“The Horns are calling,

The war is coming,

My love wishes me to stay!

Kiss her lips,

Promise her this,

I’ll be back one day!

Honor, country,

Brothers and money,

Beckon me away! So!

The ships pitched sails,

They sailed their ships,

Across the Blackened Bay!

So brave, so bold,

For glory and gold,

Hope to find a maid along the way! Hey!”

Clashes between tankards of ale and an overwhelming mix of chatter and laughter filled the afternoon at the Barrel’s Bottom and Blow, as it had so many days in a row. A venue where men and women alike shared their passions and desires with no interruptions; no stools cluttered the bar, no chairs took up floor space, and the food was safer to either bring yourself or be found anywhere else. This bar was for drinkers, offering the finest and richest ales and wines for the shrewdest possible profit in all of the capital. The customers didn’t even have to trouble themselves with opening a door to enter and exit, for the blow in the Barrel’s Bottom and Blow was it’s most iconic characteristic. Offering a sizable entrance and exit to the capital’s busiest district, the establishment showcased its patchwork scar from yesteryears in the form of a nearly twelve-foot tall and ten-foot-wide gash in the red brick wall. Newer, polished bricks of black met the aged red brick at its opening, creating a jaggedly large outline of the blow and entrance. The same entrance Ambrose Nola walked through eight and a half tankards ago.

“Again, fuck it again! Encore! Encore!” A large, burly man bellowed from near the bar, his bushy and unmanageable red beard glistening with ale and spit. Wearing no shirt under a brown leather vest, the man's chest matched his chin in color and density, which both sharply contrasted his bald head. Wraps of linen were noticeable on both hands, with each occupied by a large tankard of ale that was now finding more floor than the stomach. The rest of the bar responded collectively in drunk agreement, with a few voices on the verge of making a repetitive chant of ‘encore!’ the favorite word in the room. Before it could, a smaller man jumped on the back and then shoulders of the burly one.

“Lawrence, Lawrence! How about a joke first huh?” The man said.

Lawrence looked up approvingly, and made the bar aware, “A joke! A joke! We’ve got a new joke!” He said, making himself heard over the fraction that had been spreading their cries for an encore. A moment later, the bar was a craze of people making each other aware that the man on Lawrence’s shoulders was about to perform another joke, and as more and more people realized, the more they used their lips for drinking and eyes for looking in anticipation, until the sound in the room fell to a calmer level.

“Lawrence you’ve done it again, now my turn!” The man said, bringing his feet up to Lawrence’s shoulders and bravely rising to a standing position. Towering yet swaying over the crowd now was a skinny, tanned man whose facial upkeep paled in comparison to the man he used as a stage; an intentionally subtle, clean mustache paired with a black patch of hair that marked the middle of his chin, the black hair on his head short yet styled back and to the left. He was a handsome man, with green eyes and a large smile. Wearing a smaller yet identical vest as Lawrence, the man sported a white, short-sleeved tunic that went well with his white pants that cuffed at the ankles.

“Nola! Nola! Nola!”

“Oh please, please,” He said, waving his hands at the crowd, “If your sisters and wives can call me Ambrose so can you!” The crowd took his quip and ate it up, launching into laughter and smacks on the back. The crowd here always loved Ambrose, and Ambrose liked them.

“Okay, okay! A new joke, something fresh, yes? Maybe I ask for a volunteer, maybe I don’t?”

The crowd cheered at the mention, and people either raised hands or mugs in eager pleads to be a part of the joke.

“No, no, you’re all far too cute. Gonna need an ugly one for this one, like, oh I don’t know, the Sir Browner standing with his buddies by the wall over there?”

The crowd whistled and whirled to find an unamused Sir Browner tapping his mug with his finger. An appointed knight, face stubbled with a lifetime of half-assed shaving, he was without any armor or weapons as the law of the country requested inside the capitol. Knights commanded only an average amount of respect among the commoners.

“The fuck do you want, fool.” Sir Browner said, shoving his mug in one of the much younger knights-in-training that flanked him before shouldering his way a few steps toward Ambrose and Lawrence.

“You can stay right where you are, Sir Knight sir, wouldn’t want to smell ya.” Ambrose said to the amusement of everyone but Sir Browner, “Lighten up! It’s all a joke. And my pal G behind me helped me with this one.”

The crowd seemed to take this as a joke as well and took off laughing once again. G was the bartender, a newer bartender with only about seven or eight months working at the Bottoms Barrel and Blow, and he was famously mute. Not many people, to Ambrose and Lawrence’s knowledge, had met a mute person before, and he was welcomed with open arms by most in the capitol.

“A little background everyone! This man sir Browner, was a real jerk our friend G the other night, even calling him simple and worthless! How about that!”

The crowd was back onto Browner now, whose posture had straightened and expression turned to contempt. Boos rained on him before being called off by Ambrose.

“And so for the joke! G, being such an admirable fellow, decides to hire another bartender just for Sir Browning. The boy he hires is not from Runswick, with no knowledge of you or me. On his first day, Mr. Browning, Browning’s mother, and Browning’s favorite horse walk into the bar. The boy is a bit nervous but keeps his cool even with the aroma of the room turning, well brown. Before Browning can kill him with his breath, the boy professionally lets the Sir know…” Ambrose cut himself off then, as he always did, and put two fingers in the air. The crowd answered with his calling card, the double clap he always did before the end of the joke.

Clap Clap.

“Sir, the horse is perfectly fine, but cows are forbidden from this establishment!”

Lawrence and the rest of the crowd threw their heads back in wild laughter, “The Sir’s mother is a fuckin cow!” Lawrence bellowed as he noticed his laughter had sent Ambrose from his shoulder and onto the bar. Ambrose’s fall onto the bar put him in proximity to G, the mute laughing man sharing a moment and a high-five with his ally.

Sir Browner had had enough. Making his way through the crowd, he successfully grabbed an unsuspecting man's mug and launched it in the direction of Ambrose. A good throw, but one that did not account for Lawrence keeling over with laughter, where his large bald head placed itself in the nick of time to absorb the blow. Lawrence stopped laughing after that, and so did most in the bar.

“You fucker, did you throw that at me?” Lawrence said, almost unbelievingly.

Sir Browner breathed a heavy sigh of frustration, but continued to shorten the distance, “I threw it at him, Maxwell, though I’m not mad that it hit you ya big bastard.”

“Maxwell? You call me by my family name after hitting me, after almost hitting my friend, and after you made fun of a mute? Some kind of wicked nerve you got there Knight of nothing.”

More ohs and ahs came from the crowd, who smartly began dispersing from the length separating the two large men. Ambrose decided to fill the void created, coming from behind Lawrence and in Sir Browner’s path.

“Hey Lawrence, what's the big idea? This one's mine.” Ambrose said assuringly, although his balance was anything but as he struggled to stand in one spot.

“Not anymore he's not. Father always taught me to repay a bruise in double.” Lawrence said although he realized that the fist he intended to make was unsuccessful with his hands tied to his near-empty drinks.

“If you want a fight, I’ll give you one too you large fuck. I just need a second with this scrawny little fool you call a friend. Bring it-”

“You know what Lawrence, you make a good argument. This guy did hit you first, and I did make fun of his mother, so our quarrels both seem justified. Leave it up to chance then?” Ambrose said as he began examining pockets.

“Chance is fair.” Lawrence replied, shaking the remains of both cups over his mouth and beard like a man who didn’t just drink two-thirds of a barrel.

“Chance? What the fuck you going on about now?” Sir Browner said.

“Oh but my special coin of course Sir Knight sir,” Ambrose replied, still searching his clothes to seemingly no avail until he removed his shoe, “There’s the shiny girl!”

Out of his shoe, Ambrose Nola produced a silver, shining coin. Nothing was abnormal about the coin, and bore the sigil of Runswick; a mid-sized shield with the outlines of a dress etched into it.

“You’re going to flip a damn coin to decide who gets to fight me? You’re softer than you look, Nola.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Chance is far from a soft-resolution, dimwitted knight. Chance is but fate in disguise. What is ours, I wonder? Can I kick your ass, right here and right now? Heads say yes, tails say no.”

With that, Ambrose flipped the coin high into the air, nearly reaching the ceiling, before dissenting. Sir Browner’s annoyance boiled over at the blatant disrespect he was receiving, and sent him to lash out at the coin itself. Ambrose did not flinch at the knight, and caught the coin in his right palm, before slapping it onto his left hand. For a moment, Sir Browner was blinking rapidly, as if something had shined into his eyes.

“A pity, sir Browner. Fate says tails.” Ambrose smiled cheerily and proceeded to duck. In perfect tandem, Lawrence crashed both of his tankards onto either side of Sir Browner’s temple, sending the knight staggering backward amid a raucous and cheering crowd.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

It was becoming another normal evening on another normal day at the Barrel, as Sir Browner rose and landed a solid punch to the nose of Lawrence. Knights like Browner found themselves in these situations more often than not around the commoners of Runswick, partly their own fault but even then that fault was usually followed with a decent reason. Whether it was tired, angered, embarrassed, or simply bored, the knights who dedicated their swords and lives to the King, princess, and people had promised and accomplished nothing. For generations, the Knights of Runswick had never been called to battle, never been called to test their honor, and had never found respect from the commoners because of it.

The town folk found the duties of knights to be irrelevant. The majority of able-bodied Runswick citizens were farmers, hunters, or traders, making the country filled with very independent and hard-working individuals. Although this long era of peace persisted throughout the land, many citizens found self-defense as the first and last line of protection for their self-made enterprises, leading to a nation of well-equipped individuals. So as the years piled on, as weapons and training found their way moving further down a family tree, debates over taxes for the Knights of Nothing became more frequent.

A new peak of annoyance and opinions made its way nearly a month prior to today, as the King and his daughter proclaimed to the nation that a rising force was on the horizon, and in its path could be Runswick. It had been a truly stunning event, so far from the norm, as the princess of Runswick took the lead in calling on the citizens of Runswick to heed her words, pleading for more men and women to enlist for the Order of Runswick, and for the citizens of the main city to prepare for any emergency situation. It had only been the second proclamation given by this king, and the watchers from that day still discussed the look of terror and urgency from the princess.

And yet, even with the imprint of the Princess breaking down in front of them, the majority of citizens could only scoff and laugh. It had been well known that the number of people enlisting to join the castle guard and eventually become knights had been declining for decades, as the culture behind dismissing knights and working for the royalty had spread like wildfire. Life and work just were not fulfilling in the eyes of the people, as a life of working for the castle meant a life of reaping what the citizens sowed, as taxes paid for the swords that only sliced wind. At the core, the people of Runswick felt that the only standing army they needed ready was the citizens themselves. And so while the Barrel was the busiest, all the taverns and bars in Runswick had become rich with songs filled with all the bravado that fighting, going to battle, and earning spoils entailed.

Ambrose Nola, on the other hand, did not care for fighting. He did not care for debating taxes, felt indifferent to the role of knights, and hadn’t given thought to any imminent threat he should be preparing for. Currently, the only thing Ambrose cared about was leaving the tavern before the fight concluded.

“Excuse me, pardon me, look out behind you friend.” Ambrose said as he passed and squeezed through onlookers within the tavern. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Browner hopping back and forth on each foot, much lighter feet than his body suggested, in a strong striking stance and Lawrence approached. Ambrose thought himself lucky, once again, to be escaping his Goliath. He had almost made it to the hole in the wall when a blond-haired girl grabbed at his vest.

“Ambrose Nola you funny, funny man!” The girl beamed.

“Oh, hello there beauty. We know each other?” Ambrose said, his eyes caught between the background action of the fight and the girl's robust cleavage.

“No we don’t, but I was thinking that tonight would be a good night to change that?” The girl said, biting the corner of her bottom lip.

Ambrose felt a jolt of excitement, “Well, a woman who knows what she wants I see. How about we let my coin decide?”

Ambrose brought it out again, receiving an exclamation and giggle from the blonde girl. He smiled back and thought Please be heads, you silly silver shit.

“Should I take you home with me tonight? Heads gives consent, tails tells you to get lost.” He winked, flipped the coin, thought of how lucky he was, and caught the coin in his right palm. Slapping the coin on the back of his left hand, the blonde teased him.

“You and that coin, will you show me how you get it to be heads on your whim? A clever and cute tri-” The blonde stopped herself short as Ambrose revealed the tails on his hand.

“Oh how funny, you want me to get lost?” The girl laughed.

Ambrose felt a drop of sweat on his back, excitement still in his pants, and an approaching headache. He swallowed his frustration, “As lovely and full as you are, it's going to be a painful pass for me tonight.

The girl was taken aback for a moment, before hurling insults that Ambrose didn’t bother to listen to. A few around her laughed as he made his way out of the tavern, clenching his fist around the silver coin.

“I can’t catch a fucking break lately, can I fate?” Ambrose announced as he slipped into the capitol’s square. The cool air of the night was refreshing, and each star seemed to be visible tonight. Debating whether to request a horse or walk home, Ambrose brought out the coin with a frown and decided against the coin's input. Ambrose began taking the long way home, on foot.

<><><><><>

Ambrose kicked his feet out and in as he sat on the well, before planting them inside. It was an honorary well, with grass overgrowing where water should be, specially commissioned and in honor of Ambrose’s most celebrated moment. Ambrose turned a long exhale into a half smile, before looking up at the night sky. Before the booze and jokes filled his world, Ambrose had inadvertently saved the city. He had also intentionally bedded the princess, Elanor Whitewood.

There had been a pandemic, one in which no local official could grasp the logic behind. What had been just a rumor, soon became an acquaintance, as the country of Runswick struggled mightily to grapple with what would later be coined as the Runs illness. Whether it had been named after the country it was discovered in, or named for its unpleasant symptoms, the Runs disease soon became a matter to not scoff at. The first-ever proclamation by the King helped push the seriousness of the narrative. Highlighting many common symptoms such as diarrhea, paleness of the skin, sudden fatigue, and prolonged muscle cramps, the King proclaimed that all businesses be run at a fraction of the current capacity and that the weekly farmers market be canceled through the rest of the month.

“We can not stress enough the importance of our and your duty to keep thy fellow countrymen safe from this disease. The cause has not yet been deemed, but if we do our part, we can resolve this affliction with so fewer lives lost.”

As a farmer himself, Ambrose knew the announcement of the farmers market being closed had irritated many of his peers, but to him the news was welcome. No farmers market meant he did not need to wheel any of his goods from his home to the always bustling center of the city. The one day off helped bring the total days Ambrose would work to a mere zero. Ambrose was not a good farmer, just an unusually lucky one.

For all his independent years, Ambrose had woken up later than any farmer in Runswick. There had been multiple weeks in which Ambrose couldn’t remember if he even bothered looking at his half acre of the farm, let alone actually tend to it. There had been some days to be sure that he put his best foot forward and earned his keep, but even then he mostly worked in order to fill the time. It was a topic he felt uncomfortable to discuss aloud, especially with his fellow farmers like Lawrence.

“You know, for a tiny guy who skips a meal every day, you certainly know how to farm!” Lawrence would say to him at the farmers market, comparing the size of his potatoes to Ambrose’s, “Real genius in these potatoes! Must be at least because I don’t see many calluses! Ha!”

And so Ambrose went on, pretending yet earning a good and respected reputation as a productive, bachelor farmer. The lack of effort, however, did not get lost in his mind, as Ambrose’s struggle to understand his own role and destiny had begun to drive him down. He never wanted to be a farmer, never wanted to be considered a good one, and now here he was with luck on his side and a farm of his own for five years going.

When the proclamation had been extended another month, and the acquaintances became friends who had fallen ill and died due to the Runs, Ambrose was stuck in his lowest of low points. His farm was fine, his sales behind yet that was common among the farmers, and his own physical health continued to be fine. It was all in his own head, yet that did not mean it wasn’t real. While he tried to put on a good face each day, inside Ambrose wanted to tell the world how incredibly insignificant he felt in this world and in this life.

Drinking helped, and soon into the pandemic, Ambrose had become a drunk. He didn’t intend to blame his peers for the habit, but he was sure his peers would blame him, as many of the farmers and tradesmen alike began to drink more often than they should. Each of them would shout about how this bottle came from a certain, struggling brewery that they wanted to support. Ambrose became a huge supporter and charitable contributor to such establishments out of the kindness of his selfless heart, and routinely met many farmers to drink and complain, especially on the Tuesdays that once held the farmers market.

It was on one of those Tuesday nights, stumbling home from a peer party on the other side of the city, that Ambrose had seen his friend Marcus be dared to dive in the city center’s well.

“C’mon Marcus you giant puss, you want to cool off so bad then just take a swim!” A peer of theirs had gone on, Ambrose unable to even remember the person's name anymore. And so Marcus did, in all his naked glory, into the well head first. Ambrose remembered cheering loudly, before waking up to rapid and powerful knocking on his door that amplified his splitting headache.

“Ambrose! It’s Marcus, the man has the illness!” Lawrence had said, sending Ambrose to an even deeper and darker depressive state. He had been with Marcus just last night, and if Marcus had the Runs, soon Ambrose would too.

The same day, Marcus died and was buried unceremoniously in an attempt to quell the spread. The following day, life went on, and the day after that Lawrence realized that neither he nor any from the party had anything to report health-wise. On the fourth day of his friend's death, Ambrose again stumbled by the well. He stopped at it, staring at the three wells that swam in his vision until his drunk thoughts could come to form.

“B-been drink- thinking lately well. I bet you did it, ya sonofabitch. Where the hell is that dumb coin.”

Ambrose had his coin back then and had kept it close to him every day since his father had given it to him before leaving for the last time. Following what his father had always done, Ambrose asked the coin if the well caused the Runs, before flipping it high in the air. In the next moment, unbeknown to his drunk self, the coin was on the posterior of his left hand, revealing heads. Staring stupidly at the many heads that swam in his vision, Ambrose didn't remember how he got home that night but did remember what he needed to do the next morning.

In the morning, Ambrose made his way to the castle and passed the initial line of security. As he made his way to the main hall, luck proved to be on his side, as the King and his guards made their way to pass by him, allowing Ambrose his opportunity.

“Your Highness! The disease, I know the source!” Ambrose had burst out, stopping the King and his company in their tracks. While Ambrose’s own imagination immediately foresaw lashings for his abrupt rudeness, the reality became clear as the King turned and laid eyes painted in desperation on his own. Ambrose remembered his eyes vividly, as they were identical to the next pair that caught and still own his attention to this day; Princess Elanor Whitewood.

Allowing Ambrose a brief audience to state his case, the King did not comment as Ambrose alerted him of the well on Sixth Street, only replying when Ambrose finished.

“The infection rate of the neighborhood you are alluding to is higher than any of its neighbors by several degrees. I believe this is a worthy case to investigate. Daughter, please see to the allocation of water for this neighborhood. We shall shut down the well immediately.”

As the first week of the well-being closed concluded, the number of new cases began to fall accordingly. By the end of the third week, the last of the afflicted were either turning the corner for better or for worse. When the month changed, no severe cases existed in the country, and the King’s escort arrived on Ambrose’s property. Trumpets blazing in the morning, King Whitewood and Elanor Whitewood praised, thanked, and invited him to a feast in his honor.

That day should have been the greatest day of his life, but the night that ensued would render Ambrose wounded. He was walking now, unwilling to let his thoughts continue on unchecked. He always did this, every single night it seemed since that unforgettable night that he wished to forget with each drop of alcohol he consumed and each joke he cracked. But it wasn't working and had not worked for nearly two years now. The change he wanted, the change he needed to feel like himself again, was not transpiring and yet he knew as soon as he walked into his home, his mouth would dry at the sight of the half-empty wine bottle from the night before.

Taking out the coin as the distance between himself and his home tightened to about twenty yards, Ambrose asked his nightly question.

“Am I insane?” He said, before flipping the coin. Ambrose made no attempt to catch it, and although he couldn’t feel it, he knew the coin was now clenched in his hand waiting for him to see the result. Ambrose continued into his home, putting the coin into his pocket.