The Great Pandemonium: Nobilitas Obligat

Part I. Drystan the Bastard

Part I. Drystan the Bastard

It was like a stag party where every man in the tavern was marrying the same woman.

Only it was not as much a marriage as it was a swearing in. And the Rectory was founded and run by men, not a woman. And it was in a tavern, not a brothel. So all things considered, it really was just joyous drunken revelry the day before all of them were going to have to forswear bawdy gatherings like the one they were at, along with whatever else the Verses of Redemption dictated would lead them straight to Inferno.

But for his last night as a man able to sin with impunity, Drystan had to say things were going splendidly well. Or at least the things he could remember doing. Which were all of drinking and singing. There had been a pretty bar maid earlier, but she had threatened to stab one of his more handsy compatriots through the eye with a fork and the tavern master had let her go home for the night. She had seemed the type to actually be able to do it, too, so her absence was a good thing.

Drystan peered down into his empty tankard and signaled for his fifth refill. Or his sixth? After tankard number two they all sort of blurred together. All he was sure of was that the beer was not swill and he was not the one picking up the tab. The tall, dark, and handsome man beside him was... mostly because Drystan kept his coinpurse sewn inside his trousers to ward off thieves. His reaching for money disturbed his friend so deeply that he would rather pay for their drinks than watch his inebriated comrade stuff his hands down his pants in search of the proper coin. For having literally been raised in a forest without any of the trappings of modern civilization, the man had some very odd sensibilities regarding modesty.

His friend noticed his forlorn glance into his tankard and frowned. Reaching into his pocket he tossed another coin to the tavern master as he refilled Drystan's mug.

“How can you drink so much and still be sitting upright?” Tiernan groused. “Where did you learn to drink so much in the first place? You're the one who grew up in a Rectory, for Junan's sake.”

Drystan threw his hands in the air with a booming laugh. “The question is not where or how I learned to drink, it should be why in His name haven't you finished your first one!”

He said the words more out of jest than actually wanting to find out the answer. Drystan in fact knew the answer: Tiernan's ability to drink any man under the table was legendary in Whiteshire—and so was his lengthy recovery time. It literally took days for the man to recuperate from any sort of binge, alcoholic or otherwise, and for the first twelve hours after waking from a drinking binge he usually threw up and shit out whatever was left between his neck and knees. It was not a very becoming sight, and his mood was just as foul and lasted three times as long.

“You know they ring bells during the Affirmations. Your head is going to crack like Mount Kaliptrys and I am going to have to spend the entire time propping you up so the seneschal doesn't hang you up by your toes.”

Grinning stupidly, he slung his arm around Tiernan's shoulders and hung there like a human shawl. “Come on, grousey-puss! Loosen up and sing with me at least! I actually know some of these ones!”

With a wrinkle-nosed scowl he picked his friend's arm off his shoulders as though it were a dirty sock and smelled just as foul. “No.”

With a shrug Drystan went back to sipping at his ale. “Suit yourself. You're too serious for your own good, Tier. You're going to turn into Captain Inquisitor Marlen before you know it: old, grouchy, and unwillingly celibate.”