AN: Since today is the last Wednesday of September, today is the last day that I'll be posting twice a week. From now on, this will go back to just being uploaded Saturday mornings (UK), the only exception being character death/tragedy weeks when I'll upload twice just so there's something a bit lighter to read later that week for those who don't enjoy character deaths.

Thank you all so much for your interaction so far! This is already my most viewed piece and I hope you continue to read it going forward! Again, if you have any ideas or suggestions on what you'd like me to write, don't hesitate to let me know! Though it might be a while before you see it since I currently have 14 chapter backlog...

Enjoy!

The guys challenge each other to a drinking contest with a surprising outcome... Loosely based on the four mens' tavern dialogue and set after all four of their stories are finished - only really spoilers for Alfyn's and Olberic's chapter 4s though.

Guys Night Out

As the sun set on the long week they'd spent in Orewell, Olberic, Cyrus, Therion and Alfyn made their way to the tavern. During the course of their travels, they'd all promised Alfyn a flagon on them at one point or another and what better time for him to cash in those drinks than right now? With Ogen out of the metaphorical woods and his own sense of purpose restored after finding out the fate of the man who'd saved his life, Alfyn felt that celebrations with new found friends were in order.

So, he called up all their offers for drinks and took them to the tavern, intending to turn their offers and celebrations into a competition that would decide – once and for all – who could hold their spirits the best.

Cyrus was apprehensive to say the least. As a scholar, he needed his wits about him more than he needed a cold glass of ale. However, that wasn't to say that his tolerance was low. In fact, over the course of his three decades, Cyrus had sampled most of the spirits in Orsterra at least once, most twice. He called it his scholarly duty to try everything he could while he walked this realm, though in truth he was slowly building up his tolerance for when Odette inevitably took him out drinking again – no one wanted a repeat of that embarrassing incident.

While Cyrus was confident that he could hold his own for a fair while, he was sure he'd be out drunk by the other men. Therion would know his limits the best of any of them; he wouldn't much of a thief if he couldn't hold his liquor. Olberic – big warrior that he was – would likely outlast them all, though Cyrus couldn't be sure he'd ever actually seen the man drink during their travels. And then there was Alfyn, truly the wildcard of the bunch. Despite being the youngest of the men, Cyrus had seen him drink like a hardened drunkard on more than one occasion – perhaps he'd be the one to beat them all like he assumed he would.

"Alright, gentlemen!" The apothecary called them to attention as they sat down at a table. "Since y'all owe me a round, how's 'bout we do the next four as rounds of our favourites?"

"A solid plan, my medicinal friend," Olberic replied, already pumped and eager to win.

"Next four?" Therion asked, picking up on the same inconsistency in his statement that Cyrus had. "What are we starting with?"

"A shot of their strongest." Alfyn answered as the barkeep brought them four shots – Cyrus stared at them in surprise and confusion, when had the blond ordered them?

"Standard rules, I assume?" Olberic asked as he took his glass.

"Yep!" Alfyn took his own with a larger than life grin. "Last one under the table wins!"

"And by that logic," Cyrus took his own glass, looking at it in interest, "the first one under the table loses, correct?"

"No need to say the same thing twice, Professor." Therion took his drink. "No one needs to feel like we can't enjoy this game in silence."

"Well then," Alfyn held up his shot, waiting for the other men to do the same. "Let the games begin!"

They clinked rims before flicking back the spirit. Cyrus scrunched his face up in mild disgust.

"Barkeep! A round of mead for the table!" Alfyn ordered as soon as his glass hit wood. The competition had begun.

"If it's all the same with you, gentlemen," Cyrus said as the flagons arrived. "I think I'd rather drink at my own pace."

"Not a problem, Cyrus," Olberic said in reply, flagon already in his fist. "As long as you are drinking the same amount, pace matters not!"

"Very well then." Cyrus pulled a book from his cloak as he took up his own flagon. "Let the second round begin."

They clinked flagon rims and set to work on their mead. Olberic and Alfyn sat chatting amicably after their first swig while Cyrus turned his own attention to his tome and understanding the mysteries within. Therion drank in silence, looking from the two men to the scholar in interest as he tried to decide who would be the best to side himself with.

"… Do you often drink and read, Cyrus?" Therion asked the scholar after a few moments.

"No, only on occasion. But it is a good way to keep your mind agile as it wishes to go to sleep."

Therion raised his visible eyebrow before laughing into his flagon. "There's a chance you might beat all of us, you know."

"Oh, I doubt that," Cyrus looked up from his tome. "My competition is a master thief, one of the former blades of Hornburg and an apothecary who loves his mead as much as his tonics. I doubt I last longer than any one of you."

"Thats quitter's talk, Professor!" Alfyn announced, banging his almost empty flagon on the table. "If you're so sure, why don'tcha order the next round?"

The scholar shrugged. "If you insist." He called to the bartender. "A round of beer next, my good man!"

"Beer?" Olberic asked in surprise. "I would not have thought you a fan of such, Cyrus."

"In truth, I only like certain kinds," they finished their flagons and pushed them to the side as the tankards of beer arrived. "The one they brew here in the Clifflands is rather delightful."

"I've found that myself," Therion muttered into his tankard as they started their third drink. Soon, Cyrus suspected, weak men would start to fall.

"How many different places have you drank, Therion?" Alfyn asked as Cyrus turned his attention back to his tome.

"Just about every tavern here in Orsterra." The thief answered. "Though I often drink in silence to hear the rumours."

"And what has been your favourite drink, my good thief?" Olberic asked, a little loud already.

"Keep my profession a little quieter, would you?" Therion hissed, eyes darting around the steadily filling tavern. He was already starting to look a little red in the face.

"Sorry." Alfyn apologised for the warrior. "But what is your poison, Therion?"

"…Ale. Strong and cold from the Dark Wood."

"A round of your finest ale, Sir!" Olberic called to the keeper for the thief as he finished his tankard. Cyrus looked down at his half empty tankard in dismay; there was no way he could keep pace with these men.

"How's the ale, friend?" Olberic asked as soon as their drinks hit the table.

Instead of snapping something witty about not having tried it yet in reply, Therion took his ale and drank heartily. "Far from the worst, but it's no Dark Wood brew."

"I feel the same about wine," Olberic nodded in reply. "Not yet have I found a wine half as good as those we used to brew in Hornburg."

"Really?" Alfyn asked. Though also a little red in the face, Alfyn appeared to be the most sober of the three men. Cyrus himself was still finishing his beer, though he felt no different now than he had almost three drinks ago.

"Truely." Olberic nodded. "Once, when I was still young, Erhardt challenged me to a competition much like this. We drank ourselves to insanity on our Hornburgian wine."

Olberic started laughing, Alfyn joining in after but a moment. "Barkeep! A round of your oldest wine!"

"Make it four bottles of your finest, good sir!" Olberic changed their order between giggles. "On me!"

Therion looked down at his ale in despair. "I think I may be beat…"

"A smart thief knows his limits." Cyrus muttered to the young man as the scholar took up his ale for the first sip.

"But a competitive thief keeps drinking." Therion flicked the rest of his ale down as their bottles arrived. "I'm in this to win, not to keep my wits about me."

"As you wish." Cyrus watched him uncork the wine in interest; a competitive Therion was a rare sight, and far from a pretty one.

And so it came to pass, at the half a bottle of wine mark, that Therion fell out of the competition.

"Are you alright there, Therion?" Cyrus asked, looking up from his tome as he started to notice the man swaying on his seat. He'd only just uncorked his bottle, letting it breathe while the rest of them were halfway through theirs.

"I'ma gonna…" Therion slurred, looking at the Professor in confusion. "I'ma gonna beat chu all…"

"You sure 'bout that, buddy?" Alfyn asked, face flushed and smile larger than Cyrus had ever seen it. Olberic laughed – he'd been laughing like that for a while now.

"I'ma… I'ma…" Therion knocked his wine bottle over as his head hit the table; snoring as soon as his head hit wood.

"Good Gods." Cyrus muttered in surprise as Alfyn checked him over and Olberic picked the spilt bottle up – laughing the whole while.

"He's fine!" Alfyn declared, clinking his wine with Olberic's as he joined the warrior's laughter.

"The competition claims it's loser!" Olberic roared – Cyrus suspected Erhardt could hear him in Wellspring. "Who's next?!"

And so the competition continued, Cyrus watching the two other men with growing interest. Despite being only half a bottle of wine behind them, he was almost as sober as he'd been when he started. He knew himself well enough to know that he was a little merrier than usual, the smile on his face lasting a little longer than it should've and an unusual flush to his pale cheeks. And yet, he was nothing compared to the other men.

Olberic had been laughing for far too long now – apparently he was a loud, giggly drunk – and Alfyn was looking more and more tired by the second. It was too close to call between the two men, and yet it appeared Therion had been right.

It appeared that Cyrus was going to fall beneath the table last.

"How peculiar…" He muttered into his bottle of wine as the two other men finished theirs.

"I cans go all nite, Old-Oldberic!" Alfyn slurred, eyes groggy.

"As can I, lad!" Olberic shouted, laughing as soon as he'd said his piece.

"Barkeepsh-!" Alfyn hiccupped. "A rounds of yer…"

"Alfyn?" Cyrus called to the man as he trailed off, concerned that if he fell there'd be no one here who'd know how to patch him up.

"A rounds…" Alfyn tried again, trailing off immediately as he fell from his chair into a pile on the floor.

"Alfyn!" Cyrus called, on his feet to check the man immediately, all merriness falling to the wayside.

Therion didn't even stir.

"Quick! Where's our healer?!" Olberic shouted as soon as he realised Alfyn had fell, a few seconds after it had happened.

"He's our healer, Olberic!" Cyrus shouted back at him as he felt for the man's pulse. He was clearly still breathing and his heart was beating fine, the scholar was only worried he had a concussion.

"Oh yes." The warrior nodded in understanding before raising his voice to shout. "Where's our HEALER?!"

"He's right-" Cyrus started, exasperated, only for the man opening the tavern door to cut him off.

"I'm right here."

"Master Ogen!" Olberic shouted to him, making the old apothecary wince. "Come drink with us!"

"No, Olberic!" Cyrus shouted at him as he presented his empty wine bottle to Ogen.

"What in the hells happened here?" Ogen asked the scholar in confusion as he knelt down besides Alfyn.

"A drinking competition between lightweights." The barkeep answered throwing the whole tavern into gales of laughter – including Olberic.

"They were indeed lightweights!"

"So are you, you dunce." Cyrus said in response to Olberic who seemed to have forgotten that he had been outdrank like the other two. He looked over at the apothecary opposite him. "Will Alfyn be alright?"

"Aye." Ogen stood and brushed off his hands. "Get him to bed and a give him a hangover tonic in the morning, he'll be fine."

"Thank you, Ogen." Cyrus stood too, looking over at the sleeping Therion as he did. "Would it be impolite of me to ask you to carry Therion back to the inn for us? I fear I'll have my hands full with Alfyn."

Before Ogen could answer Olberic knelt down and picked up Alfyn, flinging him over his shoulder like was a traveling sack. "Worry not, young scholar! I shall carry our medicinal friend!"

"Olberic, no!" Cyrus shouted to the knight as Ogen started to laugh.

"I'll follow you to the inn and make sure your large friend doesn't drop Alfyn over the side of a bridge." Said Ogen with a chuckle, waiting by the door for Cyrus to pick up Therion.

Dropping a few leaves on the table as a tip, Cyrus knelt down and gently picked up Therion, fearing waking the man and making him embarrassed to see himself carried bride-style. The thief weighed little more than some of the heaviest tomes Cyrus had carried in his life, so he had no difficulty carrying the man and his tome out of the tavern, following after Olberic and Ogen.

About halfway across the bridge, Therion stirred as if he was waking only to snuggle himself closer to the scholar and drift back into a deep sleep. A little embarrassed by the interaction, Cyrus blushed to himself and carried on.

After a treacherous few minutes' walk, they arrived at the inn. With a grin, Ogen led the way to their shared quarters and helped Cyrus open the door. Olberic marched through and dropped Alfyn unceremoniously onto one of the four beds as Cyrus laid Therion down carefully on another.

"Well then!" Said Olberic suddenly, surprising both the scholar and old apothecary who were checking Therion over. They looked over at the knight quick enough to watch him collapse on top of Alfyn, snoring immediately.

"Oh dear…" Cyrus muttered as Ogen snorted, going over to check the knight as well.

"How many drinks did they have?" Asked the apothecary as he judged whether or not Olberic needed to be moved off of Alfyn.

"Therion had four and a half bottle of wine," Cyrus said, counting in his head to be sure. "And the other two the same and the full bottle of wine."

"Lightweights indeed." Ogen laughed, standing up next to the bed. "They'll all be fine, just make sure they drink a lot of water tomorrow."

"That's good to hear," Cyrus took the seat at the desk in the room, exhausted from having to keep an eye on the three others. "Thank you, Ogen."

"It's the least I can do after everything Alfyn's done for me," Ogen admitted before giving the scholar a hard look. "How much have you had to drink, er…?"

"Professor Cyrus Albright," he introduced himself, remembering that he hadn't actually done so to the apothecary before. "And the same as Therion."

"Yet you're sober as a tack?" Asked he in surprise.

"I suppose I am," Cyrus shrugged, as surprised as Ogen was that he'd been the last man standing.

He laughed, "Never underestimate a scholar, huh, Cyrus?"

"Indeed." Cyrus laughed in response.

The two chatted for a little while – Cyrus wanted to be sure the rest would be well in the morning – before Ogen eventually left, leaving orders for Cyrus to get some rest as well. After watching him leave, the scholar turned to the desk and pulled out his tome from his cloak. Looking around to make sure the rest were sleeping soundly, he also pulled out his left-over wine.

"I believe I win." Cyrus smiled to himself as he uncorked his bottle and lit the candle, settling in for a night of study much the same as any other. Only this time, he did it in the knowledge that he would beat Odette at drunk trivia night next time she proposed it.