Chapter Text
Eorzean mugs were not designed with horns in mind. And truly, who could blame them when the entirety of the native populace did not have to trouble themselves over such things?
I could, Keshet thought, cursing as skewered his hand on the steel-capped point of his horn. The damnable handle jutting out from the side meant he was sure to stab himself if he tried to hold it as he was supposed to, and even if he held the bottom and tipped the handle skywards so it for between their narrow gap, the grip was awkward, the added bulk getting in the way of his fingers.
That was to say nothing of the size of the mugs themselves, which tended to be dwarfed in his hands, making it all the harder to drink from. And this despite the presence of the gigantesque roegadyns who called this land home, and who tended to be the most sympathetic with his plight, aside perhaps from lalafells, who, Keshet judged, was the only race less suited to life in Eorzea than himself.
And naturally, there was etiquette to drinking from a mug. Unspoken rule demanded that he hold the handle as was intended, and the judgemental looks he'd received for holding it from the bottom scratched at his scales. He had half a mind to just start carrying around his own mug in the style of the Steppe, just so he could avoid the issue entirely. And what was so wrong with cups without handles anyway? You could hold them just as well without any, and then you didn't risk burning your tongue on the liquid within, because you could judge the temperature through the pottery. Even Eorzeans used them sometimes, though Keshet hadn't quite been able to parse the distinction between the various drinkwares he'd seen. Mugs seemed to be acceptable for hot drinks as well as ale, but wine was instead served in a long-stemmed glass that was much more amenable to his anatomy. Nhaama forbid he ask for the requisite Ishgardian tea in such a glass though - he'd thought the Fortemps manservant would faint dead away the first time he'd supped with their hosts and made such a request.
Sighing and rubbing at the sore spot on the meat of his thumb, Keshet twisted the stupid mug until the handle pointed upwards and he could drink without too much trouble. Maybe I'll just quit drinking in public.