He hadn't always been a drunk. Times were when he was the co-leader of an important adventuring party. Filch the thief, Sir Crestbrook the paladin, Applo the cleric, and Tok the wizard, these were the names of his bygone partners. But that had been several years ago, and today of that group only Kilgar the slayer still breathed the stale air here or anywhere. The others had met their deaths in a near total party kill in the Halls of Pain at the hands of the Jasmine Necromancer. Kilgar the slayer had run that foul priest through the skull with a war pick. But not before the others had been slain. He had taken the loot from the dungeon. He had taken everything he could find. For awhile he had lived well to do, but without his adventuring mates, drinking soon captured most of his resources.
He ordered another beer. Time is the essence he thought. The essence, which allowed skilled adventurers to make the grade, to secure the haul. Anything could be measured by its yard stick. Success and failure shed from it like dog hairs. Time: where would he be tomorrow, he chuckled to himself. That was the question Sir Crestbrook had posed to him at their first meeting. Without a ready answer, Kilgar the slayer signed right up to be the party's other heavy. There was a strength to the paladin's goodness. It brought out the best in others, even others not so good by other measures as he liked to think of himself. They had made some noise, busted some heads, developed more than a nascent reputation for daring exploits. They had made the grade.
He quaffed his 14th beer, unwilling to let go of the topic. Then with a start, he noticed the man across the room. A wizard of some kind, it was hard to tell in the dim light of the tavern. Yes, that man was staring straight at him and perhaps had been for some time. Unruffled, Kilgar the slayer took out his pipe, loaded a bowl, and had a smoke. Even moderately buzzed he knew the best way of handling strange spellcasters was to play a part. He would ease into his chair and wait for an encounter to unfold. Blowing smoke rings with some pleasure, he contemplated his empty mug and then shrugged.
What are you staring at spell caster, he blurted?
Buy me an ale or I'll squash your head.
The militia men looked up from their drinks. The wizard nodded. A beer for the warrior, he said aloud to the serving wench, an ample bosomed woman in a tight t and skirt, showing impressive strength and curves.
Mollified Kilgar the slayer puffed on his pipe. 15 was not a good number but he had made the initial foray to encounter on 14, and that pleased him. The wizard continued his appraisal. Then, with an awkward flourish he was up and over to the table where Kilgar the slayer sit smoking his pipe.
I've been searching for a warrior who can hold his own and his drink, the wizard said. Know anyone?
Kilgar the slayer faced the wizard.
I kill for pleasure, he replied gruffly. It was only partially true.
The wizard smiled. So do I, he spoke. I am Paro the Particular, and I wager a man who can smoke a pipe after 14 beers is one who can handle more delicate matters.
Kilgar the slayer grunted as if to say, I am exactly such a man.
Good. I have your attention. You see I have a business proposition, said the wizard, taking a seat across from the slayer.
The slayer said nothing but took a pull on number 15.
I've come into an inheritance, said the wizard.
The wizard continued, we shall go to claim an estate, which I am now legally entitled to. The estate's household may forcibly disagree. That's where you come in. I may require warrior's work. The pay depends on the success of the claim, shall we say 10% of the haul.
Kilgar the slayer relit his pipe. This drunken day was shaping up nicely.
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