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The BloodVaine EpicChapter 102: Getting Drunk
Sir Jayko Falconensis couldn’t have been happier to reach the Allied camp. Finally, there were people other than those filthy Dragon Masters, and those megabloks Classics hanging on that shifty-brick Bernard Quorandis.
The fact was that Jayko felt lonely and out of place. Once the army had been narrowed down to the Classics and the Dragon Masters, there suddenly seemed to be no more room for a more diverse group. And with Elwen hanging off Quorandis’ arm half the time, Jayko felt very much alone.
It didn’t help that the Eastern Knight’s Kingdomer deeply disliked both Quorandis and Targon. He knew that both coveted Elwen, and as Elwen’s self-proclaimed defender and wannabe-lover, he resented that strongly. He resented them even more because he could do nothing about it. Both had armies at their backs.
He especially resented Quorandis. The Cavalier had it all: power, armies, good looks, great manners, an impeccable pedigree, superb fighting skills. And although Jayko knew that Quorandis was an evil man who would use Elwen just for his own amusement, there was no one else who would believe him. It was so unfair.
And then Quorandis goes an wins a battle against impossible odds, and gains valuable allies at the same time. Was there anything the man couldn’t do?
It was in a state of utter dejection therefore, that Jayko entered the Allied camp that evening. It was only slightly alleviated by accidentally stumbling over the Eastern Knight's Kingdom’s small portion of the camp in his search for an alcoholic drink. Of course, they recognized him immediately as a lord of their own faction, a fact made obvious by the distinctive tinted armor he wore.
However, since a fair number of them were Talonjain, he was quickly escorted to the drinks he was looking for. And he quickly proceeded to drink himself into a stupor, justifying the fact that he would be unable to help Elwen should the need arise by the fact that she was in the company of that gigantic knight she knew. Sir Tractor or something…
He was soon drunk, and not long after, unconscious.
Green Fox was sitting on a log outside the infirmary tent. He had been sitting there for at least an hour, taking in the day’s events.
“So...happy endings all round, then. But what do I do...I could go to the coast...buy a boat...maybe start a family...if J’anrya doesn’t stick with Bjarn…”
He staggered over to where, unbeknownst to him, Jack’s little pebble army stood. There was an empty whisky bottle. He followed a little trail of them until he came to a dilapidated cart behind the reeds. The horse appeared to be gone. Upon further inspection, it was loaded with bottles. Green Fox took one and read the label.
Rye Whisky
1947 vintage
He thought, Weeeeeeeellll, it is cause for a celebration, after all...
He grabbed a bottle in each hand and stuffed considerably more in his trousers and jacket. Finding a small clearing among a group of trees, he dug a hole and buried them, all but two.
Just in case he thought.
He limped towards the infirmary and sat back down on his log. Jack walked over, carefully carrying a burlap sack. Green Fox swore he could hear whispering coming from inside. Jack spoke, “You’ve been here a while. Still anxious about Bjarn?”
Green Fox was.
“No... He’ll get better anyway. What’s he done to me to make me care?”
He took a swig from one of the bottles. Jack leaned in closer.
“That the ‘47 vintage?”
“How would you know?”
Jack hesitated. “I’ve...tried it before.”
He walked off. Green Fox picked up his two bottles and walked into the tent. It was empty save for Bjarn. Green Fox took off his very battered hat and pulled a stool beside Bjarn’s tent.
“Uh...hello.”
He was quite lost for words. He gazed down to Bjarn’s mess of a hand and shuddered.
“Uhhhhh.....get well soon. Bye.”
Green Fox stumbled toward the entrance and promptly tripped over the cord holding the flap open. He fell like a log and the two bottles slipped out his pockets, rolling across the floor and halting with a clink beside Bjarn’s bed. With a loud oath, Green Fox righted himself with difficulty and exited to find more drink. He winced just thinking about it. Limping down to his secret stash, he dug up the whisky and helped himself to a bottle. Or two. Or three. After the sixth one he lost count. Very drunk, he staggered over somewhere. Or maybe somewhere else. Everything just looked blurry. He sang a little tune, tunelessly, that summed up the recent events.
“I AM THAILING...I AM THAILINNNNNNNNNNNNN’…‘OME AGAIN...‘CROSS THE SEAAAAAAAA…I AM THAILIN...THTORMY WATERSH...TAE BE NEAR YE...TAE BE…”
He bumped into a blurry figure. It was J’anrya.
"Hello...Ye lookshhh bootefull ‘s’evenin…”
She shouted, “DRUNKARD!” and slapped him on the face.
Bjarn shifted slightly and blinked. Pain lanced through him, and he needed relief.
Where was Shainya with those medicines?? he thought angrily.
He shifted again and stared long and hard at the two corked bottles laying just within reach. After several agonizing failed attempts Bjarn was just able to snag a bottle with his left hand. He bit into the cork and yanked it out, spitting it away from him. He wouldn’t need it again. Perhaps a whole bottle would dull the pain. He had nearly drained the first bottle when a figure blocked the doorway.
“Bjarn, you...!”
J’anrya exploded into the room, snarling, “Drunk drunk drunk, that’s what everyone is! Jack, you, that son of a tyco Marcus!”
“So...?” Bjarn murmured. He was not drunk, his senses still functioned perfectly. The pain was as evident as ever.
J’anrya wavered, then snapped, “Gimme that!”
For a second Bjarn thought she was going to take away his bottle, but instead she lunged for the second bottle on the floor and began to swing it lustily.
“Everyone’s getting drunk, so I should to!” she snapped, “I deserve to anyway, all the shifty-brick best-lock hell I’ve been through thanks to...!”
“J’anrya…”
Her name brought her rambling to a halt.
“What?” she snapped.
“How did...you get here?”
“Marcus.” she said simply, “Or Green Fox, his fantasy, the name that made him sound like he was someone!”
Bjarn waited. At last J’anrya continued.
“You’ve never been through the hell I’ve been through...I’ve been accused of thievery, been locked up in a tyco Wolfpack cell for a dozen years, was nearly killed when I was abandoned during the Wildfire, and now I have to deal with you and Marcus and Jack and Voolmark ALL OVER AGAIN!”
She drained the bottle and threw it against the tent wall. It did not shatter, instead it simply slid down the canvas and thunked to the earth.
“You were not the only one who suffered.” said Bjarn quietly, “My life was shattered, then Jack disappeared, I was excommunicated from the Forestmen, I hijacked ships, I killed many men...we all go though our own personal hells.”
There was no more to be said. After a ten minutes that lasted an eternity, J’anrya said, “We can’t...go back to...like it was all those years ago...we’ve change too much - all of us have changed too much.”
“I know.” replied Bjarn, “I know.”
J’anrya stood up to leave. At the door she turned and asked, “Will you ever forgive Green Fox?”
Bjarn was quiet. “I think I could...perhaps. He has suffered much too.”
Pause.
“Will you...go back to him?” Pain echoed through Bjarn’s voice.
“No.” said J’anrya, “I will hurt you if I pair with him, and I will hurt him if I pair with you. I would hurt both of you if I paired with someone else, and you and Marcus would hurt me if you two paired with others. In other words, all three of us has cursed ourselves to celibacy.”
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