Shan: The Drunk of Perpetual Luck

A Roll of the Die

The die bounced. The gathered roared. Shan smiled.

Pandemonium reigned around the cramped table, around which the occupants of the quiet tavern jostled each other. Unlike the average evening, the tavern thrummed with life, with zest. This wasn't entirely Shan's doing. He'd treated the honest people of this sleepy town to a night of frivolity. He inflamed their emotions, freed them of their pesky inhibitions and small-minded superstitions so they could enjoy themselves – for a change. He had that effect on people, Shan reflected with pride. Years of practice went into this moment, and the moment the night before at an equally sleep tavern... and the night before that one. And well, many nights.

He stood. The pocketful of coin he'd deftly squirreled away a moment before sloshed like a full mug of beer at beginning of the night.

"Now," a booming voice cut through, or rather overpowered, the tumult, "where do you think you're going?" the speaker was the inn-keep, a hulking figure of a man who lacked several prominent teeth. He spoke as one might expect from his appearance: garbled words, as though the clipped bits lending intelligibility slipped out prematurely through the gaps in his shattered mug.

"Out," Sham slurred his speech. "I'll come back," he assured, staggering toward the door. The inn-keep hadn't moved, not yet, but it would take him but a moment to reach Shan, should he choose to do so.

The giant of a man, all too sober, evaluated the room: the prancing, lilting notes, the harmonious babble of drunken men, the clink of glasses and the slosh-marks of drink on the floor. All stared back at him as indications of a healthy dose of business and the most activity his sedate establishment had seen in years – if ever. This part of the world carried prudish attitudes toward good, honest fun around their necks like milestones. Well... good fun, he reconsidered. Shan was well-experienced in good fun; his bulging earnings from the night bespoke a less-than-honest approach, however. Sure, Shan was a lucky chap, but no one was this lucky.

"Don't – don't come back too soon!" the Keep growled in a manner meant to be warning. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

But so did Shan.

He passed by his chief rival of the night: a stiff-necked Caller called Rayane. Shan duffed his dirty cap toward the Caller on his way out. While Shan induced the villagers to sensible tavern fun, Rayane's gaggle of sober attendees dwindled. They'd come back. Always did – once sobered.

"Rayane," he tasted the word, deciding it was easier said when inebriated than sober. A word made for the drunk, not like those nasty, complicated words full of "th" and "s" sounds. The syllables were already stretched out, as though slurred. As Shan exited the rowdy building, he turned back and flipped a coin at the Caller. He looked offended at the charity but pocketed it nonetheless.

Some revered Shan. Shan: the Drunk of Perpetual Luck! He'd coined the phrase himself, when drunk, but he had heard it slurred on the lips of his admirers on several occasions since. Endowed with the luck of the gods, or some such mutterings. He didn't know, nor care, whether they revered him in a religious nature – who was really religious in Alani anyhow? It was enough to be revered.

Brisk night air ate at his in insobriety, bringing the world into focus enough for him to amble on his way. After a few moments, the air lost its chill to his skin as he adapted, soothing the warmth of the tavern and the thin sheen of sweat he'd worked up. Something hooted at Shan from a tree as he followed the lane's twisting path where his feet carried him from the dirt path and over rough ground.

Shan's feet twisted upon themselves and he spilled onto the grass into a mirthful heap. How could one not feel giddy on an evening such as this?

He scented the fragrant air on the breeze as it rustled by. This part of Alani did have a certain charm, if tragically sober by habit, but he'd fixed that for tonight. Who knows, maybe his memory would live on in the tiny village and they'd emulate him: remember the night we drank with the Drunk of Perpetual Luck? What was his name, whazzit, Shan? Shan. That was the night. Hey Keep, order me up another round – in Shan's honor.

The stars were bright overhead. High above. Sometimes, when drunk enough, Shan felt they were closer, close enough to reach up and touch them, perhaps. Just out of reach. But not tonight. Tonight, he knew the solemn truth of it: they were far beyond the grasp of Shan.

How freeing to be drunk, to forget one's worries, to see the stars as just out of reach. If you believed you could nearly reach the stars above, what else was within your grasp? Freeing. And it allowed one to forget, dulling the edges of painful memories. Shan turned to drink for these reasons. He'd been on the verge of drinking himself into oblivion, lost in a storm in the desolate mountains. Then he'd found that strange monastery – or whatever the monks there preferred to call it, convent? He shrugged with a mental sigh. His life had changed that night. He didn't understand the change, but the change existed nonetheless, so why ruin a good thing with questions?

He used to think himself lucky, but now his luck confronted him with all the certainty of a hangover after a good night's drinking in the cold of the following morning. He'd believed himself lucky, sure, but not uncommonly so, but the more he believed in his luck, the luckier he became.

"What if," he picked out a winking star, "you attract luck by thinkin you're lucky? Whatcha think, whazzit?"

In retrospect, he had always been lucky, maybe even luckier than most, but at some point, something had changed. A recent change, within the last year, he supposed. Two? But something was different. The die bounced a little friendlier; the cards appeared in the exact order he needed, often before Shan knew he needed them. He'd gotten to the point of barely thinking about how to play his hand. He played, and the cards obliged him.

His thoughts meandered along these lines for a time. Only after it was too late he noticed the patter of rain creeping toward him down the road. As he drifted off to sleep, he turned his head and watched it fall. The storm stopped a mere handful of feet from him, content to run its course without bothering him. Lucky, he thought, I collapsed where I did. Just out of the rain.