Roguish Heart [South Park - Staig (Stan x Craig)]

Chapter Three: Confession

Sir Stanley walked swiftly, but cautiously, down the narrow dirt roads of the slums. He knew he shouldn't be so classist about it—he hadn't been born into wealth or royalty either—but the slums were not just home to the poorest people of the Kingdom. Some of the most despicable souls the Kingdom had to offer called the slums their home. One wrong move, one wrong glance, and he could be against a wall at knifepoint unloading the contents of his pockets. He pulled down on the hood of the cloak he'd chosen to wear. Better that no one be able to see his face and recognize who he was. He was here with a purpose. He had to find Craig. He had to get his hands on him. So that he could get the magic crown back. Yes. Not for any nefarious purposes or anything. Simply to complete his King's mission. For business, not for pleasure.

He had left his longsword in the barracks, choosing instead to bring his short sword. He had tied the bottom of the scabbard to his leg in order to keep it better disguised under the cloak, but it had caused him to have to walk with a bit of a limp. He felt silly, but looked the part of someone who would be frequenting the establishment at which he found himself.

The Inn of the Giggling Donkey. A place known across the land for its rowdiness. Stan knew that Craig frequented the Inn, especially the bar on the first floor. He took a deep breath and opened the large oak door.

As Stan walked through the door and up to the bar, no one stopped their loud merriment to look at him. He let out the breath he had taken in, glad that he had not been met with trouble as soon as he had entered. He placed his elbows on the bar and leaned forward to get the bartender's attention.

"Excuse m- ....uh...hey Barkeep!" he yelled, despite it being barely audible over the ruckus behind him.

A cloud of smoke was lingering around the short blond man's head. He turned to look over his shoulder at Stan, his cigarette hanging precariously between his lips.

"Yeah? Whattaya want?" Stan noticed the small muscles around the man's right eye kept twitching.

"I, uh...give me a, uh...whiskey," Stan fumbled. He didn't want to speak as he normally did around these common folk and let his status slide, but instead he just came off awkward and suspicious.

"No problem. Coming right up."

The bartender grabbed a glass and bottle off the shelf, placing them on the bar in front of Stan. His eyes bore into Stan's hooded face as he sloppily poured the brown liquid. It made Stan uneasy.

"Here," he added, pushing the glass toward Stan. "That'll be five silver."

"Five silver?! That's preposterous!"

The barkeep's eye narrowed. He plucked his nearly-finished cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out on the bar, mere millimeters from Stan's fingers. Stan could feel the burning heat on his skin. The man lowered his head to look directly at Stan's shadowed face.

"Do you have a problem with my pricing, stranger?"

Stan did his best not to shudder. Upon getting a good look at the blond man's rather intense eyes, Stan got the feeling that this man had killed before, and was quite capable of doing it again. He made a mental note to never fuck with him.

"Nope. No problem at all."

He reached into his cloak to pull out his leather pouch, depositing ten silver coins onto the bar. He hoped the generous tip would help smooth over the uneasy interaction. It worked.

"Thank you very much, stranger," he smiled, scooping up the coins and placing them in his apron pocket. "Where you—ngh—from anyway? I don't believe I've ever seen you around here before." He lit up another cigarette and took a long drag. "The name's Tweek, by the way."