Drunken Shenanigans

Whiskey. Wine. Ale. Tankard after tankard. Flask. Bottle.

How much did they have to drink? It was a blur, but that was alright.

It was time to rest and revel after the long, violent, unspoken journey Ryheric had taken to Rohan.

Emmie was in on the drinking. So was Sicarra. Tarsorel was buying. It was going to be a night of mischief, mayhem and reckless shenanigans!

It felt so good not to worry for a while. Not to be on guard, not to be waiting for an enemy to emerge from around the corner. That's what peaceful places like this were for, to Ryheric. This was a rare luxury the people of Bree did not understand they had so much of, compared to the world outside.

Up they went, to talk and dance, laugh, and entertain themselves. Emmie was like a butterfly in the breeze. Sicarra looked like she was made of smiles. Tarsorel was in his element - one day he would be ready to partake again, fully.

Everything felt right, good, simple joy.

Of course, the hangovers and aftermath would come. They always did! It was why these moments of revelry and intoxication were so fleeting, so valuable in the moment of immediacy.

A roll down the hill to speed their return to the inn was thrilling for Emmie and Ryheric. Unrestrained laughter filled the air as the miscreants wound up in a wheat field.

Poor Sicarra took a turn for the worse. Exhileration for the hill-roll turned quickly to something sour as drunken tears and moroseness set in. Fickle alcohol, bringing light and joy to some and despair to others, and sometimes swinging widely from one to the other. There were tears, and for Sicarra the party was abruptly over.

By luck, Ryheric had regained just enough balance to carry the unfortunate lady, tear-streaked, plastered, with dirt on her cheek, back to the Prancing Pony.

Emmie came too, and both she and Ryheric - neither of them sober - under Butterbur's supervision made sure Sicarra was taken to a secure, warm, soft bed.

Plenty of water was left on the side table, soap, a wash basin and towel for her to clean up with when the poor little thing woke. 

But were the Dark Bard's evening's shenanigans over?

... Oh no they were not.

...

Some time late into the next morning, he would wake. The treasure of waking up peacefully, alone in some unremarkable ditch. His lute, his sword with him.

The booze obliterated any night terrors and violent dreams. He woke hungover, yet with a lopsided grin as the sunlight seemed like it might burn through his eyes.