Sigurd walked down the main avenue in the capital, perusing each shop as he went. There were stores and stalls aplenty, a sign of a thriving, living citadel.

Everywhere he went, his newfound fame followed. It had only been a day, after all, since his triumphant return. Unlike the nobles and their facade of gratitude, the common folk's faces were filled with joy at his mere presence.

This was also the case with the rest of his comrades in arms. When he finally met up with them, Sigurd found they were being incessantly followed around, like mice to the pied piper.

He explained to them why he had been absent and revealed his bag of riches. They showered him in praise and accolades, too enamored by the prospect of an unforgettable night.

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Awash in the fame of heroes among a populace starved for icons, Sigurd and his comrades took to the town to partake in all it offered.

Partying like the world would end the next day, they first went from food stall to food stall, trying out a bit of everything along the way.

They laughed and danced with the rest of the citizens, on every street they walked, and in every store they entered.

After trying what seemed like every dish known to the capital, the men transitioned to drinking the rest of the day away. The more they drank and traveled, the rowdier they became; soon, they were hopping from bar to bar, finding the next best place to indulge in their debauchery.

As the festivities continued into the night, Sigurd found himself adrift in a sea of faces and voices, each one clamoring for his attention. Music filled the air, straining his ears, and mingling with the clink of goblets and the murmur of conversation.

Consumed by the heady mix of euphoria and sudden wealth, Sigurd found himself plunged into a whirlwind of excess and extravagance. The weight of 300,000 gold coins in his possession seemed to burn a hole in his pocket, and they began to dwindle the longer the night went on.