System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 62
The next morning Roy found Regan and the other three in the baths, and coaxed a cask of Mahakam strong-spirit from Sanchez.
He did not know his way around Mount Carbon yet. Free drink made an excellent opener, a way to warm to the locals and squeeze out a little information.
Regan Dalberg’s beloved crossbow had been taken by Roy and yet the Dwarf was not sulky. He had a good temper, worth befriending.
They went to Regan’s cave-hollow. The champion’s dwelling was bare as a bone. A bed, a table, a couple of chairs, an oil lamp, that was all. Not even an iron pot in sight. Whoever lived there had never bothered to cook.
Roy had learned this much about men in any world; a man with no woman tended toward slovenry.
Regan wiped the square table with his sleeve, brushed away a thick coat of dust, and set out a row of short cylindrical wooden cups, each about the length of a forearm and holding two ounces. He filled them all to the brim.
The scent of spirits rose. The four Dwarf brothers inhaled like hounds, their eyes softening with pleasure. They were no better than Ffion’s drunken father.
Roy still could not fathom what charm lurked in that amber liquid that made every face so loose.
“Kid, I’ll drink you,” Regan said, grin spreading across his rough mouth. He stared at the liquor like a man seeing daylight after a long winter, “No tricks in drinking. Rules are simple and brutal. We start at the same time, whoever drinks most before passing out wins.”
“Boss ... you already had a match last night. You should really take a break this round!” Bernie grabbed his arm, hope sparkling in his dark eyes. “I—I can drink in your place!”
“Idiot. You keel over after three cups—what are you even doing here?” Dool’s bear-paw clamped Bernie’s face and shoved him aside, eyes glittering as he rubbed his hands. “Boss and Deef already had their turns. This time it’s mine!”
“I’m going,” Deef said, refusing to back down. “When it comes to Gwent or drinking, which of you three can beat me?”
“Enough!” Regan barked, his face hardening. “Look at yourselves in a mirror. The moment you smell alcohol you forget your own names. If all of you get drunk, who will remember who won?”
He jabbed a thumb at the table. “Until Roy and I finish, none of you touch a drop.”
The three brothers froze. Competition ended as abruptly as a snapped string. Their faces still begged, but they hunched by the table like hungry pups staring at meat.
Roy looked at the row of cups. He felt dizzy just thinking about it. Honestly, two cups and he would be under. But dwarves did not dawdle when it came to drink.
Regan sat, hairy hand up, tipped his cup bottom-up in one practiced roll, and the liquor poured over his beard and down to his chest like a tiny waterfall. His padded coat soaked it. The cup lost a third to waste. Roy watched with a small, sharp pang.
This fellow drank or wasted? He saw a full cup spilled away.
Roy had a better trick. Anything of the right size, anything he could touch, could be slipped into his Inventory Capacity. Liquids in the mouth were no exception.
He took the pose of a Dwarf, legs cocked, cup raised, chin up. He tilted the rim and let the liquor run; he swallowed with gurgling gulps. Seconds later he flipped the cup in front of the Dwarves as if empty, not a drop on his lips. Their bearded faces showed surprise and approval.
They did not know that the liquid vanished into his inventory. He showed no flush, no panting, only the faint smell of spirits on his tongue. He looked as if he had drunk water and felt fine.
“Kid, I owe you an apology,” Regan said, wiping his beard. He sounded earnest. “Small arms and soft skin, no beard— I figured you would fold at the first cup. But you can hold your liquor, you drink without cutting corners ... you’re a good sort.”
Does drinking prove a man’s character? Roy shook his head at Dwarf reasoning and played along, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Boss Regan, I have a favor to ask.”
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