Zi'da 60, Arc 716
“And then we arrived in Ne’haer. The whole city was burning, the air was filled with smoke and there were monsters everywhere, trying to eat us!” Tristan informed his audience and took another swig from the bottle of Venora Rose in his hand before he abruptly jumped off the table that he had been standing on so that people would see him better and grabbed the knife that he had used to cut his steak earlier that evening.
The drunkard that sat next to him drew back, expecting to be stabbed, but Tristan only brandished it in front of him, reenacting a fight that had never really happened. “They were truly frightening. They were huge and had sharp claws and even sharper teeth, and they were made of shadows, but I killed them all. They were no match for me. And when they were dead, I went to the people whose homes had been destroyed and gave them money so that they wouldn’t starve. I’m a feking hero!”
He looked at his audience. Some of them applauded, obviously enjoying the story, while others looked a little doubtful. He smiled at the former, ignored the latter and continued,
“Some time later the Immortals asked us to gather in that huge building that had been left untouched by the monsters for some strange reason, and told us what our task was. It was then that I saw her. Ilaren. And she saw me. I swear, she was looking at me all the time, and she was more beautiful than any woman I’d ever seen.”
“Did you do it with her?” one of the drunkards called out to him. Tristan thought about it for a moment, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable telling a lie about one of the Immortals (although the thought of claiming that he had seduced Ilaren did occur to him).
So he cleared his throat and decided to just continue talking about his heroic deeds (and wisely keep the fact that he had fallen over a dead body on the battlefield in Oscillus and passed out, thus missing most of the action, to himself), when they suddenly started to laugh.
He glowered at them because they had not risked their lives and was about to tell them just what he thought of them, but then he had a better idea. He glanced at his bottle. If that didn’t distract them and make them admire him again, then he didn’t know what would.
“Free drinks for everybody!” he called out to the drunkards (and the few patrons that were still sober) and raised his bottle. “Be sure to think about Ilaren and thank her when you down them though!”
<><><>
As the night progressed, his companions eventually got so drunk that they stopped caring about his story and weren’t able to follow it anymore either and went home – or rather stumbled home, although he supposed a few of them also fell asleep somewhere in the gutter.
In between recounting his adventures, he’d also tried to sell a few of his sculptures – he still had the one he had made of the two headed hound for example. He’d figured that he would do a lot more business now that he was famous, but apparently drunkards didn’t care about art.
They only cared about alcohol which was why he was sitting at the bar now surrounded by empty bottles and wondering if he should go home as well or just fall asleep right there.
Throughout that night of stories and drunkenness his olive green suit had remained clean which was nothing short of a miracle considering the state of the rest of the Blacksmith Arms.
It looked as if a hurricane had moved right through it!
“And then we arrived in Ne’haer. The whole city was burning, the air was filled with smoke and there were monsters everywhere, trying to eat us!” Tristan informed his audience and took another swig from the bottle of Venora Rose in his hand before he abruptly jumped off the table that he had been standing on so that people would see him better and grabbed the knife that he had used to cut his steak earlier that evening.
The drunkard that sat next to him drew back, expecting to be stabbed, but Tristan only brandished it in front of him, reenacting a fight that had never really happened. “They were truly frightening. They were huge and had sharp claws and even sharper teeth, and they were made of shadows, but I killed them all. They were no match for me. And when they were dead, I went to the people whose homes had been destroyed and gave them money so that they wouldn’t starve. I’m a feking hero!”
He looked at his audience. Some of them applauded, obviously enjoying the story, while others looked a little doubtful. He smiled at the former, ignored the latter and continued,
“Some time later the Immortals asked us to gather in that huge building that had been left untouched by the monsters for some strange reason, and told us what our task was. It was then that I saw her. Ilaren. And she saw me. I swear, she was looking at me all the time, and she was more beautiful than any woman I’d ever seen.”
“Did you do it with her?” one of the drunkards called out to him. Tristan thought about it for a moment, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable telling a lie about one of the Immortals (although the thought of claiming that he had seduced Ilaren did occur to him).
So he cleared his throat and decided to just continue talking about his heroic deeds (and wisely keep the fact that he had fallen over a dead body on the battlefield in Oscillus and passed out, thus missing most of the action, to himself), when they suddenly started to laugh.
He glowered at them because they had not risked their lives and was about to tell them just what he thought of them, but then he had a better idea. He glanced at his bottle. If that didn’t distract them and make them admire him again, then he didn’t know what would.
“Free drinks for everybody!” he called out to the drunkards (and the few patrons that were still sober) and raised his bottle. “Be sure to think about Ilaren and thank her when you down them though!”
<><><>
As the night progressed, his companions eventually got so drunk that they stopped caring about his story and weren’t able to follow it anymore either and went home – or rather stumbled home, although he supposed a few of them also fell asleep somewhere in the gutter.
In between recounting his adventures, he’d also tried to sell a few of his sculptures – he still had the one he had made of the two headed hound for example. He’d figured that he would do a lot more business now that he was famous, but apparently drunkards didn’t care about art.
They only cared about alcohol which was why he was sitting at the bar now surrounded by empty bottles and wondering if he should go home as well or just fall asleep right there.
Throughout that night of stories and drunkenness his olive green suit had remained clean which was nothing short of a miracle considering the state of the rest of the Blacksmith Arms.
It looked as if a hurricane had moved right through it!
