A silver coin is met with a full tankard. Empty it, and another silver fills it back up. Repeat the exchange for as long as you can stay on the stool without falling off or falling asleep. If you're lucky, the light of the early morning sun will cascade through the windows and greet you as a friend. The birds will chirp, cheering your victory. And you'll go out into the world, conqueror of the drink and master of all that is alcohol. None shall oppose you, or dare raise a hand to you, for you wear the crown of brews. You just need to provide the silver and survive the onslaught of grog.
I have never been much of a lucky man.
A heavy hand rocks me, rustling me out of my stupor. The windows are still dark. There are no birds, only fellow drunks laughing and talking at their little round tables. Remnants of something stale remain on my tongue and need to be washed out. The mug held loose in my sleepy hand only contains more of the mead from whenever I last took a sip. The hand on my shoulders shakes me again, the contents of my skull moving a second slower than the rest of me.
"Fuck's sake, get up," the all-too familiar voice groans.
Captain Hunt, though a decade younger, wears as much violence on his weathered face as I do. Things he has seen on the battlefield have dulled his once vibrant blue eyes. Some of our brothers joke that his hair once was as fair as straw, but his years of bloody conquest stained it orange forever. A near-permanent scowl has etched lines in his brow seen more commonly on a man my age. I can't imagine how deep they will run in the next ten years.
"I'll drag you to your feet if I have to," he warns.
I rouse with a groan of my own, blinking eyes working to bring Leo's Tap, the best and only tavern in Oakwing, into focus. Captain Hunt's armor, polished steel gilded at the edges of his breastplate, is blinding even in the candlelight. From the shoulders down he's covered, only his fiery crown remaining unprotected. His cape, a rich green, tickles the top of his boots. Even the pommel of his sheathed sword glistens in the low light.
For a seasoned veteran, he sure looks mighty pretty and pristine. Does he enjoy the exalted life, rubbing shoulders with Oakwing's finest? Has he grown accustomed to the leisure of sending men out into the wild to face beasts and ill-intended folk? Or does the ginger bastard miss coating his blade with the crimson innards of inferior countrymen?
"Haven't you heard it's impolite to wake a sleeping man?" The words come out sloppy, tripping over my ale-laden tongue. "I thought knights had manners."
"And I thought the reverent were meant to abstain from the vices of man," Captain Hunt shoots back.
"I didn't see that in the job description," I offer, getting to my feet. My joints wobble, threatening to take me on a trip to get a close view of the floorboards. My fingers lose the handle of the tankard but find the edge of the bartop to keep me steady. Two Captain Hunts blend into one, the blurriness of the duo sharpening at the union. It doesn't feel like my body sways, but my arm stretches and folds as I grip the wood.
"You okay?" he asks, a humored grin lighting up his otherwise grave face.
I can't tell if my nod is fast or slow; all I know is that my stomach threatens to surrender its contents in a forceful blast. My mouth stays shut to quell the coming force. But the sick rumbling calls my bluff, and my mouth gets weak and lets a ball of acidic gas escape. I would recoil in disgust at the vile, but the look of revulsion infecting Captain Hunt's face fills my heart with childish pride.
"Never been better," I answer. "What can I do for ya?"
"Get dressed. Meet me at the Sheriff's Tower in ten minutes," Captain Hunt orders.
"Why?" I groan, taking my seat again. "I've been a good boy, I swear." The amber liquid refreshes my mouth with its bittersweet alcohol.
"Ten minutes," he says again. His cape fans out as he turns on his heel, making his way to the door. I make a face, narrowing my eyes and sticking out my tongue, once he's gone. I go back to my tankard, finish it off with one big gulp, and leave a few copper coins on the bar for Leo. Not much of a tip, but it's all I have left. As far as he's concerned, anyway.
Crisp air greets me as soon as I pass through the door of Leo's Tap. Brisk, refreshing, but not quite sobering. The spinning world slows a little bit. The blurriness of building sharpens just a touch. The lights inside the sleeping box giants aren't so blinding. Yet the world still moves. I can't make out details on the signs. I wince at what little brightness fills the town circle. But the quiet, the peace only the moon can bring, takes over. Oakwing sleeps, leaving only a few guardsmen to patrol for ne'er-do-wells and runken ruffians. My lungs take it in, the chill breeze of nocturnal serenity, and my mouth gives it back in a light misty exhale.
Standing tall in the center of the area is the Sheriff's Tower. A grand silhouette, it looms over the city. Watching, waiting, judging. It keeps an ever-vigilant eye on the citizenry, looking for the next person to send to the stocks for humiliation, a cell for justice, or the gallows for permanent punishment. Cold, hungry, malevolent. The door facing the north side of town, a gaping toothless maw, welcomes me in.
Captain Hunt does not greet me here. The room is vacant, only a few sconces bearing lit candles. The little tables, lined up like a grip of gravestones, sit in patient silence for the morning when their masters return. At dawn, the room will flood with bodies. Paperwork will be filed, fines will be processed and handed for couriers to deliver, wanted posters will be drafted and posted at the gates. Busy little worker bees will toil away until the evening, earning their pay as they fill the whole tower with their endless buzzing.
Captain Hunt does not greet me here. Even in my waning stupor I do not expect him to wait for me just inside the north door. No, that ginger grimace of his would be found at the top of the tower. He would be outside the Court of Crowns.
Up the stairs that hug the wall, I climb to the third floor. I thank the railing for keeping me steady. Stepping off the stone staircase, I come to the door with "Paladin Ward" burned into the oak in block letters the size of my hand. Inside, a well-lit room awaits. My eyes need a moment to adjust, but soon the small room comes together. Three chairs sit in the middle, separated by a large desk. Two of the chairs, small wooden things, show their backs to me. The other, bigger but not by much, waits on the other side. On the occasion of a commission, the paladin and the contact write up the agreement here. Boring, bureaucratic bullshit. Give me a bag of coin and a name and I'll do the dirty work. No contracts or signatures required. No bullshit.
Beyond the desk and chairs is another door, this one plain. To a hallway it leads, two doors on either side. One for each holy warrior enlisted under the city's banner. The first two little apartments are occupied, their hosts sleeping soundly inside. At the back end, the room on the right misses its tenant; Miea went out for a job three days ago and hasn't returned quite yet. The last door on the left groans as I turn the knob and step inside. Candles spark to life, but remain dim. Alcohol, tobacco, and sex linger in the air. I take it all in with a grin.
Home.
The main room holds little fanfare: a few basic chairs in various states of disrepair mingle around a low table in the center of the room; a green flag with a golden eagle resting on a tree branch hangs on the easter wall; a white banner bearing the visage of a faceless woman with flowing yellow hair and outstretched welcoming arms is displayed on the western wall. A doorway calls from the southern wall, the bed inside whispering sweet nothings in hopes that I will succumb. I enter, tired drunken eyes focusing on it for too long of a moment. The aroma of mortal pleasures is stronger here, more tempting here. In minutes this room could come alive, full of laughter and lust and life. All I would need is some wine and a woman.
But not tonight.
I go to the water basin in the corner of the room near the head of the bed. The cold water on my face as I scrub it in sends a sobering, warm, invigorating jolt through me. The sluggishness in my head dissipates, the heaviness in my limbs lightens, and my wobbly legs find stable footing. Droplets trickle down from my black crown and into my goatee and shirt. I remove the latter and the rest of my casual clothes in favor of the glistening steel armor and green cape modeled by the mannequin on the other side of the room. A display rack sits on the wall next to the now naked featureless figure. A sword, her blade long and broad and beautiful, shines there. I take her by the black leather of the hilt, marvel at her wondrous violent steel, and slide her into the sheath at my hip.
Ah, my glorious lady Lavender. Or, as the people call her, Drake's Demise. The name sounds prettier in her native Elvish tongue. Still, as beautiful as she is, she hardly deserves the common name. Eradicate a nest of sleeping wyvern younglings and suddenly you've slayed a dragon. But what of her other tales? What about the countless bandit camps she has raided? Or that necromancer hiding in his cave to the west? Where are the songs regarding the nameless legion of men, women, and children who fell to her fatal sting during perilous times war? No, certainly there are none. Where is the glory in those stories? The bravery? The illustrious fame? The storytellers care not for the terrible things a weapon has done, the numerous affronts to the deities. The stories that spread like wildfire, the ones people seem to only praise, are those of great and mighty beasts who no longer breathe thanks to quick wits and strong steel.
If only the bards and histories knew what my Lavender has done. If only.