Darin laughs and leans back in your chair. "That," he says, leaning forward againn and nearly falling off, "is what I'm talkin' about."
The edges of your mouth quirk into a genuine smile, the sensation foreign to you. "We gettin' outta here, then?" you ask.
"Yup," he says, standing up and stretching, causing his back to pop. "Follow me, Marshal. I know a place." He turns to you. "And the night's on me."
You reply…
"Yeah, no. I's pay for you," he replies, imitating your voice.
You raise an eyebrow. He sighs. "Listen, Marshal, I's appreciate it. But shut the fuck up. I'm paying."
"You're quite insistent," you point out.
"Yup. I am insistent. 'Cus I want ya to have a good time. Now, I urge you, shut the fuck up."
"If you insist."
"I do. Now follow me. Let's getcha plastered, aye?"
The two of you make for the door.
And head out into the streets of Wrido.
Next
Wrido is oddly peaceful in the evening. Not many walk the streets. Most noise comes from behind the walls of houses or from rowdy taverns. Though the night is peaceful, it does make you uneasy. Despite being in casual clothes, you feel naked. You have no sword. However, your dagger's weight in your shoe brings you some comfort.
Darin, even in the dark, navigates the streets easily. Though you do notice his limp slows him down quite significantly, and he's moving beyond comfort to keep pace with you. You slow down a bit for him, and he gives you a small, appreciative nod.
He leads the two of you down many winding streets in a brief fifteen-minute walk. The two of you move in relative silence, broken only by the occasional sarcastic remark.
Darin's coin purse audibly jingles. You wonder just how drunk he's willing to get.
Finally, you head around a final street corner and end up in front of a modest structure. You squint to read the name of the establishment but can't in the dim torchlight. The building, at least from the outside, looks well-maintained, and you spot nothing particularly wrong with it.
You can hear the sounds of men, merrily singing drinking songs. You can already smell the alcohol from outside the place. As you near the door, you hear the singing grow louder and louder.
Darin turns to you with a mad grin. "Welcome to the Huntsman's Respite. Best ale in all of Stradford, I's say."
"What's with the name?" you ask.
"Well, most'a the guys 'ere are huntsmen. Some of the best men I's ever met. And hot damn, do they know how to drink."
The singing swells up further, reaching a crescendo, then rapidly calming down into silence. It's then replaced by boisterous laughter, cheers, and enthusiastic clapping.
"Sounds like it," you say back.
"Yup. Wait 'til you see inside," Darin says, then grabs your hand. You tense up, but he ignores it and pulls you forward. "Speakin' of which, how 'bout we enter now." It's phrased like a question, but it's clear Darin isn't going to listen to you.
He uses his other arm to push the door open. The smell of ale grows. Darin enters and quickly tugs you inside.
Fuck.
Next
As you and Darin enter, the smell grows even further. Alcohol and sweat. It's gross, but not as bad as some other taverns you've been in. At least it doesn't smell like piss.
The low thatch ceiling is held up by wooden beams that go across the whole structure. The place is dimly lit by a few scattered torches and candles, though you know your eyes will eventually adjust.
Circular tables are dotted everywhere, stools and chairs pulled up to them. It's crowded. You can spot only a few unoccupied tables. Stools are pulled up to a front counter, where all of them are still taken. Two bartenders attend to the needs of the crowd. An older woman, maybe in her late fifties, moves from table to table, taking orders and offering refills.
The atmosphere is outstandingly merry. Judging by the amount of ale being passed around, there must be some sort of celebration. Besides the old server, the crowd is made up entirely of men. Huntsmen, by the looks of it. Some still have a quiver or blade strapped to them.
They're a mixed bunch. Some are around Darin's age, others are younger than you. But the unifying factor is how strong they all appear to be. The romanticized appearance of archers is that they're slender, graceful, and agile.
That image is incorrect. The practice required to become proficient with a bow builds muscle. These men would have no problem cracking a skull with a mace, if they so wished.
Your presence does not go unnoticed. The two of you start drawing glances.
Before you can turn back, Darin pulls you forward again and starts making his way to a seat off in the corner. The two of you sit down in one of the few unoccupied tables left, engulfed in the noise of the place.
A jumble of conversations and laughs practically deafens you. Instinctively, you start to reach under the table, resting your hand on your hip. Darin notices the tension in your arms and says, "Easy, Marshal, don't go stabbin' anybody."
Your face remains impassive and scanning, looking out for threats. "Easy," he continues. "Just try and relax, ay?"
Many of your neighbors glance over at your table. You don't like the attention. You whisper to Darin, "We're being watched."
"Yeah, no shite. We's just sat down. Give it some time, and for God's sake, don't shank anybody. And just fuckin' relax, why don't ya?"
You sigh and try to relax. "That's better," Darin says, a soft smile on his face.
Darin turns around on his chair and flags down the old server. She approaches, slinging a towel over her shoulder as she walks. With her other hand, she fiddles around with her coin purse, dropping a handful of silver denari inside.
With a hand on her hip, she asks, "What can I getcha, friends?"
Darin gestures for you to go first.
Of course," she replies. Darin shoots you a knowing glance.
She turns to Darin. "And for you?"
He hesitates for a second. "I guess I'll take somethin' strong."
"No trouble," she says. "I'll be back with ya drinks. Have the money ready when I get back."
"Yup. Thanks, Tija."
She gives Darin a nod.
He turns back to you, folding his hands together on top of the table and leaning forward. "That there was the Tija. Owner of this fine establishment. Husband died, fuck… maybe four years back. She runs the place well."
It's not long before Tija has your drinks. She sets a mug of ale that you can already smell in front of you. You grasp it with both hands and lean back, taking a big sip from the mug.
It's good. Really good. Your eyes widen, and Darin laughs as he passes a handful of silver coins over to Tija.
"So… Marshal," Darin drawls as he takes a sip from his own mug. "Got any questions?"
Darin breaks down laughing. He's never been one to get married. He never even sought out a wife, turning down any advances.
"Told ya, lad, I ain't gonna settle down with a wife and kids and shite. Jus' ain't my thing."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Doesn't hurt to ask," you reply.
He takes another sip of his ale. "Guess not."
The tavern around you stirs. As you take another gulp from your mug, you look over the rim, scanning those nearby.
Most are focused back on their own conversations, though some still glance in your direction. A group toward the far end of the tavern opposite yourself seems to be more interested in your table than the others.
You mentally note to watch them further.
Darin's voice snaps you out of your thoughts. "Anythin' else, lad?"