DSMP AU Oneshots (angst and comfort)

Goddess of Death -- Part Two (Medieval SBI + others)

TW: Alcohol/being drunk, nothing much else tbh

Third-person POV: Phil's

Word Count: 1504

Philza didn't manage to get any sleep until it neared midnight. Instead, he had been all but held prisoner by the owner of the tavern - Mr. H. Bomb - as a source of entertainment. The townspeople were beside themselves with joy and hung off of every dramatised retelling of both their favourite old adventure stories, and a couple of newer ones. Every time one tale finished, he was handed at least two or three mugs of ale toasting to his health. He tried denying them at first, or at least taking a sip and pushing it aside, but as the hours ticked on, he caved for the only thing to help his drying mouth and depleting energy and continue making the folks happy.

Soon enough it was all over, and the last person bid him good night and stumbled out the tavern door. As for Philza, he fell asleep right there on a stool in the bar, all but forgetting he had even paid for a room a few feet upstairs. But even if he had remembered, he sure as hell would not have been able to make it up there in the first place.

-------

It was the roar of laughter that woke him up the next morning, followed by a thunderous slap on the back. Phil jolted awake, his wings flapping like mad to keep him from falling off the stool.

"Ea'sy th're, Mr Mine'cr'ft," a slurred voice chuckled, sounding much further away than for someone who had touched him. "Calm it down, i's'only me."

Blinking back the sleep from his puffy eyes, Phil turned to greet the voice. Dry was his mouth, partnered with a terrible headache splitting his brain in half like a pickaxe to a boulder. He clutched his skull in an attempt to fuse the pieces back together.

The person before him had the most well-kempt mutton chops and moustache combination he had ever seen on a person. His shoulders were rolled back confidently, and his stomach poked out warily from the middle of his sheepskin jacket. The top of his hair was oiled and slicked back, almost matching the bold and cunning grin plastered to his face. Philza almost expected to find a mug of something glued to his hand like it had been the night before as he watched from the audience - one of the main culprits getting him drunk. But instead, he held a hunk of bread in either hand, seemingly ready to pass one over to the hybrid.

"Never seen you drink as much as you did last night. Them hangovers can be quite nasty, aye?" the man said casually with a belch, seemingly otherwise unaffected by the alcohol himself.

"Mm," Phil mumbled slowly, finding it difficult to get his words together, "you could say that again, Schlatt."

"Oh, lord I could! Guess as time rolled on, I ended up with less and less of those. Now nothing can defeat good ol' Mayor Schlatt!" Crumbs from the two chunks of bread rained down on the scuffed, wooden floor as he threw his arms in the air in a celebratory manner. Phil had always thought that for a mayor, he was the most laid-back and down-with-the-people type of man he had ever known to take the position - especially in comparison to decades of mayors he had come across throughout his adventures. Not that he was complaining though, but it always felt odd being somewhat close with the guy.

"Ah, here, you'll be needing this, my friend." The bread thudded heavily on the bench of the bar like a brick. Phil mentally refused the thought of having anything more to drink to soften to stone-like food, so he resorted to gorging out the soft bits in the center with his fingers - choking slightly as it stuck to his parched throat on the way down.

Schlatt made a bit of a sound to get the hybrid's attention, which was met by a hum on Phil's end - too preoccupied with eating. "So, uh, I'm not really here for a local chit-chat with ya, Phil, no matter how nice that'll be..."