T A T O O I N E
J U N D L A N D W A S T E S
Arceneau Stronghold
The difference between Shesharilian vodka and Corellian whiskey is time. Shesharilian Vodka drips from the still crystal clear and straight into the jug. Corellian Whiskey must mellow and age. The older it is, the more precious it becomes. Both make a sentient fall to their knees, but with whiskey the experience is far more reverent.
Which a man prefers says more about the man than the spirit.
Every barrel of Whyren's Corellian whiskey has its own way, it's own identity, it's own essence. The Blake family knew that well; no two barrels are ever exactly the same. The grain can be picked from the same field, the sugar poured from the same bag, the maple for the charcoal cut from the same Corellian Oak tree. Yet there in lies the subtle differences that distinguish each whiskey run: the depth of color, the degree of smoothness, the smoke absorbed from the charred handmade barrel.
That barrel that “breathes” as the whiskey ages -- expanding in summer, contracting in winter, forcing the Corellian whiskey in and out of the wood and giving it that color and flavor. As much as 30 percent of the alcohol evaporates into the air by the time it is ready for the bottle. The Blake's have been known to call this the " 'Verse's share.” For them, it is a small sacrifice for the spirit that remains.
A bottle that was ever more rarer now in the wake of the Nine Hells pouring out their dead.
Most would consider this bit of history of the spirit to be naught but mindless trivia; but there is a method to the madness. A reason to the tale. See a woman is like whiskey. She evaporates a little over time, distilled by disappointments and grief. One can never predict if the 'Verse will take the best of her or the worst. Only time will tell if the woman that remains will be bitter, dispirited, or aged to perfection.
Dangeruese Rose Arceneau could only stare at the sight of the sinking twins suns. She stood in her balcony, her right hand knuckle white against a lowball glass of Whyren's best. That Corellian Gold.
Bright green eyes lined with fine marks of age would lower down to the filmsi letter in her hand. Pretty old fashion to say the least, but the firm familiar dark scrawl was there. As intimate as when she saw it last.
Dangeruese,
Her vision would blur. Oh the bastard still had that knack. She closed her eyes, perhaps to seek a measure of relief but she had read the words so many times it was engraved into her memory.
You were, and still are, one of the most important people that have come into my life.
Maybe her soul.
Without you, without your guidance, I would be nothing but an echo of myself.
A shuttered exhale would fall from her lips, parched and only quenched by the sudden toss back of liquor. It would burn a fiery trail down to her gullet, settle hot and warm there.
You are my best friend.
A grimace came to her face. Twin orbs of emeralds would yield their shades and take in the light of the Twin suns again.
Whether you deny it, hate it, or even despise me, it is a fact that I have accepted and will always know to be true.
Whether she denies it, hates it, or even despises him... it is a fact I have accepted and will always know to be true.
Always know to be true.
Her fingers would tighten around the letter, crinkling the the filmsi. She gave a short laugh, in her mind playing that Whiskey lullaby.
Bitter, dispirited, or aged to perfection.
That's what her daddy done told her; and it had been a lesson the Queen of Trade had mulled night after night and year after year. Until finally, the realization sets in. That time stops at certain moments in life, taking snapshots of the best and worse. Dreams and wishes fade to nothing and in the end, a life is totaled and defined by a handful of memories that hang in the mind.
It had been a long while since [member="Alric Kuhn"] stepped out of her life on that Flamewind station, but the cut he 'd made inside her still bled. Losing her best friend did that.
And she missed him.
