Strongjaw & The Dish

1

Grog Strongjaw, member of Vox Machina, Grand Poohbah de Doink of All of This and That, who had faced dragons, ended wannabe Gods, who had saved the world countless times... could not sleep. 

He remembered a dream of fighting this huge guy with a hammer, a fight he won quite naturally. That should have made him feel good, but there was a niggling kind of thing that made it feel uncomfortable. 

He had the feeling his friends were upset with him. Like he'd done something that let them down, but he couldn't remember doing anything to earn the looks he had caught them giving him earlier.

His room left behind him, he had left Castle Whitestone and prowled the late-night streets. Peace was elusive and two kegs in, he still felt not a mote better than he had when he'd first thrown his covers off. Something was bothering him, but when he tried to think about it, he just gave himself a headache. 

He turned back toward the castle, neither peaceful nor tired, but the walking wasn't doing him any good and he didn't want his friends thinking he'd left them like Scanlan had. Like Vax had. The thought snuck in there and he frowned, pushing it away with a little grumble.

As he approached the castle, he heard the unmistakable sound of swordplay. A little flame flared in his core and he ran toward the sound, hoping to lose himself in a fight. He rounded the wall and, to his disappointment, realized it was only a few soldiers training. 

The group of six figures in leather armor were all attacking in turns, an armored figure who was deflecting every blow, and dealing damage of their own with fists, kicks, the pommel of the sword, even the flat swung out to send one greenhorn stumbling forward nearly onto his face. All the while, the armored one stayed balanced on a chunk of wood no wider than his own bootprint.

One by one, the weary fighters fell away, their panting breath misty in the cool night air, obviously worn out. Those who had been children on the cusp when the Briarwoods were defeated but were becoming men and women now. They were old enough to remember. To have felt the most impotent. Too young to fight, too old to put it behind them. Obviously, this generation was one of the most determined that Whitestone remained free. He admired them for that, if not for their skills which were, at the moment, shit.

"That'll do for tonight." A voice firm and feminine at the same time rung out. "Wash and to your beds." The helmet removed with one hand, sweat-damp brunette hair coming loose in spots from the bun she wore it in. "Tomorrow will be here before you know it."

Trisha.

He almost called out a hearty 'Bidet!' to invite her to share a drink, maybe have a re-match of the arm wrestling match, but something stopped him. He thought back to that Winter's Crest festival. The Briarwoods defeated,  Vox Machina celebrating a job well done and basking in the adoration of the people. So ignorant of what was to come. 

In the time since he had thought of her often. Not all the time, but more than he thought of any other lady who wasn't in Vox Machina. He'd felt embarrassed when she'd beaten him in the arm wrestling. Not because she was a girl, but because afterward, he couldn't stop thinking of how her hand felt in his. How pretty her eyes were and the way her smile changed her whole face.

 He'd felt a little jealous when she'd taken Tary off with her, and the details that the man gave the morning after didn't help much with putting her out of his thoughts. Tary had been terrified, but he, himself, had spent many a lonely night tossing and turning and thinking about what Tary had only hinted. Even when he and his friends played Bunions & Flagons, where he could create a world all of his own making, she showed up, and like in his secret dreams, she wanted him to be her hero, her champion.