Author's note: This was a fun little one-shot for a quiz on The Attic, posted on 14 July 2003.
Urngh, was the first thing that ran through Montaron's mind when he woke up. I'm going to kill whoever stuffed my mouth full of wool. And there's someone sitting on my head. And my back. And — WHO IS THAT?!
"RISE AND SHINE!" a cheerful voice proclaimed, and light streamed into the room as a fairly enthusiastic halfling dragged Montaron out of bed. His head felt as though it would explode if she made any more noise. I swear I'm going to throttle her, whoever she is.
"Who are ye?" he croaked.
"Alora, at your service," she said brightly, tossing pink hair out of her eyes.
He stumbled over to the wash basin and looked into the mirror that hung over it. He was a mess. One of his eyes was gummed shut by sleep, and the other was bloodshot. He couldn't remember much from the previous night, except there was a lot of drink involved.
"What happened?" he asked his companion. Please don't let me have —
"You mean last night?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him. "You got drunk, that's what happened. And then I hauled you up here after you passed out."
He goggled at her. "Do I . . . know ye . . . from somewhere?"
Alora sat down in front of the wash basin and brushed her vivid hair animatedly, grinning cheekily at him in the mirror. "We traveled together, remember? With that half-elf that turned out to be the kid of some god?"
"Uh . . ." Montaron racked his brains. Come to think of it, he could vaguely remember that, once he got through the slush that currently passed for his short-term memory. "Yeah."
"Anyway, last night after I ordered you a drink —" Alora's mouth snapped shut. "I mean, after you drank yourself into unconsciousness —"
Montaron whipped his head around to look at her and immediately wished he hadn't, as his head was about to split open. "You got me drunk? You?"
Alora looked around guiltily, then nodded, wide-eyed. "Umm . . . yeah. Yeah, I did."
For some reason, he found this quite hilarious. Oh, but I'll get even. Revenge is sweet . . .
That evening, Montaron's hangover had finally gone away after seventeen mugs of strong black coffee and three hours of listening to Alora talk. Patience, Montaron, patience. He repeated this mantra in his head.
"Say, Alora," he said casually. "Can I buy ye a drink?"
"Sure!" she said.
He ordered the strongest stuff the bar marketed: firewine. It wasn't wine; actually, it was more like whiskey. It was known for the burn as it went down and the feeling of holes being corroded through one's stomach walls. He was sure Alora wouldn't be able to hold her drink as long as he could.
"Do ye like contests, Alora?" he asked slyly.
"Oh, yes! Contests are such fun!"
"Care to drink me under this table?"
Alora smirked at him. "Bring it on, dear Montaron."
If she calls me 'dear' ONE MORE TIME —
Alora and Montaron tossed back their shots. Then again, and again. He had to admit, she was pretty strong for the sweet little bugger she passed herself off as. After the tenth shot, she passed out. Montaron grinned wickedly and grabbed her under the knees and across her back, carrying her up the stairs. He set her on her bed, then turned around to get his 'supplies' he would need for exacting his revenge. Suddenly, Montaron felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, saw stars before his eyes, and then just black.
He woke up some time later, the back of his head aching slightly, but nothing like the killer hangover he'd had before. He looked around for the culprit. Alora was flitting around the wash basin, rinsing out an empty bottle and washing a stained towel. She seemed to be talking to herself with a satisfied grin on her face. The halfling was obviously in a good mood. That conniving little menace knocked me out, just as I was about to get her back for what she did before! That vicious harpy, thinks she's too cute to be blamed for —
Alora turned around and saw that her companion was awake, and began chattering in his general direction. Montaron wasn't listening, but then he heard something about him, and his ears perked up. ". . . really, dear Montaron, did you actually think I was drunk? I knew what you were up to; don't try to deny it. You were trying to get even for what you think I did to you. How was I supposed to know you'd get drunk? Well, now you know, don't mess with Alora, 'cause Alora can dole out revenge like no other halfling on Toril."
What did she do? WHAT DID SHE DO?!
". . . and I really think pink's your color, Monty. Honestly, I don't know why you don't wear it more often," she said. He stared at her. His gaze went to the towel, then to the empty bottle. His mouth went dry. Oh, no. She can't have. She can't have! He sprang off the bed and pushed Alora over so he was in front of the mirror. No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.
"WHAT HAVE YE DONE TO MY HAIR?!"