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“You started it,” I point out. “You were fighting with that demon because he wouldn’t give you any of his food.”
“I’ve always liked food,” he defends himself, but there’s a smirk of amusement in his eyes. He knows that his argument is utterly ridiculous, and just does not care. Drir’gen takes little stock in the rules of society, and he’s always had more of a ‘make me’ attitude. It’s one of the many reasons we get along so well.
“He had no idea who he was arguing with,” I chuckle. “You were sitting down when he told you to get lost. Remember when you stood up and he realized just how big you are?”
“Do you remember the look in his eyes?” Drir’gen hoots, taking another swig from the bottle in front of him. He looks around the parlor, and then seems to remember we are alone.
He leans forward animatedly, his voice vibrating with humor. “I think he wanted to cry!”
“Against a hulking beast like you, most would,” I praise him with a grin. I down a drink of my own, enjoying the bitter taste as it slides coolly down my throat.
Drir’gen returns the smile, sitting back in his chair. “But not you,” he points out.
Something swells in my chest at the praise, though I do my best not to show it. It would be unbecoming to simper, so I conceal my reaction.
Drir’gen has always been one of the unforgiving, remorseless, and hardened demons that I know, and I’ve aspired to emulate his severe nature. To hear him acknowledge that he considers me on his level is a high reward.
“Of course not,” I agree easily. “I’d fight you any time, anywhere. But we’ve already done that once tonight. Now it’s time to drink.”
I lift my bottle, tipping it in his direction. He does the same, and we clink together in a sloppy toast. Then we both take another hearty swallow, tipping the bottles back as the meager liquid left drains into our mouths.
I swirl my bottle around, verifying that it is, indeed, empty. There’s a pleasant haziness that fills my senses now, but I’m not ready to be done for the night. “Time for another?” I belt out, already getting to my feet.
Drir’gen jumps to his feet. Even with the alcohol, he always stays sharp. I don’t think there’s any amount of liquor that can quiet the keen warrior inside of him.
I, on the other hand, sometimes suspect that I drink for just that purpose. It dulls the voices inside of me that always cry out for blood, something that Drir’gen never seems to get tired of. I enjoy the relaxation that comes from it, when everything inside of me settles.
I suppose that’s why, deep down, I know I’ll never be quite as ferocious as Drir’gen manages to be. He exudes it naturally, without ever trying. I have my moments where, in a fit, I could destroy anything that stands in my way, but it never seems to be something I maintain as effortlessly as Drir’gen.
He claps his hands, as if calling a servant. “Yes, fetch me another, lad. While you’re doing that, I’m off to raid the pantry. What kind of terrible host doesn’t offer their guest food?”
Turning around as I move through the doorway, I throw the empty bottle at him. He ducks, laughing, as it smashes against the wall. I laugh, too, humored by the sound of the shattering glass. I’ll clean it up later, if I feel like it.
I make my way into the kitchen, selecting a new bottle to replenish us. Then I grab a couple extra, just so that I don’t have to make the trip again. It suddenly sounds like a lot of work.
I set the bottles down on a table for now, looking around for a snack to tide my friend over. Though his comment was made in jest, there’s a degree of truth behind it. He has always required a lot of food to maintain his hulking frame.
The rumor, ever since we were children, was that he was actually part gilak demon. Even though he’s officially recognized as a volvath, like me, it didn’t stop the stories from spreading. It’s understandable, as he resembles a gilak closer than anything.
He’s nearly 8 feet tall, and a wall of solid muscle. His wings are small and unfit for flying, but that’s probably a meaningless point anyway. With a body as massive as his, almost any wings would be unfit for him to fly with. He’s simply too heavy.
It’s worked out for him, however. He can fight in the arena with the best of them and take down a gilak with no trouble. Something that most volvaths could only dream of.
Because of the way he stands out as unusual, the whispers have always been that his mother was terribly tenacious. She managed, through many efforts, to bed a gilak, and that is how Drir’gen came out as he did.
I have no idea if it is true or not, as Drir’gen has never commented on the matter. I know that he is aware of the talk, but he does not respond. I’d never dare to ask, so I suppose the rumors will always be circling around in the current of conversation.
Looking around for a suitable snack, I finally claim several pieces of dried meat. Juggling everything as I retrieve the bottles, I carry the load carefully back into the parlor.
In the doorway, I pause and look around, wondering where Drir’gen has gone. I thought he was kidding about raiding the pantry, but perhaps he meant it.
Drir’gen has always been the type to help himself to anything he wants, and not just because we are friends. He would take anything from anyone if he felt it worthwhile.
It is of no consequence to me – I am happy to share with my friend. When he returns, he’ll have his choice of food. I begin to unburden myself, setting each bottle down on the table as I wait for him to return with his snacks.
But then something catches my eye. I straighten up, turning to face the now-cracked dungeon door. It’s barely open – just the tiniest little sliver, but still enough to tell me that something is amiss.
Confusion fills me as I try to piece the scene together. She couldn’t have tried to sneak out again, could she? That door was closed just a moment ago, wasn’t it?
