a stone for every friend upon his wrist would not write off Sparrow on Artorias' word alone, after all, who said the alpha was being truthful? Sparrow could have arrived fifteen times over the last few weeks and been chased away each time. Or perhaps his Pirate King was planning another attack, waiting for a suitable time to take the Hallows by force. Whatever the reason, Artisan believed in his King and his Pack, wholeheartedly believing that they wanted him back as desperately as he wanted to be back. That lonely hurt had to go somewhere, however, and instead of the anger being directed at Sparrow he only doubled down upon hating Artorias more.

Artisan lay in the cell's corner curled into a small ball, running his claw gently along each bead he wore. The worst of it was the empty space where Hyperion's memento had been, he'd thrown the damn thing at his little brother and damn near tore Hya's from his wrist along with it. It had been the last interaction he'd had with his bastard brother, and now locked away in a cell he felt that absence of family even harder then he had when he'd learned Hyperion had died. He heard the paw steps approach but ignored them as he did with every feeding time. Whenever the delivering wolf was gone, he'd chug whatever alcohol had been given to him and return to his corner to sulk.

This time a voice came alongside the paw steps and Artisan grimaced at the sound of it. "Oh fuck off." He murmured below his breath. Artorias was offering him a chance to stretch his legs and play a game, but did not seem to understand that his captive was not in the mood for entertainment. The temptation to pass on the offer was hard to ignore - after all, Artorias had proven himself to be a sore winner already, and Artisan was not down to get punished further for daring to try and enjoy himself - but the offer came with alcohol, more then he'd been given daily by the wolves who slid trays beneath his bar, he was sure.

He got up from his corner and eyed the man, hate clear in his eyes. "Fine." His response was short, his energy to argue having faded a week earlier. Artisan stepped forward out from the cage, ignoring the Aegis' smirk and directing his own muzzle towards the wall as he waited to be led, or drug, or however Artorias preferred to transport his captives.


"Speech"