Venture Along

The city, around this time, isn't much more than a palette of mainly blue hues mushed with pinks and teals—not much that can be put into words, really.

Several minutes go by as Myra finds herself drifting in the crowd, arms clenched around her waist before slowly snaking into her pockets. An unfamiliar sense of anticipation fills her lungs, leaving her with the dilemma of whether or not she's enjoying the experience.

At this moment, it's not much of a question, however, considering she might as well make the most of her stolen freedom while she has it.

People look at her weird as she exists as nothing more than a cloaked woman to the strangers around her, heels clicking and skirt swaying. Her vision soon welcomes her to a streetside seller, standing under a flickering lamp post, attending to a middle-aged man with a clean beard and cap.

Myra squints suspiciously as she approaches it, fixing her posture so she looks more polite instead of a beggar. Closing the distance brings to her attention that it's an alcohol seller, a field that Myra's not very familiar with in particular.

Considering she's in the body of a young adult, she's sure she would've tried it before and her liver must be well-versed with the feeling of the intoxicating substance.

On the other hand, because she has the mind of the school girl, she has never tried alcohol, despite her lingering curiosity about it. She pauses a short distance away from the stall, conspicuously watching.

The stalls person turns his head, an old man hunched over, flashing her a small smile while he tucks a pouch of coins into his pocket. Myra widens in surprise, not having expected to be noticed.

Eh… Would it really hurt me if I bought a bottle? she thinks.

Myra allows her to indulge in the careless thought, realising it'd be too awkward at this point to simply turn away and pretend she hadn't been gawking. Taking a deep breath, she struts forward with a false attitude.

The elderly man greets her with a nod, extending a wrinkled hand which Myra refrains from taking. She clears her throat, bearing a polite smile in her stead. "Good evening, I see you have a fine collection of alcohol here," she starts the conversation, eyes drifting along the unfamiliar gold labels on glass bottles. She knows she won't understand.

The seller easily reads into her cluelessness and retracts his hand with a short laugh.

"Fine evening we're having here in the city. It's not every day we have cooling weather that doesn't freeze us into our clothes," he chuckles and Myra does as well, for the sake of humility.

"I have a selection of strong drinks here, if you're interested. Seeing as though you're quite unfamiliar with those here, I'd like to suggest this vintage tequila I have here," he suggests while slowly inching the bottle towards her.

Myra doesn't wait another moment before agreeing, realising she might as well follow her instinct else she'll let her worries waste the night away.

"I'll take it," she responds instantly, hurriedly pulling out her pouch of silver coins from her dress. She's not too sure how the economy works around here and simply leaves the bag for the salesperson to count.

Deciding she won't be dawdling on anything else for the night, it wouldn't be a problem if she left no money on herself. Just as Myra turns to leave, a single bottle of vintage tequila in her hands, the salesperson reaches out to her, returning the rest of her money.

"Your change, ma'am," he reminds.

"I don't need it. You may keep the remainder and treat yourself to a good meal, sir," Myra smiles, eager to leave the scene. She doesn't plan on staying around one place for the entire night, seeing as though this little time may be the last time she can see the city without her father's terrible restrictions.

As she tries to leave again, the elderly man grips onto her wrist and insists she take her money back, not wanting to cheat her.

Myra feels a warmth in her heart at this sight, wondering who would ever turn down an extra earning in the name of goodwill. "You're a kind man," she says, finally accepting her pouch.

"I don't enjoy making money in an untruthful way," he says.

Myra nods in acknowledgement before peeling away from the place, transitioning to another part of the city. She does so, still remembering to turn back once more to steal a glance at the alcohol seller, reminding herself to keep him carefully in her memories.

Myra keeps a tight grip on her alcohol, holding it by the top of the bottle so it doesn't fall. She stops in front of one of the outside walls of an alley sandwiched between a clothing store and tavern. It's right only a little far away from the center of the town with the marble statue. She leans her back against the cement wall and lowers her gaze to the ground, trying to loosen the cork on the top of the bottle.

She's lucky it isn't wrapped extra tight with plastic like some of those companies like to do, seeing as though the cork is hard enough to pull out.

Myra grimaces as she struggles to get the cork to weasel out of the small hole, even as she shoves her fingers in tens of different ways in her attempt to. It's only after a whole fifteen minutes of struggling that she manages to push it out a little, catching the judgemental gazes of surrounding passers-by too.

Myra finally pulls out the cork and immediately lifts the bottle to her lips. Shelets out a sigh as the taste of alcohol kisses the tip of her tongue.

Myra lowers the bottle immediately as the bitterness burns at the back of her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut as she feels the acidity bubbling up, urging her to burp.

It would be rude if she did, though, so she holds it in and brings the bottle to her mouth a second time and downs a quarter of the liquid in the glass. Myra grimaces, feeling her head throb as the pain of the overly-bitter, overly-sour drink sears through her oesophagus.

She collapses into a squat, back dragging against the wall. She raises her head, her head spinning until all she sees is a blur of colours.

Still, it doesn't stop her from drinking till not more than half of the bottle is left. Her fingers start to quiver around the bottle and she feels it almost slip out so she lifts it to her face again.

Alcohol drips down the corner of her mouth as she fills her mouth with it much more than she can bear. When it's light enough, she assumes it's finished and leaves it on the ground, leaving the remaining liquid to spill out.

Myra stands again, sure she's tipsy at this point. Her ears ring, or rather they've been doing so for an unspecified amount of time, and over them she hears thundering footsteps and amplified sounds of the city environment.