Chapter 21: River Revellings

"Beer or wine?" ​

Looking apologetically to the priest of Flesh, you give the best interpretation you're able. "I think a few drinks would be prudent. Is there any way we could get down to the river, Cyril?"

"You sure?" The room is rapidly filling with smoke. He seems altogether too pleased by the proposition. "We'll need something for the road."

Father Wilhelm is grinning like a maniac. He's seen this before. There's a flourish as he tosses aside one of the blue sheets in the small guard tower. Beneath it is a stack of bottles, labeled with exotic and exorbitantly luxurious family names. "Beer or wine?"

Both are excellent, and halfway gone by the time you're at the exterior walls.

You were all given a ridiculous hat. Where Father Wilhelm acquired several new hats is a mystery, but you have them nonetheless.

There are so few citizens on the streets of Beorward that Father Wilhelm and Cyril have no concern for the context of their inebriated conversation.

"This is nothing. You should see the wenches I've drank under the table!" A broad gesture from the priest of Flesh is made to a district at your back.

Atticus puffs away at two cigars simultaneously. "Oh? Whereabouts?"

"The Broken Drum, of course—"

They both laugh, "it can't be beat!"

The beer is outstanding, and nearly gone by the time you get to the Morinburn River. The blue haze of the sky overhead, the cold mist from the fast moving water, and a rapidly growing camp fire is more than you could hope for. A break from Cyril's and Father Wilhelm's banter would be a blessing, but you are in too fine of a mood to complain.

It's really not a surprise from the blonde. Cyril is a priest of the material. "Corsets, Father Wilhelm?"

"Corsets."

"Better on the floor, if you ask me!"

They're laughing through rising smoke, from cinder and tinder. There are no stars, but the air is awash in a streak of blue.

You lean back, looking to the clear sky, as heated and flush as crimson as the priest's robes. The beer is perfect. It's clearly from outside of Corcaea. You've had your fill and then some, with no pain to speak of.

Remaining quiet has suited you fine through the evening, but you've had enough to listen to something less than chaste without fear of retribution. It's certainly been enough alcohol to speak candidly.

Fortunately, you have beer from outside of Corcaea! Its flavor rivals the contents of an endless flask, but you have ample supply to spare here. The gift from a demon remains out of sight, while you drink to your heart's content.

Cyril has finished no fewer than three flagons of ale, and seems to be on his second cigar. The slouch in his shoulders has persisted, and the rest of him is equally relaxed as he leans back against a nearby tree. "Heels?"

Father Wilhelm has not only maintained the feat of smoking two cigars at one. His hat has two more nightcaps on top, each one gaudier than the last. (Where he's getting the hats from escapes you, but there they are.) "Heels. You know. Not for butchers, or for riding, but—"

A gesture vaguely resembling legs is made. He enjoys painting, and the brief depiction is indecent in its attention to detail.

You avert your eyes. You are chaste, and settle your gaze on another bottle. It's mead, sweeter than the conversation, and infinitely more tempting.

"Mercy." It's incredibly hot out.

Leaning back grants you enough relief to start working at the honey-filled beverage. Your suspicions were correct. It's obscenely good.

Cyril is laughing, unaware of your struggle. "Better on the floor!"

There's a faint buzz in the back of your head. You're reminded of honeybees. The campfire is fantastic. The beer is fantastic.

"You don't know what you're missing, Father—"

The blonde can't help but laugh as he's interrupted.

Father Wilhelm is all fire. "Of course I do!"

"Oh?"

(When did he get three cigars?)

"Five sons don't make themselves!"

"Only five?" More smirking. Cyril's face is going to get stuck that way.

Mock offense mixes with the Father's invitation for more banter. "...only?"

"Father Friedrich's got nine, NINE, and more daughters than I can count."

"What about you, then?"

"Just the one." The blonde crosses his arms. "No corsets required!"

You smirk through the bottle of honeyed liquor. It's nearly empty. Your head is full of old memories, of demons and sin, and vows nearly broken.

Cyril makes a spectacle of sitting upright with perfect form, turning the slightest motion into an exercise. "What about you, Father Anscham?"

Looking directly at you, Father Wilhelm groans. "It's not going to do you any good, with all the liquor."

He could be referring to the question, your inebriation, or the sheer volume of liquid you've put back. It really doesn't matter if your tremor is more pronounced, or how full you look. "Flesh can be worssshiped in many wayshh, Father Wilhelm."

Both heads snap to you, wide-eyed and grinning.

Cyril gasps. "No."

"Richard." Your fellow church leader might actually be a little worried.

Your fellow priest of Flesh could not be more curious. "I knew you were being too quiet! Come on, you can't just say something like that—"

You murmur into the last of the mead as if it could disguise the swear, or at least keep anyone from clearly hearing you. "I would prefer to not discussh the fuckzone—"

Drama and a fake gasp escapes from the blonde. "Father Anscham. You— no. I don't believe it. What? WHAT?"

Frowning, you put back the last of the mead. Ray is more than happy to let you lean against him as you discard the empty bottle, and uncap your flask once again. "My vowsssz are unbroken, Cyril."

A discreet whisper is made to the gift from a demon. You're back to putting away a substantial amount of (decadent) beer. All thirty-two checkmarks on the bottom of your flask must be visible, while you continue to drink.

Cyril stares at you, flabbergasted. "You have to tell us."

You've already confessed this to Father Wilhelm. He may be smirking, but at least shows you enough respect to not spill any details.

The sky is spinning. The last time you were this drunk, you were in the arms of a succubus. The beer is phenomenal, you're more relaxed than you've been in weeks, and the occasional muscle spasm does nothing to deter you from talking. Wrapping an arm around Ray, you draw your knees (almost) to your chest, while firing an extremely modest look to Cyril. It says everything you need to convey, but you are a master of deflection. You can do better.

"Enouff about my demons. What of the onesss you'vve contended with?"

Cyril absolutely can't resist. "WELL! It's face was split in two. Every inch was covered in hair. A beast, each leg as wide as Father Friedrich's shoulders! A gaping, dripping maw—"

Father Wilhelm is trying to smoke a fourth cigar.

The priest of Flesh pauses, slack-jawed from the sheer amount of skill behind the feat. "Are you even listening?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Even while nodding, all six of Father Wilhelm's hats stay in place.

Standing, the blonde continues, making a terrific motion with his arms and legs. It reminds you of a monster. He spins to the side, mocking a fight. The man has perfect control over his form, despite his drama and inebriation.

With how much the world is spinning, you're all smiles.

"'O Flesh, I implore thee,' I said, fighting to save my little dew drop's life! The beast took an easy punch across my jaw! The very soil cracked underfoot from the force of our blows!" The priest cups his hands to his mouth, mocking a screech. It's restrained, quite silly, and has you all laughing. "He would have deafened a mortal man! For all of his efforts, NO frenzy would take me! I PLUNGED—" He punches with perfect form, arcing his arm up as if he was digging into a massive chest. "Straight into its heart! Its teeth and maw were destroyed!"

You murmur around a mouthful of beer, "may ahll the Gods be praissed."

Father Wilhelm beams. "Impressive, Cyril. Impressive."

"It collapsed underfoot! I stood triumphant, with the very God of the Material by my side!"

Ray is right at your side, looking to you with so much affection that you have to pat his back. He had to have missed you. Adjusting his harness, making sure he's comfortable, you murmur, "such a good boy."

Cyril wraps up the retelling, taking a number of absurd compliments and light clapping from Father Wilhelm.

You lean forward heavily, smiling as the world tilts around you. There's someone else you've really needed to speak with. "F-Father Wilhelm." Making a gesture to the pile of hats on his head, to the gold-trimmed nightcap you're wearing (it's stupid, you love it), and to Cyril's red and spotted hood, you try to articulate yourself. "Th' hatss. Sorc'ry?"

The hatter looks up, taking out three of the four cigars from his teeth so that he may speak a little more clearly. "An astute observation as always, Richard."

"Fath'r Ansccam," you correct (as well as one could hope for). Ray's ears perk up, nuzzling under your arm, likely worried by how hard you're leaning on him. "it's an aawful risk, 'sn't it?"

The nightcaps come off in full, with a sweep of the sorcerer's hand. "An experiment. It's always struck me as odd. Our ties to the arcane are tenuous at the best of times."

Cyril picks the cap off his head, scrutinizing it intensely. "It's not cursed, or anything, yeah?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sitting upright is an endeavor. Leaning harder— using the foundation of beer in you for support— you make an attempt to adjust your own cap. The gold makes it far easier to tame the few strands peeking out under the brim, and you're satisfied with the effort. "I trust Fath'r Wilhelmss completely."

"Appreciated, Father Anscham. It's fascinating, isn't it?"

Your experiences with Magic have left a lot to be desired. "Work of dem'nss."

"I could never produce a holy symbol through the work, of course. But the— a more evocative symbol seems to be easy enough!" He places his old and singed nightcap back on his head, generated out of nothing but oil paints and whimsy. "Only took a few decades of practice, but easy enough."

You and Cyril are both stunned. Granted, you have had much more experience with Magic, having befriended a conjurer of immense skill.

You are a man of temptation and frequent distractions. The desire to fish has never been greater. You channel the urge from the depths of your restraint to the flask in hand. "Water."

"Holding up alright there, Father Anscham?" Cyril is attempting to perform an increasingly complex party trick on a single foot, with a number of Father Wilhelm's hats perched on an outstretched forearm.

"I'm just fine."

In a sweep, Cyril pulls back his arm, tosses every hat into the air, then catches all of the nightcaps in a neat stack.

It's too difficult to clap politely. Father Wilhelm manages, but you're entirely preoccupied with the gift of a demon. It may be that you're too drunk for finer motor control and entertaining the priest of Flesh with you, but your interest is piqued by your mentor's dabbling in the arcane.

A few more swigs of water later, you point the flask at Father Wilhelm as politely as you can manage. "Sorshery is terribly uncommon amon'— among human men. If I may, Father Wilhelm?"

He nods. Endearment is all over his grin.

Two decades of conditioning are temporarily forgotten. The compulsion to be as presentable as possible is replaced with the taste of potent beer and demonically good mead. It feels as if there might as well be an arm draped around your shoulder. A hand gracing and tracing the crimson along your cheeks.

You stick to the water, your questions, and trying to stay as polite as possible. "What do youu make of the gif's Yech entrrusted to me?"

Cyril is trying hard to not laugh. A wiser man pelts a nightcap at his face, silencing the man in an instant.

Father Wilhelm scoots around to the side of the campfire by you and Ray. His voice drops to a murmur. He even takes the last cigar from his teeth. "Yech's Catalyst was something truly remarkable. I may have my misgivings, but it's nothing short of a miracle that you befriended such a powerful ally. Treasure what he's given to you. I doubt you'll ever find a mortal man with the same degree of skill."

It's hard to not miss the archdemon. "His skill is without compare."

"That shield of yours seems capable of withstanding any assault, Richard."

"Yess."

"I suspect the other gifts you were granted are just as spectacular."

"They ahre."

"They're far beyond my skill to study." A delighted smile looks up to the night sky. "The best I can do is attempt to interpret."

"You've been an incre'ible help. I don't know if I can ehverr—"

"You don't have to thank me. Getting you back on your feet was about more than merely doing my job, Father Anscham."

Even through the soft gold, the nonexistent edges of the world, and blurs of blue, you can see weariness resting deeply into Father Wilhelm's frame. "You've pusshed yourself harder than you rightfully sssshou'd. I's not right—"

"It has been an unbelievable privilege, and I wouldn't have traded these weeks for anything in the world."

You hold a little more tightly onto Ray, determined to still make your mentor and peer proud.

Ray rises before you can move to get on your feet. Were it not for his aid, you'd certainly have fallen over. He keeps a close watch on everyone's intoxication and weariness, while you're determined to make something of the rest of the night. "Good boy, Ray— eeasy—"

"Alright!" Cyril practically skips in place, eyeing the riverbank, and the road leading to Beorward. "We're heading back."

You are going to keep your footing, dammit. He needs to stop moving around. The entire lake must be spinning. "By ahll the Gods, Cyril—"

A light laugh comes from Father Wilhelm, who's cigar is replaced, and swiftly lit. "Where do you think you're going, then?"

The night is young, and so are you.

"Fishing."