' sikn trd [ day uno ]

[Mimi]

Rian readjusted his doublet, watching his fingers in the mirror as they fluidly pressed the last few buttons through the last few holes. He tilted his head to the side, frowning. He looked...presentable, he supposed, but try as he might, he couldn't erase the signs of weariness and distress that'd seemed to have appeared overnight. He sighed for the nth time, defeated, and closed his eyes as he moved mechanically to the washbasin just a step or two away. Perhaps it was the insomnia. Or the looming prospect of death. Or the aching battle wounds. Or a lovely combination of all three and more.

Dipping his hands into the bowl, he rubbed the water against his eyes, neck, face, as if he could rub the incongruities away. He almost laughed at his own optimism. As per usual, he felt completely incapacitated and hadn't gone down to break fast with the royals. He'd spent most of the morning preparing himself - both mentally and physically - to spend the entire day - twenty-four hours - with Her Royal Reginien Highness. He nearly groaned just at the thought. He was not a well man and, at the moment, not very sober either.

Rian pinched the bridge of his nose as his other hand blindly groped for a towel. He'd never been one to get drunk; hell, he'd never been one to drink, but what other choice did he have? The court doctor had finally arrived, sent a servant with the medicine, but Rian hadn't yet spoken with him face to face and hadn't mentioned that his little tonics no longer worked, at least, not in the current dosage. And so, Rian drank. He drank to wash the bitter taste down; he drank to keep himself sane.

Stumbling to the bed, Rian attempted to pull himself together as he half-heartedly dabbed dry. The bloody fabrics, the empty wine bottles, liquor bottles, flasks - those were all...details. That's right, details, and Rian, he needed to focus on the - the big picture. He --- goddammit. To hell with this indecisiveness. He would go out there and do what he did best--fool everyone. And he didn't need to prepare himself for that; it came as natural as breathing.

Before he could change his mind or fall prey to another bout of nausea or diseased hacking, Rian roughly pushed himself off the side of the bed and out the door. He blinked blearily against the harsh, natural lighting of the sun beaming in through the expansive ceiling-to-floor windows and breathed out sharply, a bit lightheaded, a bit exasperated. He'd been told to meet Adalia in the royal gardens which, thankfully, lay past the kitchens area. Perhaps he could pop in for a glass of whiskey (seeing as he had drunk all of his) or, more ideally, some food (seeing as he had barely eaten since arriving at Regina). Smoothing out the wrinkles on the legs of his breeches, Rian quickly descended the small set of steps leading to the east wing of the castle and strung his hands loosely behind his back.

As he walked, he passed a few maids -- one blond, another red-haired, and all very pretty -- and much to his chagrin, he winked at them, and they, in their maidenly virtue, giggled scandalously back either from honest-to-goodness innocence or, as Rian liked to think, feminine lewdness and wiles. He shook his head as he pivoted the corner. He must have been drunk if he was winking at maids. It was never a good sign -- him drunk -- for it usually meant him unwittingly seducing a noblewoman or some such and, in the morning, being confronted by said noblewoman. Of course he never went as far as they said he did, but scorned women tended to gossip, and thus came about Rian's reputation at court. It was demeaning -- humiliating -- but it happened every single time Rian ingested just a tad bit more wine than he intended.

He considered the situation for a moment, and his lips twisted into the faintest smile. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. After all, he was to spend the entire day with Adalia and honestly, he did not think he would have been able to properly court her without the helping effects of alcohol. No, the pain would have been distracting, and his detestation of the entire opposite sex would have been barely tolerable at best and completely apparent and offensive at worst.

Rian slowed as he neared the scullery. A cacophony of noise - pans clanging together, the shouts of a dozen or more cooks preparing the noon's luncheon, and the shuffling of maids scurrying about to bring this noble that and another noble this - assaulted his ears along with the immense heat waves that radiated from just the entrance. He paused, peeking in and watching the chaos with a blank face, and scanned the room for anything that piqued his appetite. There weren't many options, and with a shrug, Rian settled on a nearby bowl of fruit. Sliding in, past a maid who hadn't even looked at him as she ran out carrying a bottle of wine and two goblets, Rian plucked a beet red apple from the rim and sidled out.

He bit into the skin with a satisfying crunch. By the time he'd made it outside - Adalia in view - he was already half done. He must have been hungrier than he thought.

Slowing to a stroll as he neared the Reginien princess, he watched for a moment before clearing his throat and stepping forward. "They say," he started, "the apple is the fruit of desire. Care to share it with me?"

He flashed Adalia a charming smile. He'd rinsed his mouth with rose water. If he was careful not to overstep his boundaries, she shouldn't notice his intoxication. That is, if he did not overstep his boundaries.

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