The Fifth Bag Slot: They Come in Pints
In which the alcohol content, the snowfall, and the plot of the story all thicken.
Aize answered the knock on her door and saw Anchor standing there, a grin on his face. He held up a stack of papers with red ink marks everywhere and a bold red "B-"on the front.
"I passed." He said proudly.
"Oh, the midterm essays. Congratulations." Aize walked back to grab her own stack of papers off a desk and held them up for Anchor to see. She'd gotten an "A," but Anchor was relieved that his wasn't the only paper marred in red. Aize shrugged, "I don't expect him to scale any of the grades; one student did manage to get a perfect score."
Anchor grimaced, "Crystal?"
"Ha!" Aize barked and looked amused, "No, definitely not. It was Spinebreaker."
"Who?" He didn't recognize the name.
"Spinebreaker Spitpaw; you know, the charr that sits in our row."
"Her? I didn't know she was…" he stopped short of saying the word sane, "uh, capable."
"She reads a lot." Aize said dismissively. "It's all I've ever seen her do outside of class."
"Well, never mind that; I came here because we must celebrate!" Anchor announced. "You helped me pass, I owe you a beer."
"They serve beer in the mess hall?" Aize asked.
"At the tavern!" Anchor laughed. "It's not far; maybe a mile down the mountain. Mostly priory members there, but the owner's a norn. It's a good tavern. Come on, you'll like it - it's the least I can do."
"Leave? Tonight?" Aize took a step back into her room, looking nervous. "I can't."
"Why not?" Anchor demanded.
"It's just – I'm tired, you know? And I have studying to do."
"Studying? But nothing's due tomorrow."
"I'm behind." Aize said hastily. "I can't go with you, I'm sorry. Not tonight." She eased the door closed until there was only a sliver left open. "Enjoy your beer!" She called, and then the door was shut, leaving Anchor alone in the hallway.
Anchor did travel to the tavern that night – conquests were meant to be celebrated, and he had conquered a foe more intimidating than any wild predator he'd ever hunted. What he could not have known when he arrived, however, was that it was to be the worst tavern experience of his life.
It wasn't any of the other patrons; there were a lively bunch of priory members there, largely norn, drinking and talking merrily under the tavern's wood beams. It wasn't the atmosphere; the hearth burned bright and warm to counter the snow falling outside, while the detached heads of bighorn sheep looked down from the walls. No, the tavern itself was wonderful.
Everything went downhill the moment he had decided to make conversation with one of the priory professors – a likable man who seemed happy to talk to Anchor about the weather and the difficulty of essays. But then, Anchor had offered to bring them both another round of beer. The man declined and kindly, in a soft and nonjudgmental way, said the words that Anchor wished he could un-hear: "Oh no, thank you. I never have more than one; I try to be responsible."
By the time Anchor made it back to the bar for a refill, he'd already lost the wrestling match with his conscience. He'd begged, he'd pleaded, but his conscience refused to let go of the idea: the new, responsible Anchor the Storm would only have one beer.
"What have I done?" He moaned to no one in particular as he made the hike back to the priory. It was dark and the snow still fell heavily, but Anchor took his time walking up the mountain path. His conscience tried to console him: It'll be worth it, you'll see. There's more to life than beer. But Anchor only half listened; he wasn't sure if he was on speaking terms with his better nature at the moment. He was sure of one thing: from now on, he would always be ordering the largest size mug available.
The orange glow of torches lit his path up the stone steps as he came closer to the Priory. He was nearly at the entrance, when something caught his eye. There, in the shadows of the great priory walls, just outside the reach of torchlight, two figures stood talking. A dark hood covered the features of one, but through the darkness Anchor's sharp hunter's eyes could make out a profile that was clearly human or sylvari. The other figure made him pause; there was something familiar about it. A flash of glowing yellow eyes confirmed it. But what was Aize doing out here?
The pair seemed to spot him. There was an abrupt exchange of hand gestures that indicated a hurried end to the conversation, and then the hooded figure was gone, disappeared into the snow and shadow.
Anchor stood where he was, waiting. Aize approached him, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. "What are you doing here?" She asked.
"Walking back from the tavern," Anchor said slowly. "What are you doing? Who was that?"
"Just another student," Aize answered, her gaze darting away to the flickering torches.
"Who?"
"No one you would know." She finally looked back at him and tried to give him one of her plastic smiles, but it looked even more forced than normal. "Can we go in? Conditions out here are nearing hypothermic."
They walked into the priory together, but Aize didn't seem to be in the mood for any more conversation. She said goodnight and immediately took the stairs to the girls' dorm rooms. Anchor was left in the lobby with his unanswered questions and an unsettled feeling in his gut.