Drunken table dancing.
You run the idea by a sober person, and they're liable to say, What the hell is wrong with you? That's where the beer, ale, mead, wine, or--in this case--rum comes in. Then, you don't care if you look like an idiot. Hell, get a few other idiots to join you and convince the local bard to play some appropriately raucous and festive music on that big ass lute of his and you've got the whole tavern in on the fun. And the bartender don't give a shit 'cause the drinks are being bought nonstop.
Welcome to the goddamn Lute and Lager, folks, Alliria at its finest. Scythe and Nyght were having a great time being the evening's entertainment, them and the few other lads who stepped up to take a turn on a table. The hair on both their bodies an absolute mess, stuck to the sheen of sweat on their faces in some places and blown out from wild tousling during their dancing in others.
They had their coats off. Folded and thrown over the counter at the bar by their stools, their crossbows leaning up against it. Their fine white shirts and colorful vests also soaked with sweat in places. They each panted and leaned against the counter as the crowd of patrons behind them cheered the latest two lads (and lady, hey) who had stepped up onto the tables.
"Must've been a good job," said Hulgrim, the dwarven barkeep, as he set down their refilled glasses of rum on the counter. They didn't know him as well as Yemen from The Mangled Rat, but he seemed like a swell enough fellow.
"You kidding?" said Scythe.
"It was a shit job," said Nyght.
"Who the hell wants to fight mutated deer?"
"And that wasn't even the damn job. Just an obstacle."
"Damn I really gotta take a piss."
Hulgrim pointed down the hallway next to the stairs leading to the upstairs inn rooms. "Outhouse is that way. Don't piss all over me floor."
Scythe: "Don't worry, I'm sure you could bottle it up and sell it as knockoff beer."
Nyght: "Somebody out there has a fetish for that. Think of all the coin, Hulgrim. Imagine!"
Scythe: "Shit. I better go. I don't know if that's sweat or piss. Don't let the bard start the next song without me."
Nyght: "Then get your ass moving, honey dearest."
Scythe: "I am moving it, honey dearest! And I mean it! Don't let 'em!"
They did that a lot. Pretended. Made on like they were two separate people. It wasn't hard to do, since they had been just that for most of their lives. Now they were one. Thanks to the gift of mind-merging by the old enchanter. And they never had to be without each other ever again.
Even as Scythe stumbled out of the tavern and into the outhouse and Nyght saw through his eyes how his body just sprayed everything in there. Hilariously missing his mark despite their best effort to--quite honestly--not make a godawful mess. Scythe's body laughed in frustration out there, and Nyght's body laughed as she was trying to drink more rum and spit it out and back into the glass and down onto the counter, some dribbling off of her lip.
"Oh, for the gods' sake, girl," said Hulgrim as he grabbed a rag and set about to wiping it up.
"Sorry, sorry," she said as she ran a hand across her face. "It's just that fucking feeling when you can't hit a bullseye to save your goddamn--"
She burst into laughing again as she tried to say 'life' and her glass tipped forward and the last of the rum spilled out and landed squarely on the top of the dwarf's bald head.
Hulgrim's anger admirably contained, he said, "You're lucky you're a lass."
"I mean, you could still punch me," Nyght said with a goofy smile.
"Have it your way."
And he punched her. She flopped off of the stool and fell to the floor giggling as Scythe's body recoiled from the punch as well out in the outhouse and the spray hit the little wooden ceiling of it. Look at it, just dripping down like a foul, yellow rain. Nyght's body, back in the tavern, stood up and flashed Hulgrim a sloppy, bloody grin, a nice cut on her bottom lip.
"We good?" she said.
"We're good," Hulgrim said.
Scythe's body stumbled back into the tavern from the side door and haphazardly he made his way through the hallway and back to his stool.
"What'd I miss?" he said.
And Nyght's body punched him and dropped him to the floor, even though her body felt it too.
"That," she said.
They had to put on a nice little show for Hulgrim. The comedic timing and opportunity was just too good to pass up. And hell, you always wanted to make a good impression on all the barkeeps you ran across as merc. They were your go-to. The butter to your bread. A beautiful and time-honored relationship between merc and barkeep, just like between raider and caravan.
The bard finished his current song and cleared his throat and announced, "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, a classic. I know all of you love it. This, my friends, is 'The Little Lady in Ravishing Red Rides Again!'"
A racy howl spread through the tavern. Gods, Scythe and Nyght fucking loved that song. The mere mention of it guaran--damn--teed that somebody was getting bedded tonight. They were exhausted and sweaty messes each of them, but damn if they didn't have one more ridiculous table dance left for this one.
But, just as they were about to leap up onto a pair of tables, the door to the tavern was flung open roughly. A man in plate armor stood in the doorway. Shouted with authority, "Samuel and Samantha Blair."
The crowd quieted some.
Scythe: "Fuck."
Nyght: "That's us."
They knew him. Not his name, but his face. Seen him around the Philanthropist's manor on several occasions. One of the permanent payroll guards, like most nobles in the Inner City had.
The Plate Man said, "Your presence is requested urgently." And he glanced about the tavern, "And if there are any other sellswords or mercenaries present, opportunity may be had by coming with us. This is a matter concerning the well-being of Alliria and her peoples, and the generous Nathaniel Barr will reward those who lend their swordarm to the task."
Damn it. Way to ruin a night of burning money and turn it into a night of earning it.
Scythe and Nyght begrudgingly grabbed their coats from the counter and their crossbows and carefully--each teetering under the sway of drunkenness in their bellies and in their heads--toward the Plate Man.
And the Plate Man, getting a look at the absolute state of them, just grimaced.
Smiling One
You run the idea by a sober person, and they're liable to say, What the hell is wrong with you? That's where the beer, ale, mead, wine, or--in this case--rum comes in. Then, you don't care if you look like an idiot. Hell, get a few other idiots to join you and convince the local bard to play some appropriately raucous and festive music on that big ass lute of his and you've got the whole tavern in on the fun. And the bartender don't give a shit 'cause the drinks are being bought nonstop.
Welcome to the goddamn Lute and Lager, folks, Alliria at its finest. Scythe and Nyght were having a great time being the evening's entertainment, them and the few other lads who stepped up to take a turn on a table. The hair on both their bodies an absolute mess, stuck to the sheen of sweat on their faces in some places and blown out from wild tousling during their dancing in others.
They had their coats off. Folded and thrown over the counter at the bar by their stools, their crossbows leaning up against it. Their fine white shirts and colorful vests also soaked with sweat in places. They each panted and leaned against the counter as the crowd of patrons behind them cheered the latest two lads (and lady, hey) who had stepped up onto the tables.
"Must've been a good job," said Hulgrim, the dwarven barkeep, as he set down their refilled glasses of rum on the counter. They didn't know him as well as Yemen from The Mangled Rat, but he seemed like a swell enough fellow.
"You kidding?" said Scythe.
"It was a shit job," said Nyght.
"Who the hell wants to fight mutated deer?"
"And that wasn't even the damn job. Just an obstacle."
"Damn I really gotta take a piss."
Hulgrim pointed down the hallway next to the stairs leading to the upstairs inn rooms. "Outhouse is that way. Don't piss all over me floor."
Scythe: "Don't worry, I'm sure you could bottle it up and sell it as knockoff beer."
Nyght: "Somebody out there has a fetish for that. Think of all the coin, Hulgrim. Imagine!"
Scythe: "Shit. I better go. I don't know if that's sweat or piss. Don't let the bard start the next song without me."
Nyght: "Then get your ass moving, honey dearest."
Scythe: "I am moving it, honey dearest! And I mean it! Don't let 'em!"
They did that a lot. Pretended. Made on like they were two separate people. It wasn't hard to do, since they had been just that for most of their lives. Now they were one. Thanks to the gift of mind-merging by the old enchanter. And they never had to be without each other ever again.
Even as Scythe stumbled out of the tavern and into the outhouse and Nyght saw through his eyes how his body just sprayed everything in there. Hilariously missing his mark despite their best effort to--quite honestly--not make a godawful mess. Scythe's body laughed in frustration out there, and Nyght's body laughed as she was trying to drink more rum and spit it out and back into the glass and down onto the counter, some dribbling off of her lip.
"Oh, for the gods' sake, girl," said Hulgrim as he grabbed a rag and set about to wiping it up.
"Sorry, sorry," she said as she ran a hand across her face. "It's just that fucking feeling when you can't hit a bullseye to save your goddamn--"
She burst into laughing again as she tried to say 'life' and her glass tipped forward and the last of the rum spilled out and landed squarely on the top of the dwarf's bald head.
Hulgrim's anger admirably contained, he said, "You're lucky you're a lass."
"I mean, you could still punch me," Nyght said with a goofy smile.
"Have it your way."
And he punched her. She flopped off of the stool and fell to the floor giggling as Scythe's body recoiled from the punch as well out in the outhouse and the spray hit the little wooden ceiling of it. Look at it, just dripping down like a foul, yellow rain. Nyght's body, back in the tavern, stood up and flashed Hulgrim a sloppy, bloody grin, a nice cut on her bottom lip.
"We good?" she said.
"We're good," Hulgrim said.
Scythe's body stumbled back into the tavern from the side door and haphazardly he made his way through the hallway and back to his stool.
"What'd I miss?" he said.
And Nyght's body punched him and dropped him to the floor, even though her body felt it too.
"That," she said.
They had to put on a nice little show for Hulgrim. The comedic timing and opportunity was just too good to pass up. And hell, you always wanted to make a good impression on all the barkeeps you ran across as merc. They were your go-to. The butter to your bread. A beautiful and time-honored relationship between merc and barkeep, just like between raider and caravan.
The bard finished his current song and cleared his throat and announced, "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, a classic. I know all of you love it. This, my friends, is 'The Little Lady in Ravishing Red Rides Again!'"
A racy howl spread through the tavern. Gods, Scythe and Nyght fucking loved that song. The mere mention of it guaran--damn--teed that somebody was getting bedded tonight. They were exhausted and sweaty messes each of them, but damn if they didn't have one more ridiculous table dance left for this one.
But, just as they were about to leap up onto a pair of tables, the door to the tavern was flung open roughly. A man in plate armor stood in the doorway. Shouted with authority, "Samuel and Samantha Blair."
The crowd quieted some.
Scythe: "Fuck."
Nyght: "That's us."
They knew him. Not his name, but his face. Seen him around the Philanthropist's manor on several occasions. One of the permanent payroll guards, like most nobles in the Inner City had.
The Plate Man said, "Your presence is requested urgently." And he glanced about the tavern, "And if there are any other sellswords or mercenaries present, opportunity may be had by coming with us. This is a matter concerning the well-being of Alliria and her peoples, and the generous Nathaniel Barr will reward those who lend their swordarm to the task."
Damn it. Way to ruin a night of burning money and turn it into a night of earning it.
Scythe and Nyght begrudgingly grabbed their coats from the counter and their crossbows and carefully--each teetering under the sway of drunkenness in their bellies and in their heads--toward the Plate Man.
And the Plate Man, getting a look at the absolute state of them, just grimaced.
Smiling One
