The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Princess - Chapter 1

 A silver coin is met with a full tankard. Empty it, and another silver fills it back up. Repeat the exchange for as long as you can stay on the stool without falling off or falling asleep. If you're lucky, the light of the early morning sun will cascade through the windows and greet you as a friend. The birds will chirp, cheering your victory. And you'll go out into the world, conqueror of the drink and master of all that is alcohol. None shall oppose you, or dare raise a hand to you, for you wear the crown of brews. You just need to provide the silver and survive the onslaught of grog.

I have never been much of a lucky man.

A heavy hand rocks me, rustling me out of my stupor. The windows are still dark. There are no birds, only fellow drunks laughing and talking at their little round tables. Remnants of something stale remain on my tongue and need to be washed out. The mug held loose in my sleepy hand only contains more of the mead from whenever I last took a sip. The hand on my shoulders shakes me again, the contents of my skull moving a second slower than the rest of me.

"Fuck's sake, get up," the all-too familiar voice groans.

Captain Hunt, though a decade younger, wears as much violence on his weathered face as I do. Things he has seen on the battlefield have dulled his once vibrant blue eyes. Some of our brothers joke that his hair once was as fair as straw, but his years of bloody conquest stained it orange forever. A near-permanent scowl has etched lines in his brow seen more commonly on a man my age. I can't imagine how deep they will run in the next ten years.

"I'll drag you to your feet if I have to," he warns.

I rouse with a groan of my own, blinking eyes working to bring Leo's Tap, the best and only tavern in Oakwing, into focus. Captain Hunt's armor, polished steel gilded at the edges of his breastplate, is blinding even in the candlelight. From the shoulders down he's covered, only his fiery crown remaining unprotected. His cape, a rich green, tickles the top of his boots. Even the pommel of his sheathed sword glistens in the low light.

For a seasoned veteran, he sure looks mighty pretty and pristine. Does he enjoy the exalted life, rubbing shoulders with Oakwing's finest? Has he grown accustomed to the leisure of sending men out into the wild to face beasts and ill-intended folk? Or does the ginger bastard miss coating his blade with the crimson innards of inferior countrymen?

"Haven't you heard it's impolite to wake a sleeping man?" The words come out sloppy, tripping over my ale-laden tongue. "I thought knights had manners."

"And I thought the reverent were meant to abstain from the vices of man," Captain Hunt shoots back.

"I didn't see that in the job description," I offer, getting to my feet. My joints wobble, threatening to take me on a trip to get a close view of the floorboards. My fingers lose the handle of the tankard but find the edge of the bartop to keep me steady. Two Captain Hunts blend into one, the blurriness of the duo sharpening at the union. It doesn't feel like my body sways, but my arm stretches and folds as I grip the wood.

"You okay?" he asks, a humored grin lighting up his otherwise grave face.

I can't tell if my nod is fast or slow; all I know is that my stomach threatens to surrender its contents in a forceful blast. My mouth stays shut to quell the coming force. But the sick rumbling calls my bluff, and my mouth gets weak and lets a ball of acidic gas escape. I would recoil in disgust at the vile, but the look of revulsion infecting Captain Hunt's face fills my heart with childish pride.

"Never been better," I answer. "What can I do for ya?"

"Get dressed. Meet me at the Sheriff's Tower in ten minutes," Captain Hunt orders.