Chapter 280 - 278: Wasted.

Chapter 280: Chapter 278: Wasted.

Rude and jaunty songs are the call to arms of the drunk and merry, and two of the bards launch into the duet with gusto; one singing as the chatty hawk and the other calling back as the grumpy frog, and anyone in the tavern with a drop of alcohol in their blood can’t help but stamp along in time and beat upon the tables and belt their lungs out until their throats hurt.

It’s horrifically loud, horrifically out of tune, and it’s easily the second best rendition Rogard has ever heard.

​Binny always did it better.

It was his song, after all.

​(Vogrid always pretended to hate it, but Rogard knows better.)

​And by the time he’s finished singing along, Rogard is grinning like an absolute idiot and well and truly drunk .

As are they all, really.

​He probably shouldn’t have another.

He’s going to feel really bad in the morning if he does.

​But when Loac hooks him around the shoulders like old times looking equally a mess, and tells him he that he owes him one for dragging him into a fucking dance, of all things, well Rogard can think of nothing better than to head back up to the bar and order another round.

​For the tavern, too.

Because Loac did it earlier, and he won’t have him making him look bad.

​It’s his father’s gold anyways. And if he knew Rogard was blowing it on commoners, it would make him absolutely furious.

​They meet Montrel halfway, and from how he has to prop himself up on the edge of the bar lest he fall flat on his ass, he’s in for just a terrible of a morning as Rogard is.

Worse, probably.

The barkeep seems in half a mind to cut them off for the night, but gold is gold and they’re not making trouble, so he keeps such thoughts to himself.

​He does, however, offer them some rooms for the night –for when they do decide that enough is truly enough.

On the house, too, on account of how extravagantly they’ve spent up in his establishment.

Rooms which, after considering the level of intoxication of their band and the thick howling of the wind outside, they decide to graciously accept.

There’s enough to go around, and while Rogard makes a very compelling argument for how it doesn’t really seem like Khobi is gonna need his own room at all , Montrel makes sure to nab a key for him anyways.

...

Khobi can only laugh.

​Rogard is absolutely fucked, and from the way Loac’s practically staggering under his weight as he tries to manoeuvre the pair of them back to the table without spilling their drinks, he must be heavier than he looks.

​"You gonna help?" Loac complains, arms full of ale and most of Rogard.

Khobi probably could have taken something off his hands, but it feels way funnier to give him a helpless grin and shake his head.

​"Nope."

​Loac gives him a withering look, then with a huff, promptly lets Rogard spill into Khobi’s lap.

The wind goes crashing out of him as Rogard crashes into him like dead weight and his eardrums take a beating from the way Rogard wailing that infernal nickname he loves to call him by as he realises who’s just saved him from falling on the floor.

​Okay, so he probably deserved that, and the snort Loac makes as he drops down into the seat on Rogard’s other side confirms that yeah, he did.

But he nudges a drink across the table to Khobi, all the same.

​(Khobi’s already got one coming, but he finds himself reaching for this one anyway.)

​To say that he had been surprised when Loac hadn’t kicked Rogard flat on his ass for dragging him onto a dancefloor would be putting it lightly.

That Loac apparently knew said dance? Equally outrageous.

​And the fact that he made it look good?

​Unfair.

​Totally, completely unfair.

​The worst part was it wasn’t even the dance itself. In fact, at first he and Rogard had looked kind of ridiculous out there, awkwardly towering over the young women who had clearly been the ones to bribe the bards for such a song, and Khobi had found himself watching with the intent of making fun of him for it later.

But Rogard’s enthusiasm was nothing if not infectious, and by the end he hadn’t been able to look away for an entirely different reason.

​Because the Loac he’d seen out there, grinning like an idiot and ruffling Rogard’s hair like this is something they’ve been doing every day of their lives isn’t exactly the Loac he knows.

​The Loac he knows doesn’t smile like this; so soft and wide and so thoughtlessly.

And when Rogard had slipped in horrendously comical fashion and he’d had to catch him, the way he’d laughed; so long and loud and with his whole body had made Khobi think not of drums and fires at midnight, but of a bright sky on a summer day, and bells.

...

The hour grows late. Outside, the snow’s gotten thick and the wind’s gotten fierce, but inside the tavern the air is still and hazy and slow.

Gone to bed is the ruckus from the hours past, and as the hearths burn low and those who remain lose the battle against the alcohol taking their inhibitions and their limbs, the bards who have been warring all night, now strike up together; something soft and low and made for dreaming.

​Slumped down in his chair; legs stretched out and his body feeling pleasantly warm and just the right amount of loose, Khobi hums along.

​He is feeling good.

​Even better, the smith gives him his room number.

​"Maybe I’ll see you later," he says, and if that wasn’t an invitation, the wink he sends him as he takes his leave most certainly is.

There’s no denying that it sparks a pang of interest in the pit of Khobi’s belly, and yet, even as Khobi cranes his neck intending to watch him go, he finds his gaze suddenly preoccupied with something else.

​Or rather, someone else.