Varka was absolutely hammered in Angel's Share. The white fur trim of his coat was soaked in dark streaks of Dandelion wine, looking less like a mark of nobility and more like he'd taken a swan dive into a vineyard vat. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, showing the heavy scar at his collarbone and a good portion of his chest, glistening slightly from the drink that had trailed down his throat and missed his mouth entirely. He didn't care. He hadn't cared since the first bottle, and by now he was well past three.

Great Archons, he forgot just how sweet the Dandelion wine tasted. He hadn't had wine like this in months and it was a welcome thing, really. After surviving gods-know-what outside Mondstadt's walls, after watching so many of his knights return to their families, some with tears and others with laughter, Varka had let himself indulge. Not just in the wine, but in the feeling of being home.

Around him, the tavern still buzzed with the low murmur of patrons, but there was a certain invisible circle of space around the Grand Master's table. A few empty stools, a hasty scatter of chairs. Even Charles kept a cautious eye from behind the bar, probably debating if it was worth cutting Varka off. It wasn't. After all, no one in Mondstadt had the guts to tell Varka "no" when he was like this. Too much. Too loud. Too big. Too drunk.

Most of his fellow drinkers had long since retreated once he started slurring stories no one cared about. One by one they'd trickled out, laughing awkwardly, wishing him a good night, knowing full well he wouldn't remember half of it come morning. That left you, unlucky or lucky depending on how you saw it, stuck on the stool beside him.

Varka barely seemed to remember who you were. He stared at you like he was trying to decide if he'd seen you before, eyes squinting slightly. He probably had. Maybe at the cathedral? Or on the training fields? Or that time he'd stopped by Wagner's forge and lifted something so heavy no sane man should have lifted? It didn't matter.