Peace; Constantino and Churchill

[Kidney]

Time. So flowed the grand river that was time, fluid, slow. The fears that clutched at Churchill's heart were deep and everpresent, encompassing him, the dark-skinned man eyeing every inch of the camp and the surrounding treeline. Nothing moved. And so, with a long sigh, he relaxed a small bit. Though, in truth, he never felt as if he was truly safe. No place was beyond the sight of The Almighty, and its chosen warden of the endless wooded prison that surrounded Churchill and Constantino at this very moment. Black Knight Gael so lurked within the wood beyond, Churchill knew this. 

"I'm not that good of a cook, i'll admit, mate." He said, reaching to pat Constantino on the shoulder, leaving his hand down upon him, letting it slide off his armor before he turned the currently roasting jackalope over licking flames. Orange-red tongues liquefied the fat upon the creature, boiling it off with impunity, and dribbling fat sizzling into nothing but a puff of charcoal dust and a distant hiss upon hot coals. Truthfully, Churchill hated this. Adventuring, killing, walking, repeat. Crusades. Every day became one, an endless toil against the burbling tide of hedonism and lawlessness. Churchill had already lost one of those battles. 

The sting of grain alcohol woke him from his evening dreaming. It burned so very brightly in his throat that he thought he might catch fire, or breathe some. He sloshed the acrid drink in its clouded glass bottle, and offered it to Constantino. "You want some?"

[Deleted]

It took a while, but it seemed the young soldier was finally starting to relax some to the other knight. Sure he had been nothing but pleasant towards the man since they'd met, offering bright smiles and the occasional passive compliment, but it was clear Constantino had a hard time looking him in the eye and often times found ways to keep at a distance from Churchill specifically. There wasn't anyone to shield him now from the guilt that dug itself deep in the pit of his stomach when having to face a reminder of his own failings.

Constantino responded to the touch and idle comment with another smile, though one more tired then forced as they had been previously to have it followed by a small courtesy chuckle. Still he couldn't quite look Churchill in the eye to do so, but his anxiety was beginning to give under exhaustion. "It'll be hot and fresh. I have no right to complain sir." Not like he was a much better cook either anyway. In the silence as the other man seemed to get lost in his own thoughts did Tino finally dare to actually look him over. He looked tired too. At least that's how he was gonna interpret it..

His gaze quickly fell to the bottle when it was offered and after a second of pause, Tino unfolded the hands he'd been nervously wringing all day to accept it if only out of habit. "Oh, thank you." Honestly he'd prefer something a bit sweeter, but that didn't stop him from taking a quick swig. It was a lot stronger than what he was used to and he couldn't help but wince a little as he swallowed it down before offering the bottle back. He hoped his distaste wasn't as noticable as he thought it was as he wiped the corners of his mouth and smoothed his moustache out a bit to hide the slight grimace he made.

[Kidney]

Churchill had always known that abstinence from hard drink was a thing most knights, priests, bishops and monks all tended to do, but he had seen others of higher stations take alcohol with much more gravitas than Constantino, so, in most respects, Churchill's opinion of the man remained idly the same.  He chuckled, though, at the grimace the boy made, teasingly, but alas, Churchill had a feeling that karma owed him more than he owed it.  Nothing quite like alcohol to loosen the tension of the world's ever-binding twine. 

Twine, really, was what Churchill's patience for Gael's activities hung upon. Gael's mere everpresence in the life of the Exile had weighed upon Churchill's very soul. The drink he grasped back from Constantino felt heavier with the thought that in the dark lied a knight who would have without notice or pause beaten him for thinking of partaking in its burning contents. Gods fear Men. Men fear Gods. 

Churchill sneered at the bottle, and out of spite, he aimed a glance to the trees, and took a deep drink. It burned like the fires of Hell, but he forced a pained grimace to the center of his scarred soul. He set it down by the fire, he'd try it again when it was warm. The 'Lope was done, thank the Gods above.

Churchill drew the horned beastie from the fire with a small smirk. The damn thing was legendary. But here they were, eating it alone in a 'shroomed wood somewhere. Churchill drew the Cook's Cuts from it quickly, taking both of the creature's hind legs and a randomly chosen hunk of meat off the front of the thing, bare fingers burning as steaming meat sizzled in Churchill's hands. He winced, and let the three hunks of meat slap onto his panted thigh, juices forming streams down it and into his crotch. Warm, at least. "Ah, fuck me."

He shrugged, and offered the mostly-intact cooked carcass to his fellow knight. "Throw the bones to Gael. I'm sure he'll make a nice necklace." 

His eyes flicked to the trees. He both hoped and dreaded for some response from the Black Knight. But none came. Churchill sighed, taking a leg and stuffing the meaty bit into his mouth. He chewed with his mouth open.