“We fucking did it, Roy. WE fucking did it. So, why don’t you loosen up for once and take it in? We can devise how we’ll make the gold back tomorrow, besides you saw the boards, there practically falling off the nails with jobs for us to do.”
“Maybe your right..” the party leader let go.
The rest of the party erupted at the cracking of their stubborn leader. Today was to be a good day, for not only will they be drunk, but Roy The Tireless will become Roy The Drunk. Just before the next bottle of ale could be called upon, a drunken man haggard his way to the group. He appeared all parts disheveled and smelled of the cheapest ale and crumbs of a far too small meal. The way he moved mimicked an oak, swaying in the sky, readying to crash. The party became alert. A few reached to their sides forgetting that weapons were not allowed in the tavern. They eased but did not relax. These men had fought through caverns of goblins, raided ships for fallen treasure, and rescued knights from barbarians of all kinds. A drunkard would be the least of their problems, even without their gear.
Yet...they didn’t lax, and they wouldn’t, not until the Black Forest ahead was behind. When they reached the monstrous gates of Parstimonian, maybe then would they loosen their grip and allow their shoulders to slump. But, before then, even when drinking, they will be like their blade- always on edge.
“Now, now, new faces! I always love me some new faces. New faces mean that the kids are still attempting to become men and maybe even,” the stranger's eye became visible from underneath his ragged hood, it was black as hellstone and surrounded by jagged scars, “Heroes of the new age. The ones to set us free..” He then bellowed a laugh that shook mugs and glasses alike, but not the men, they stood firm.
“Back off you haggard, leave us be.”
“Now, now. You’re new to Albion ain’t ye? Then you don’t know of the curse of the sober beggar? They say if you let him go without drink, if ye let his wits become conscious, well, the forest separating you from the beginning of the end will be harsher than expected.” The drunkard paused and looked at the party he had just begun to harass. They were young, far too young. The thought of them taking on the great dark brought chills to his spine and dread to his heart. If he were a better man he would try to stop them, but he wasn’t, so he made due with getting a drink out of them and maybe, just maybe, scare them enough to take this whole damn thing more serious than they already did. Somewhere inside he thought that a little scare would be enough, but somewhere deeper he also knew that any amount of scare wouldn’t help. That part he kept hidden behind the ale. He really wished for that drink now as the conscious side of what was to come for this young party began to play in his head...
Screams, death, blood, then, nothing, quite, the night would continue as cold as ever and the beasts and monsters would return to their spawns and wait for the next prey to cross their formulated path.
The drunkard then shook his head as if coming off a daze.
“So what do yall say?” he produced a toothy grin and they took the head to his madness and bought the man a glass.
Throughout the night the drunkard would stumble his way over, usually in the middle of one of the young party members recounting one of their grand tales.
“You member when old Rickon brought decided to attempt his hand at seduction on that farmer's daughter.”
“Ohh no not this again,” the drunkard presumed the man interjecting was the man whose story was being told.
“No, no don’t let him stop you, Charles, go on, finish it.”
“Well, our suave old Rickon here decides to ask her to the midsummer fair, seeing as we were going to be in town for the week and it was coming up and the whole village was making a grand thing over it like it was the greatest thing in the world. Finally, our little guy here builds up the courage to ask her and when he does, guess what?”
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“What?” the party no doubt knew the answer but were anticipating the pay-off nonetheless.
Rickon sighs and motions for his glass to be filled and it is, which is appreciated, but the muffled giggles are never so.
“The damn farmer's daughter flat out tells him no, goes on about some fairytale hero that will one day come and free her from this drab life and that it wasn’t Rickon. Imagine, that, being turned down by the farmer's daughter, at least Leyton went for that heiress to the house of Stork, now at least that showed some honest ambition.”
Before the laughs could be interjected by another story, the drunkard placed his glass on the table and said,
“Don’t take it to heart kid, I know the one you speak of and I’ve heard of all those who have tried before you and none have prevailed, yet at least. But, also remember, that none have gone back. Maybe in that lies the key.” He eyed the boy and Rickon nodded with what seemed to be some semblance of understanding.
The party went to fill the beggar's cup once again, but just before finishing, the young man asked the question that had been on everyone’s minds that night.
“What made you give up the life of the adventurer? You obviously aren’t townsfolk from the way you speak. So what was it?”
The drunkard eyed the boy, then for a second, his eyes seemed to flicker, like a dancing dragon in the roaring tempest of the sky, but it was only for a second and a fast one at that; too quick for the young men, it would have needed to have been a ranger of the highest discipline to catch that sudden change in character. But, the room did change, the mood tensed and the atmosphere turned stiff and heavy.
“I didn’t quit. I retired” He smiled, easing the room once again.
And so the party smiled with him.
When the drunkard made his slow wobble back to his table, he felt worse than ever before.
He whispered underneath his breath.
“So this is what it means to be crushed by a lie…”
The rest of the night was a repeated cycle of the same, each time one party member would fall to the ale. The moon sailed over the sky and rested on the planet's crust. Only the beggar and the leader of the party remained standing.
"How much longer until you fools tackle the forest."
"Me and my men," he emphasized the men, not allowing disrespect to fall upon them, even in their current state. The beggar was pleased by that. A good man takes care of his men, a weak one isn't worth mentioning.
“We used up most of our supplies and damn near all of our capital to get here, it wasn’t as easy of a task as many before had said it would be...Yet, here we are and this isn’t the end, not yet at least...”
“Don’t take the forest lightly, I know it may be all that stands between your party and the frontlines, but the cost is not worth it, especially if not taken seriously.”
“I presume you have tackled the forest then…”
The beggar let his grim silence fill the space of a response.
The leader nodded and said, “Then I will take your words with even more importance. What do you recommend?”
“Stop now, turn back and make a life somewhere greater.”
“That isn’t an option, besides, you don’t seem to be taking your own advice.”
“Demons stop me from doing so.”
“Then kill them.”
“Demons of the past cannot be killed...They’re drowned.” With that being said, he lifted his glass and emptied it in one swift motion.
“I know of demons, but what I fear most is not the past.” The party leader took a good look at the tattered man, noticing for the first time that night that the man was barely that. If anything the length that separated them was a handful of years at most, yet his eyes were hollow. Empty, black, soulless. The Black Forest itself was encapsulated in the man's eyes. This was the first obstacle, the doomed adventurer meets the new party at a tavern by the wayside.
“What I fear is not venturing as far as I could possibly go. Not living up to my potential will haunt my days as fiercely and voraciously as any demon.”
The drunkard was silent, the party leader waited patiently.
But there was to be no response, not now at the least, for the party leader was to be the last man standing that night.