OLDEST CHARACTER EEK

So here is like the oldest character I have. She used to go by Yaehla, but now it's Yaehl, because I can. She's from that phase of mine where totally epic elf characters who can do ANYTHING and have REALLY STUPIDLY LONG NAMES were awesome.
I kept her stupidly long name for the sake of nostalgic.
Terence, though, hasn't changed a bit.
Personality-wise, anyway.

Yaehl hadn't fallen on hard times. She may have spent her last cent on whiskey, but that didn't mean she'd fallen on hard times. It wasn't hard times until the last bottle was empty.
Yaehl squinted down the brown glass throat of the last bottle. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the flickering light of the dying street torch, but she could swear there was one last drop down there. If she imagined hard enough she could see it move when she wiggled the bottle.
If there was a drop left, it wasn't empty. If it wasn't empty, it wasn't hard times.
Yaehl sighed and rested her head back on the sloping wooden wall she sat against. And, under her baggy brown sack tunic, her left breast moved.
It wriggled around, then began crawling up her chest. It managed to get a grip on Yaehl's collarbone, then finally hoisted itself out of her shirt.
The sleepy, drunk elf cracked a bloodshot eye to glare down at it.
"Quit movin'. I'm trying to sleep."
A pair of huge golden eyes with black bar pupils stared up at her.
"What?"
The stare continued.
"What, you wanted me to save you some? You don't drink anyway."
No response from the small, impassive face.
"Don't have money for an inn. Go back to being my melon before someone notices."
Gili bit her collarbone as he climbed back down into her chestband. Yaehl swore and slapped at where he'd been, and a drop of blood came away on her palm.
"Sulky little bitch. It's not like we need actual beds to sleep in. Ground does just find out in the woods, it'll do us fine here."
Granted, they usually had her bedroll to sleep on out in the woods. Yaehl kept it packed tightly underneath Bondo's saddle while they were in civilization. Twice Yaehl had woken up in an alley and in a mud puddle when she distinctly remembered going to sleep on a bedroll. A dry bedroll. Fool me once, shame on me...
Of course, if Yaehl hadn't spent every last cent on whiskey, they wouldn't have needed any sort of bedroll. Inns provided beds, and the sort of inns Yaehl could afford also provided assorted microlife, free of charge. Usually.
Over in the deep, deep shadows of the alley, something whined.
Bondo wasn't an animal. It couldn't make animal noises with its throat. But it was made of metal, and metal could make animal noises with all kinds of body parts.
Bondo whined again.
"'ll getchuu oiled innamorning," Yaehl mumbled. Elves had a remarkable resistance to liquor. You usually didn't hear the slur until they started passing out, which, depending on the elf, could happen immediately or over a course of minutes.
Elves were very curious creatures, by human standards.
Bondo made a low moaning sound, probably with the use of his knees. Thick metal in that area, good for all sorts of low, eerie sound effects.
"What?" Yaehl snapped, briefly returning to full consciousness to glare into the shadows. A pair of bright, round yellow lights suddenly flashed on. Yaehl swore and squeezed her eyes shut. "Ye Songs, Bondo, what?"
Bondo made the sound that meant he was hungry. It was a low gurgling noise, which he made by churning one of the wheels of the dispenser in his water-fueled cooling unit.
Yaehl sighed and sat back again.
"Yeah, you and me both, Bondo. Now go to sleep."
The elf's left hand firmly gripped the handle of the warmallet in her sleep. Anyone who tried to steal it would immediately get emergency signals from the part of the brain that inventories limbs and other small extremities, such as fingers. The intensity of such emergency signals depended on how hungover the elf was feeling.
Good ol' Terence, Yaehl thought fondly as she drifted off to sleep. The warmallet was one she could always count on. She could count on it to hit what she aimed it at, something she'd never been able to manage with swords and arrows, and, more importantly, she could always count on Terence to never question her judgment.
Which was not necessarily a good thing. There had been times in her past when someone questioning Yaehl's judgment could have certainly benefited her, one of those times being the one that cost her a breast, and fortunately a less permanent loss in the rib area. This may have taught another kind of woman a lesson. Yaehl, however, put no stock in breasts, and since the ribs had grown back reasonably straight--well, curved, of course, they're ribs, but you get the idea--she considered that technically nothing had gone wrong at all.
She never thought that perhaps silence wasn't the same as support, though. Terence never voiced any doubts pertaining to its wielder's judgment.
Whether or not it actually had any could be another matter entirely.