The Proper Way to Make Merry

-

The end of the war on the Dread Isle had brought peace to Elibe, but more importantly, it had brought an almost unceasing celebration to the taverns and inns of the world.

In the small canton of Caelin, on the main road, there was a modest-sized but renowned tavern called the Singing Hawk, known throughout Lycia for its rowdy atmosphere of merriment and wide selection of ales.

It so happened that it was raining relentlessly that evening when Sain and Kent, just returning from foreign shores, made their way into town for a few drinks and a good time. The familiar wooden sign of a hawk (or maybe it was a falcon, no one really cared) perched on a buxom woman's arm (that was why no one cared about the bird) swayed and creaked in the wind. The windows were lit warmly with yellow light, and the sounds of drinking songs and laughter poured outside onto the street, audible even in the storm.

Sopping wet, Sain and Kent stumbled into the alehouse and several men sitting at tables turned to look. At the far end of the room, beside the long wooden bar, a bespectacled young lady with short emerald hair caught sight of Sain and waved, blushing. Sain prided himself on being able to see a lady smile or blush from a league away. Moreso because he knew the lady, and knew her well.

The tavern was crowded to its bursting point, with circular wooden tables covering every free inch of space on the old-looking wooden floor, wooden chairs rammed underneath tables six to a one and burly tough guys' asses rammed into them. It was a world of wood, lit by dim yellow-gold lanterns hanging on the walls and hanging from the ceilings, trapped in clouded glass. The place exploded with laughter and song, curses and insults, and there was not a free inch of walking space, although the five serving girls and one boy somehow managed. Sain noticed three of the girls about carrying trays, all familiar: the green-haired girl, a redhead with two floppy hair-tails and a blue skirt, and a short girl with mussed brown hair, her tray carried high over her head as a giant might carry the world.

There were people of all kinds come to drink and eat at the Singing Hawk: adventurers, ex-knights, sellswords, merchants, libertines, vagrants, and whores. There was even a woman in an Ilian pegasus knight's uniform sitting in the middle of the action. She was guarded closely by a strong-looking man, but nevertheless she had, by Sain's estimation, three wandering hands stuck up her skirt, all in the time it took him to wade to the bar. Sain sighed sadly and Kent followed suit.

Sain sat down in a wooden bar stool and Kent sat to his right, near the end of the bar with two empty seats between him and the far wall of the tavern where a huge fake boar head hung impressively.

"Barkeep!" Sain yelled. There was a conspicuous lack of anyone tending the bar. Behind the counter there were kegs of ale on draught, shelves of various liquor, and mugs, flagons, and tankards enough to serve nearly a hundred, which was, conveniently, about the number of patrons on that rainy night. "Oi, Pierre! Pierre Cold Beef! Are you there?"

"Apparently not," Kent said.

Along with his wife, the man known as Pierre Cold Beef ran the Singing Hawk and tended bar most days. When he had other matters to attend to, his handsome son known as Guillaume the Undressed served the drinks and hollered orders to the cooks tending fires in the back room. Many women came to visit the Singing Hawk for the prospect of finding young Guillaume—a beautiful bachelor—waiting there.

Sain sighed and shrugged. Ale-less, Sain said hello to all the old regulars sitting with him at the bar.

Two seats to his left sat a man the regular patrons called Big Marty, so called because he was so obscenely fat he took up two seats almost entirely. He wore a huge white shirt and all-size breeches.

Beside him was, humorously enough, a paper-thin husk of a man dressed in ivory clothes and a ridiculous gold coat. The man, Bergere, had an absurdly silly little moustache and a mat of glistening black hair. His follies were the stuff of legend.

Next to him was a well-built, rough-and-tumble sellsword with a face like an ass, and a full-moon dome on top to match. Aside from his looks, however, he was more known for being a horse than a donkey. His name was Barnstable Foucheval, but everybody on the face of the earth called him Barns, or sometimes his battle moniker, the "Mad Gelding." In response, he would always proclaim that he had both his balls, but no one listened.

On the far end of the bar, separated from the other regulars by an an oddly quiet peg-legged pirate (whom Sain did not know), sat a timid man name of Chat N. Blackford, who rarely spoke sentences without pausing in the middle, and when he didn't, he stammered. As such, everyone called him "Stammerne," for no apparent reason. His defining feature was that he looked like he was going to die every day. Also, long brown hair.

Somewhere in the back room worked the most famous wench, and incidentally the co-owner of the Singing Hawk, a tall, portly lady with a horny sailor's sense of humor. Pierre Cold Beef's wife was named was Moulin Jar of Jam, and she always wore the same crimson apron (to hide the bloodstains of first-born sons, she said—in truth, to hide marmalade stains) every day. As a matter of course, she had acquired the title "Lady Red." She almost always appeared from the back room when the old regulars were all together and stirred up a bawdy conversation when no one had anything to say. For some bizarre reason, she often walked around with a small stew pot as a helmet, the handle making a half-decent chinstrap. It always reminded Sain of when he used to play at knights as a child. That had sucked, too.

"You live!" Barns said upon noticing the two knights. "Sain, Kent, 'sbeen a while, ain'nit? Good't see ya, mate!"

"Do you really think I would fall so easily? No dragon's fire could lay me or Kent low! We are knights of Caelin!"

Big Marty chortled. "Dragon indeed. If you had faced a dragon, you'd be a fine good roast here on our plates."

Sain grimaced, well aware that Big Marty would have enjoyed that meal.

"Eet ees good zat we could 'ave seen you ay-genn, Senn," Bergere said in his funny accent. He slowly sipped from his flagon of beer. At the very end of the bar, Stammerne politely concurred.

"Well, my friends, I can't tell you all how glad I am that all that business is done with," Sain said. "Fighting in the world's defense is rewarding, but oh so tiring! At last, we have time enough to revel!" Pierre Cold Beef emerged from the back room. "Pierre! Rustle up a tankard, the hero triumphant returns!"

"And his unwitting companion," Kent said, with some small measure of amusement.

"Oh-ho, so it is the Sain!" Pierre said. He was a tall old man, bald and wrinkly, with bold blue eyes and a cheese-wedge nose. His white apron and gray breeches were stained with meat-blood, grease, and ale. "So you have been returned from the war, is it? And the Kent has come with you, is it? It is as well you are well! The Hawk is not as lively as has been without the Sain, no?"

Sain laughed. "As you say! With any of us missing, our merriment is not nearly as gay. Time enough for seriousness and fighting. Now we drink! Pierre, a tankard!"

"I will have a flagon of dark to start with," Kent said.

"As it is, so it will be! I can get you the tankards, I can." Pierre smiled and bowed before setting off to pour drinks. Pierre Cold Beef was well-known through all Lycia for his alacrity in pouring and distributing drinks to those sitting at the long bar, while the servers, taught by Lady Red herself, were known for hasty table service.

"H-how are you…doing, Kent?" Stammerne asked.

"I'm all right," Kent called all the way across the bar.

"Eez zere a reason you are here, Kent?" Bergere asked. His moustache appeared to move.

"He's come to drink!" Sain said, all smiles. Pierre Cold Beef slid Kent a tankard of ale and Sain a mug of mead. "There's time enough for duty later, innit? Now it's time to revel. I'll sit there and pour that tankard of ale down his throat if need be, I swear it!"

Kent chuckled. "That won't be necessary," he said, drinking.

"Ah, it's too damnably quiet! A song is what we need!" Sain took a mighty swig of mead and started up a song.

A roll in the grass with a maiden

A roll in the grass with a maiden

While her dear father slept

And her womanhood wept

A roll in the grass with a maiden

Sain took a mighty drink and slammed down his tankard.

"A woman would weep in the usual sense were she faced with laying you, Sain!" Barns cracked, and the nearby patrons had a good laugh at Sain's expense. Sain stared aimlessly at some imaginary thing in the distance.

The young redhead serving girl in the blue skirt—Tellia was her name—giggled and ruffled Sain's hair from behind as she swept past. She was 18 and very fun, but she kept herself woefully busy bringing drink and meat to all the patrons, as all the servers did. Shortly after, the green-haired girl who waved at Sain emerged from the kitchen with a large tray of mugs and several plates of roast chicken legs. Her name was Ameline, 21, and as usual, she wore a long green skirt and a tight white blouse. Her face was soft and her small glasses fit comfortably over her sea-blue eyes.

"She'd pay you to go away, Barns," Big Marty said, throwing down the rest of his drink. He called for another and chortled. "Life ain't fair to the butt-ugly."

"Spare us your life story, Marty," Barns said, still laughing. "Sain's the prettiest knight who ever did proposition, but his tongue is like dung. God of gods, Sain, when you open your mouth your foot comes out. You're the only man I know who could make an Ostian girl say 'no'."

Everyone at the bar went "Ohhhhh snap!" and most doubled over with laughter. Big Marty laughed so hard that he almost rolled backwards off his seats.

"You jest," Sain said, taking a first swig from a mug of dark ale. "I bet you haven't even seen 'Ostian Girls Are Easy'! I once saw a theatre troupe from Thria put on a performance to die for!"

Kent took a small sip of his mead. "You told me about that once, was that the time—"

"I swear I must have courted her for weeks without rest!"

"Ehh, what iz zis, now?" Bergere said, sniffling. "Dear Senn, courtanng? Fo-ar weeks? Pearhapps ze sun deed not set zose weeks?"

"Huh, 'Ostian Girls Are Easy'…t-that's that play…about the nobles, a-and…Ostian women, and…whatnot," Stammerne said after throwing down a gulp of mead.

"Right. The play where the, er, 'lady of pleasure' masquerades as a member of the Ostian aristocracy. Anyway, it was the girl who played the young Baroness Melinde," Sain said, and he drank. "This troupe imagined Melinde's famous green dress as but a simple frock with lace, but this girl was absolutely gorgeous. The simplicity of her garb only made her more irresistible. Her eyes were beautiful emerald orbs, spheres of celestial beauty. She was tan and exotic as a woman of Sacae, with shoulder-length raven hair and innocent pink lips like a kiss from Elimine herself. Whenever she spoke, I thought I was going to melt away. For weeks I went to her and extolled her virtues, but my flattery and simple gestures were fruitless. Then, when I professed my love for her, she merely laughed! I would have done everything to her—er, anything for her."

When Sain finished his story, he found that he had already emptied his mug, so he asked for another.

"Were you actually gonna marry her?" Barns asked.

"I would have birthed her children," Sain said. He sighed and looked wistfully into space. Kent rolled his eyes so hard and everyone else had to contain their laughter.

"Sain would make a wonderful father, wouldn't he?" green-haired Ameline said, seemingly unprovoked. After tossing Barns and Sain chicken legs, she folded her hands over her chest and swayed from side to side, her eyes closed, smiling.

"Fazier of zee undearworld, pearhapps."

"Oh, dear sweet Ameline," Sain said, blowing her a kiss through a big bite of chicken, "if I could, I would hand the sun and the moon to you on a plate of silver!"

"Oh, how romantic…" she said. Giggling, Ameline retreated into the back room. Kent didn't know if Ameline's continued affection for Sain was only good-natured teasing or something genuine, but when it came to Sain, Ameline was almost as bad as Tellia, as far as Kent was concerned. He was clueless as to Sain's level of interest in her, although Kent knew that he had genuinely fallen in love with many other objects of his flirtation. And Sain was equally clueless about generally everything.

"Hey, Sain," Barns said as he tore into some chicken. "Tell us a little bit about the fightin'. What you guys go do, anyway?"

"Aha, so you were waiting to hear me regale you with some of our stories of heroism?"

The sellsword laughed. "Yeah, what you said."

"Why, Kent and I single-handedly cleared out an entire battlefield of those morphs with only a short iron spear and a few rusty swords!"

Kent coughed.

"What the fart's a 'morph'?" Big Marty said, a steak dangling from his mouth.

"Ain't that something you get on yer arse?" Barns asked. Bergere snorted and Kent sighed.

Sain proceeded to tell everyone at the bar some details of their greatest victories of the war, with Kent occasionally disputing the verity of some of Sain's emphatic braggadocio. Over the course of the storytelling, Kent lost count of how many drinks Sain had insisted from Pierre Cold Beef. A lot, though.

When he had finished his last story, Sain took a drink and proceeded to sing "The Lass I Knew" (he would have sung "Jimmy Boy", but he didn't feel like sobbing uncontrollably into his beer.) The others joined in.

Oh, I knew a lass who had an ass

Most glorious and grand

And oh her lips gave me the nips

The softest in the land

And she was there to always share

A dance when I was blue

But 'twas her chest I liked the best

Aye, that's the lass I knew

While everyone at the bar clapped, Sain downed his tankard of ale in one long chug, belched, then hiccuped.

"Now that was well done, in all regards!" Barns said, laughing hysterically, slapping his knee. He let loose a rip-roaring belch of his own and Bergere jumped nearly a foot into the air. His moustache moved again.

"Don't let Lady Red hear you singing that tune, mate," Big Marty said as he ate. "She might be to gettin' some ideas!"

Sain threw his head back and threw most of his ale away trying to throw it down his throat. He drenched his face and his hair and laughed raucously along with the others, slamming down his mug and yelling something unintelligible that was presumably a request for another tankard.

Kent whispered "uh oh" into his beer.

"I wish…I could get Am…to flirt with me…," Stammerne said.

Barns chuckled. "And I wish someone would walk up and give me ten thousand fat, but that ain't happening."

"Don't call me fat," Big Marty protested.

"I didn't."

"Oh, okay. That's what's up?"

"That's what's up," Barns agreed. He called for a mug of the strongest ale they had on tap, Dragon Red Fire.

"Oh, scoff! Barns, you didn't just order a mug of Dragon Red Fire, did you?" Sain said, incredulous, hanging onto his mug of mead for dear life. He hiccupped. "Have you no shame, soldier? Thou shalt burn! Hahahaaaaaah!"

"Nope. I just want to get TANKED tonight, boys!" Barns yelled, and the bar patrons (as well as a few rowdy bunches sitting at tables) hooted wildly. "But oh by gosh by golly I do wish Am would at least tease me a little."

"N-n-n-n-n-n-noo," Sain said. Now he started to sway from side to side, his head shaking around like an indignant rag doll covered in crude oil. Beside him, Kent slapped his face with his palm. "Ameline is my precious bubble bath diamond…we are flirtonlies, which means we flirt only…and only flirt us…not yous." He laughed.

"I'd settle for Tellia, then," Barns said, shoulders shrunk. "At least let her get my hopes up."

From the kitchens, a young female voice yelled, "I heard that! 'Settle' my arse!" and Barnstable Foucheval shut up but good.

The one male employed to serve at the Singing Hawk pushed his way out of the back room, carrying a huge plate of roasted chicken legs. He was a short, quiet fellow with short, messy brown hair, and somehow managed to drop something every day Sain had stopped in.

The door to the back room was right near Stammerne's seat, so when the boy emerged with the food, Stammerne said, "H—How…are you, Roderickson?"

"Pleeeeease don't talk to me right now," Roderickson whined, balancing the plate carefully. He shuffled away from the bar with all haste, as though moving quickly would keep the ghosts of tray-dropping away from him.

"Hey Senn," Bergere said as he started on a new mug of mead. "Deed you breeng any drinkeeng songs back from ze war?"

"Aah, but I respectfully regret to say that there were no places to goooo…" Sain replied, gnawing at the last bit of meat on his chicken leg. "No alehouses on the Dread Isle, alas! And the folk in the Bernese pubs were mostmostmostmostmost unwelcoming."

From the back room came Tellia, striding over to where the two knights sat, her red hair-tails bouncing as she moved. She exhaled deeply and laid a hand on each of their shoulders. Sain and Kent turned to see her smiling, and Sain quickly stole a look at her small, bare stomach and the sweat glistening there. The rest of the men at the bar turned to look as well.

"You having yourselves a right good time, gentlemen?" she said. She blew Kent a kiss; Kent cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed.

"Ah, Tellia!" Sain said in-between gulps of mead. "Al…always the prac-tished coquette, are ye, heh!"

Where Ameline was jovial, polite, and quiet, Tellia was loud, rowdy, and a notorious tease. No one could come and go from the bar without giving or receiving (usually receiving) a bawdy joke or suggestive turn of phrase. Ameline was always the object of the patrons' admiration, but ask almost any of the men who they'd want around on a quiet night, and their first choice was always Tellia. Her soft face lightly freckled and her short, slender legs acted the bait; her quick wit was the reel.

"Finally I get a break from all these damn orders. Whew." Tellia wiped her brow.

"Tellia. How eez eet behind ze walls een the kitch-an?" Bergere asked.

"Not bad. Lady Red's in a really good mood. But outside the kitchen? The crabs are really pinchin' today," Tellia said with a smirk, leaning on the knights' shoulders. She wiggled her behind and shook out her short skirt. "And no, not the crabs you're thinking of, Big Marty, nor is it what Barns and Sain are thinking. It's easy to get nipped in the big sea, innit?"

Big Marty was rubbing his stomach and Barns and Sain were looking downward.

"Doesn't that bother you, truly?" Kent said. "Day after day, having people grab at you like that…it must be unbearable."

"Not really. I'm well armed. My arse is like steel, and my womanhood has teeth. I think I'm all right," Tellia said. She grinned wildly and the men all laughed. "Honestly, all the pinching is almost like getting tickled. And I lo-ove being tickled…"

"Well," Sain said, ramming his mug on the bar, "m'dear Tellia, on my honor as a knight's knight, knighted in the knight's court of Caelin, sworn to serve…m'lady…of Caelin…of the realm…my lady…my lady, name of…of…uh…" Kent sighed at Sain's apparent inability to remember Lady Lyndis' name— "you point out to me these men who have been so rudely attacking your cute little bottom, and I'll set them three days straight from next moonday week time. Day. I'll teach themsh gooses cooked to treat a fair damsel like that."

That wasn't merely the alcohol speaking, Kent knew. If Sain did find the gropers, he'd be ready with steel and more than a few indignant words. For all his peccadilloes, Sain was an exceedingly honorable man. Briefly, Kent wondered if Sain was right about him, if he was indeed too reserved for his own good. But Kent would sooner shoot himself in the big toe with a crossbow than admit that Sain was right to his face. Hells no. Kent took a swig of drink.

Tellia chuckled and began to sing.

Cut off his head, cut off his head

Carry his arse and throw him in bed

If he starts to whinin' and needs to be dead

(now Tellia started laughing) Cut off his head, cut off his head!

All the men at the bar, even the peg-legged pirate, laughed uproariously.

"W-what a fate," Tellia said, wiping the joy-tears from her eyes, trying to rein in her laughter. "Which of the two heads would an honorable man least want to have cut off? Some men just can't live without their head."

"You always haff the best shongs!" Sain blurted, chortling loudest of all. He swung his tankard merrily, either too drunk or too naive (both?) to understand what the song really meant, or that Tellia had directed her bawdy song at him.

"Where'd y'learn that, Tellia, m'dear?" Barns asked through a gulp of drink. She glared at him briefly for the "m'dear."

"Don't ch' know?" Tellia said, rustling the two knights' shoulders. "That's a woman's drinking song."

"B-but I thought…women didn't…have drink…ing songs," Stammerne said.

"I have a million and a score of them, gentlemen, but I don't have the time. A few gold might buy you another verse, and a few gold yet more might buy you a bit extra." Tellia winked. "But for now, I must be returnin' to the back room, or Madame Jamjars might have my head!"

As soon as she had come, Tellia disappeared into the back room, and for a moment, everyone at the bar was silent.

Then Sain hiccupped.

"Oh, how I adore Tellia, so fun. Sooooooo funnnn…"

"And what about Ameline?" Barns asked.

"And her as well, oh, oh! They are all lovely, lovely loveliness, beauteous beauty, oh! I could not choose between them, oh no I could not!" Sain finished the rest of his drink and burst out laughing. "But now a song, oh a song, and—and you shall all like this one, mates, I assure you."

Sain broke into song.

In the inns of Bern they sang their songs

Them cold and dull and sad

But then one day they saw the face

(Now everyone sitting at the bar joined in, and even Moulin Jar of Jam and Pierre Cold Beef behind the counter joined in.)

Of the young Aqulean lad

Oh, he sang of glees and sang of seas

And sang of women young

And he told the inn and those within

Of the many gifts he'd brung

(Now several people sitting at tables joined the singing)

He brought a flute and brought a lute

To sing an Ostian tune

And he brought a lyre soaked in fire

To strum the hymns 'till noon

Oh he brought a horse for every arse

And a cask of ale to share

And his lady lass smelled of sassafras

And they drank without a care

(The entire tavern now united in song so loudly the walls seemed to shake)

The Aqulean lad said please be glad

While listening to my tale

For I've traveled a while and with a smile

I'll share a story of ale

In Nabata they raise the praise

For the "water of the sand"

And you'll never find a sweeter wine

Than one from the desert land

And finer yet, lest we forget

What they serve in old Pherae

For you'll seldom hear of a better beer

Or so the drinkers say

And the sweetest tongues are found among

Etruscan tavern-keeps

For they serve a mead that's fine indeed

A mead they drink in heaps

And if you desire a drink afire

The Sacaens do you right

For they singe a liquor so much thicker

That it burns throughout the night

And the strongest stuff that tests you rough

Is the Ilian women's treat

For it's the worthiest man who can withstand

An Ilian woman's teat

Now the Aqulean lad said don't be sad

If you cannot travel about

For in my pack is a generous sack

Of liquor lean and stout

And I'll lift your spirits with hearty spirits

They'll never treat you bad

And I but request that you sing the best

(The tavern rose and bellowed)

Of the young Aqulean lad!!!

The tavern exploded with cheers, men and women alike clinked glasses and celebrated as loudly and honestly as they did when the war ended and once everyone had returned to their seats and their drinks, the mood in the tavern had escaped the rain and darkness outside and moved to a sunnier place.

"Zat was breeleeant, Senn," Bergere said, clapping.

"Oh isn't it? But I want to tell you all a story about my city," Sain said, spilling his ale while trying to drink. "Oh, I want to tell you about my town. Oh, down by the waterrr…"

Everyone drank and listened as Sain sung "The Ode to Ol' Caelin".

"I want to sleep in a city that doesn't wake up," Sain sung, his mug swinging back and forth in time with the music. "If you can do it there, you can do it aaaaanywhere—"

"I'd do it anywhere," Big Marty joked. "In the back room, under a tree, in an outhouse—"

Kent looked around. Bergere looked so happy he could burst, Barns looked so drunk he could burst, Stammerne looked so confused he could burst, and Big Marty just looked like he was going to burst.

"Iiiiiit's up to youuu, Cae-lin…CAE-LIIIIIIIIIIN!" Sain finished, holding the last note for about a full thirty seconds.

"Uh oh," Kent said.

One second later, Sain passed out and Big Marty belched.

Kent slapped his forehead. Someone was going to have to lug drunken, unconscious Sain out of the bloody bar. And of course, it was probably going to be him. As usual.

Oh joy. This will be a barrel of fun...