44th of Spring 515AV
Half-way through the season, the joy he'd felt at the start of Spring was starting to wind down. There was simply not much to do. Aside from the odd little job for Caelum, Kavala or Rosela even, he had plenty of spare time on his hands and no friends or family to turn to. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he sauntered through the lower part of Riverfall, looking for a distraction.
It was largely by accident that he stumbled across a familiar looking place. The grimey, beaten entrance to the Rat Hole appeared wholly uninviting to him. Dark, guttural laughter sounded from within. The wiser half of his mind urged to move on, but there was something peculiar about that place. He stopped and pretended to tie his shoe-laces, twinkling green eyes shooting a curious glance at the shady tavern. It had been a while since he'd done some exploring.
Feet scraped across the sanded floor, a thick waft of alcohol slammed into his nose. The inside was even darker than the outside. What few rays of sunlight were allowed in lit up the smoky air with vale, yellow colors. For such an unappealing looking place, the Rat Hole was well crowded.
Humans, Akalak, Konti, all sorts of races and species were represented in the tavern's assembly. Some were huddled together, exchanging low whispers. A broad Akalak with black hair like a mane was flexing his biceps at a malformed little imp, hardly tall enough to lift his chin above the table.
Timothy grinned. Hirem would hate his guts for going inside, and that was exactly why he liked it. The riveting thrill of doing something forbidden was too sweet a reward to resist.
He was about to sit down at the far end of the bar when his arm was seized by a puffy, wide-eyed Inarta. "Wah about 'im?"
Two other pair of stark blue eyes penetrated him. "Your choice Lyerdi,” the taller of the two Svefra’s replied coldly.
“Effselent!”
Timothy noticed a slight whistling in the fat, bare-chested man’s voice. His many chins dangled as he slammed a fat fist on the table and motioned for Timothy to take the chair next to him.
“What is-“
“Game! Good fffun!” Lyerdi exclaimed as he brushed a sweaty hand through his scraggly red hair. “They dek licking petchers have been cheating meh!”
“You’re just a sorry loser,” the taller, bald Svefra hissed, leaning closer.
Lyerdi made a broad, dismissive gesture. “Fe- fffew more rounds. Luck on me side now! Eh! Goosaboy.” He slammed his plate-sized hand into Timothy’s back, nearly knocking him out of his chair in the process.
“So what’s the game?” Timothy inquired. Seventeen golden mizas were stacked in the center of the table, there was a large caraf of ale too and a few mugs.
“It’s a drinking game,” the bald Svefra explained. The cold, calculative blue eyes of his smaller sidekick bored into Timothy. The Svefra sniggered quietly. “Last man,” he gave Timothy a look over “I mean, last person standing wins. We go in pairs. You against me, my brother here,” he swung an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders will take on the fat one.”
Timothy shot a glance at Lyerdi, half expecting the oversized Inarta to slam both fists onto the table this time. Instead, he seemed rather pre-occupied staring at nothing in particular; blood-shot eyes turning soft and hazy.
He turned to face the Svefra brothers again and arched an eyebrow at them. “That doesn’t really sound like a game. It’s a bit easy isn’t it?”
The bald Svefra chuckled, revealing vale, knackered teeth. “I like you. Now,” he snapped his fingers in front of Lyerdi, “you either beat us this round, or we’ll take the mizas eh?”
“Haha! Lyerdi always win!” The Inarta boasted, pumping his fist in the air for emphasis.
The mugs were distributed and filled to the brim with ale. Timothy wrinkled his nose at the scent. Now he understood the challenging bit. It was all about who could drink as much of the stinky stuff as possible.
“So if we win,” he started, “we get the money?”
“If you win,” the smaller Svefra said with a curt nod.
And so the competition began. The Svefra downed their drinks with grace and expertise. Lyerdi shared in their expertise and speed, but lacked the grace. Timothy carefully sipped his drink until he found six eyes boring into him.
“You gotta do it fast,” the younger Svefra explained. He looked about twenty, light red blemishes littered his forehead. “How old are you?”
Timothy put his mug down to answer. “Twelve,” he burped.
The Svefra’s exchanged a meaningful look. “Fine age to start,” the eldest said, motioning for him to continue. Lyerdi had zoned out again.
Holding his nose, Timothy heeded the Svefra’s encourament and gulped down the nasty, bitter drink without complaint. After all participants had proven they could still stand, the game continued.
It wasn’t until he’d gulped down four mugs that he started to tire of the game. The world was piss. In fact, whoever had put the table together was a lazy excuse for a carpenter, the thing wobbled and stood at a strange angle.
“Empty,” he heard the Svefra’s muffled voice. Timothy blinked lazily at the caraf. Funny word ‘caraf’. He lost his train of though when the Svefra continued, “why don’t you go get some more?”
Leaning heavily on the table, Timothy grabbed the caraf with both hands and set out on his perilous journey for a refill. Zig-zagging through a sea of legs he finally arrived at the bar, hoisted himself atop a chair and smacked the caraf down with an air of finality.
“Please sir,” he looked up at the one-eyed man behind the bar, “I want some more.”
