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Ripple Recovery	By : wanderingaddict Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 5632 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own WoW or even these characters. I have made no money from this and have not profited from this in any way.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
So yeah, this is totally based off the Horde Ripple Recovery questline in WoW. My version of how it actually went down.

--___---__-__---___--
Malton slammed into the ground- hard- bloodying his hands and
knees for the third time in less than an hour. He sucked a deep
breath and stood, refusing to show any sort of emotion, ignoring the
dirt that chafed the now-raw skin of his fingers.

“You sure are clumsy, orc,” Ranger Amberglade
quipped in the human’s Common, making only the barest effort to
cover the laughter in her voice.

The dark-haired elf ahead of him snickered, casting a wide,
blue-eyed glance back over his shoulder. “Hey now,” he
said in Thalassian, his voice almost lilting in the musical language,
“You already know it’s hard enough for them to stand
and piss at the same time.” The corners of his mouth twitched
even further as he flashed Amberglade an outright grin. “How
can you expect one to walk and think?”

She threw her head back and guffawed at the elf’s
quip. “Truest thing I’ve ever heard!” she laughed,
and then stumbled over a loose rock, swearing loudly. “Fuck!
Damn it Hawk, you’re going to make me kill myself!” The
dark haired Ranger tossed a wink back over his shoulder, but didn’t
say anything more. There was a short lull in the conversation, with
nothing but the sound of their footfalls and the occasional birdsong
in the air, but the blessed silence was unfortunately short.
Amberglade, for wont of anything better to do, tangled her bow
between Malton’s feet once again. “Oh!” she cried
in surprise as he hit the ground, barely managing to throw his hands
out in time. Her wide blue eyes were the first thing he saw when he
pushed himself off the ground.

“Aw, did you trip again?” Amberglade cooed,
speaking in Common once more, her voice sugary sweet. “You
really do need to be more careful.” The concern in her voice
would have been a lot more believable if Malton hadn’t been
fluent in Thalassian.

Keeping his face carefully blank, he hauled himself to his
feet started walking, the two Rangers ahead of him resuming their
pace the moment they saw him back up. Ranger Amberglade
hadn’t quite had her fill, however. She caught up beside him
with one long stride, calling to her dark-haired friend in derision.
“Fuck, will you look at this? Dumb shit doesn’t even
realize I’ve been tripping him.” He could see her
sneering at him out of the corner of one eye, though he was sure
she’d mask it with a blank smile the moment he actually looked.
“Just gets up and keeps walking,” she scoffed, her lips
twisting in outright scorn. “What kind of ‘Horde Warrior’
does that?” Malton could have sworn she was only the barest
modicum of decency away from spitting on him outright.

“Probably one who is used to such treatment.”
The soft, quiet voice of the blonde Ranger whose name he hadn’t
heard spoken surprised him. She had kept to herself for most of the
journey, for which Malton had been grateful. It was already bad
enough with the smug, self-centered attitude of the elf before him
and the malicious pranks from the vapid girl beside. The orc really
didn’t need a third elf harassing him. Still, given the
outright hostility the HighVale elves exhibited towards anyone with
even a hint of green in their skin, it was all he could do not to
stare at her in outright shock. “Stop tripping him,” the
lithe, little Ranger added. “I’d like to reach the
outpost within the hour.” There was a hint of steel lying
beneath those words.

Amberglade cast the shorter blonde a scathing look, tossing
her thick mane of fiery red back with a huff. “Fine, fine, no
need to get your cunt in a bundle about it,” she grumbled,
“Just havin’ some fun is all.” She did fall silent
though, apparently having been startled into momentary submission by
the blonde Ranger’s castigation.

Without the constant threat of suddenly grinding his knees
into the ground, Malton found himself starting to relax and almost
enjoy the walk along the HighVale Road, after a while. The Road,
being the Vale’s only connection to the outside world, was well
maintained, the wide, gray stones broken only occasionally by the
rare weed, and the route itself surrounded on all sides the pleasant,
Hinterlands greenery. And green it was- the lush, largely coniferous
forests were teeming with life. Even so far past the height of
summer, the Hinterlands still lay in bloom. Jays darted about the
towering trees, flitting from branch to branch as big orange
butterflies drifted about the flowering shrubs below. Having spent
the majority of his life trapped between the squalor of the
internment camps and the dry, baked lands of Durotar and the Barrens,
Malton couldn’t help but occasionally appreciate the sheer,
awe-inspiring abundance of verdant forests like these.

Toes constantly scuffing the heel of his left boot did
somewhat ruin the moment, though. Ranger Amberglade had gotten some
of her vim back, and had fallen a pace behind so that she could step
on his heel with every stride forward.

Malton refused to give her any sort of satisfaction. Instead
he simply kept his head hunched low and stared straight forward,
wishing- rather half-heartedly- that he hadn’t left his
father’s mercenaries behind in Tarren Mill. Life was always
easier when there was more than one target available, but then,
having his father’s guards with him created a slew of problems
in and of itself. Miserly penny-pincher that his old man was, the two
guards he’d hired for his son on his travels were two of the
cheapest the old man could find. Not that Malton had anything that
bad to say about the men his father had chosen- Grork and Tag didn’t
make for terrible company- it was just that the only two
things to hold their attention were fighting and women, and Malton
didn’t happen to have any terribly great interest in either.
Fine orcs, both of them- strong, intimidating, and handy with an axe-
but not exactly the greatest company when not on the road.

Besides, he was pretty sure that the two brawny hulks would
have started the fight Amberglade seemed to be looking for long ago,
and that would have turned into an ugly mess of trouble that would
probably have just gotten him killed.

Safe enough, for the moment, his thoughts strayed to the
sole reason he’d even bothered to come here in the first place.
Well, not the only reason- his father had been harping on him for a
long time to go get a restock of the Honey Ripple wine that the elves
of Quel’Danil made- but that was second to the fact that he was
going to be spending the next two weeks with his best friend,
Gilvarin Sunchaser, the elf who owned more than two-thirds of the
Vale itself. Sometimes, when he was drunk and feeling particularly
reflective, he’d stop and think about how crazy it was that
their friendship had even managed to form in the first place, given
the fact that he was one of the hated descendents of the Orcish Horde
and Gilvarin was just shy of being born a high elf prince.

Taken in context, though, he supposed it wasn’t really
that surprising at all. They’d met during one of the first few
business negotiations between Malton’s father, Dran Droffers-
the self-made master of one of the most prominent salvaging companies
in Azeroth- and Gilvarin’s father, the inheritor of one of
Silvermoon’s vast merchant empires. The elder Droffers didn’t
care what it was, or who wanted it, or why. Members of the Horde
seeking lost Alliance treasures, members of the Alliance seeking
Horde goods, he didn’t care so long as they paid. The powerful
patriarch of the Sunchaser family was almost exactly the same. Pink,
green, or covered in fur, the color of the skin didn’t matter
because it was the color of the coin that won in the end. Over the
last few decades the Sunchaser empire had started to crumble, so when
Gilvarin’s father finally took up the reigns he was hell-bent
on returning the merchant family to the peak of monetary power, and
the Droffers Salvaging Co. was a way of doing just that.

In only the first few meetings Malton could tell that the
two men had taken a shine to one another- well, that wasn’t
exactly true. Malton’s father never liked anyone, and
from what Malton could tell, Gilvarin’s father was the same.
The two men respected each other though- at least as much two men who
thought themselves the only capable people in the world could respect
anyone. Both men were able to look through the exact same glass and
see everything in terms of monetary value, discarding immediately
that which was of no further use. Sentiments and morals only applied
when bargaining for how much someone was willing to pay to get
something back. Otherwise, his father couldn’t care less what
people did, what they wanted or liked. He was always absorbed in the
details of his accounting ledger, and, from the look of it, the
priorities of Gilvarin’s father were very much the same.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad trait to have-
after all, it kept Malton in good, serviceable clothes, a roof over
his head and out of financial worry, and he was smart enough to know
and appreciate that. Plus his father’s complete lack of humor,
taste, and wit inevitably made for all kinds of hilarious situations.
Malton would never be able to forget the first time he’d
actually attended a meeting between Dran and Gilvarin’s father.
The two merchants had agreed to meet at one of the finest restaurants
in Ratchet; famous throughout all of Kalimdor for the quality of the
rich foods it used, and then proceeded to order barley soup and
water.

Really, the look on the waiter’s face as the little
goblin took their orders had almost made Malton burst out laughing.
It twisted into expressions that Malton would never have believed
were possible if he hadn’t seen it himself, and each twist of
the tiny man’s lips was accompanied by a different shade of
green.

Honestly though, he did feel kind of bad for the waiter.
What the two older men had done was almost paramount to blasphemy- at
least, from a goblin’s perspective, where one was meant to
spend the most one possibly could on creature comforts. Malton
scanned the menu, not even bothering to read the flowery descriptions
of the various dishes, instead looking at the prices. When he found
the most expensive dish he held the menu up so that only he and the
goblin could see, and pointed to it with his thick green finger.
“I’ll have this one please.”

The waiter beamed at his choice, and when Dran craned his
neck, trying to see what Malton ordered, the goblin snatched the menu
from Malton’s hand and clutched it protectively to his chest.
Then he smiled again at the young orc and turned to the quiet elf who
had barely said a word since the four of them sat down.

“Uh…” Gilvarin shot a quick look at his
father’s permanent glower, and then a sly smile that he-
unsuccessfully- tried to hold back tugged at the corners of his lips.
He spoke quickly, before his father could interrupt and order for
him, giving a nod in Malton’s direction. “I’ll have
what he is having.”

Once more the waiter beamed his approval and- with a parting
sniff at the two older customers- he turned on his heels with his
nose in the air and marched purposefully to the kitchen, leaving
Malton to stare wonderingly at the young elf sitting across from him.
Gilvarin met his eyes with a knowing look, and the orc had to quickly
look away in order to hide his sheepish grin. It didn’t help
any that both of their fathers were glaring at their respective sons
for such frivolous spending. Carefully schooling his face, Malton
locked his eyes on his hands, knowing full well that if he glanced up
at the elf across from him again he’d start to grin again.
There was just something so… exciting about having a
co-conspirator for once. And here he had thought this would just be
another boring business meeting.

Neither of their fathers spoke
until the goblin returned with their meals. Each man was obviously
embarrassed by his son’s behavior, which didn’t exactly
help Malton quell his amusement either. He couldn’t help but
wonder if either of the two older men realized just how alike they
really were.

Probably not. It wasn’t really something that his
father would think of.

The goblin, in his little black suit, burst through the
doors that lead to the kitchen, and both Malton and Gilvarin turned
to look at him eagerly as he sashayed his way across the restaurant.
He held two huge, steaming platters high above his head as though to
broadcast that at least two of the people at Malton’s
table weren’t tightasses.

Thinking of tight arses caused the orc’s brown eyes to
slide towards the elf sitting across from him, but then he caught
himself and he quickly shook his head to force firmly any thoughts of
tight arses from his mind. Wasn’t exactly the best time to be
picturing that, after all.

The waiter set their meals in front of them with a wide
flourish and a gracious smile. Another goblin followed with baskets
of steaming flatbread that smelled as though it had been freshly
baked. Malton’s nostrils flared in anticipation.

“Enjoy your meals, young sirs, kodo liver stew,”
the waiter said, and then made a point of wiping the smile from his
face before looking down his nose- as much as a goblin possibly look
down their nose at anyone- at Dran and Gilvarin’s fathers.
“Your meals- and I use the term loosely- are coming.”

Malton struggled to keep his
grin a secret as the barbed quip passed right over his father’s
head, quickly shoveling a spoonful of stew into his mouth in the
hopes that he wouldn’t laugh. It never failed to amaze him just
how blind his old man could be at times. Glancing up, he saw
that the old man was already in deep discussion with Gilvarin’s
father about the cost-effectiveness of dredging the remnants of the
Kul’Tiras fleet off the Durotar coast. How his father could
calculate the necessary investment in his head and still miss the
rather blatant glares of the of the goblin waiters, the orc would
never know.

Dran’s gruff voice barked and the magic of the moment
was lost. “That’s an awfully big plate, Malton,”
the grizzled orc said, grunting disapprovingly. The warning note was
clear in his tone of voice.

Malton licked his lips, momentarily toying with the idea of
resisting temptation, but in the end he gave in. “Yeah, Pa,”
he said, just barely thickening the inflection of his voice. “There’s
so much food here, makes me wish I hadn’t just eaten a
plainstrider drumstick before we came.”

Joyfully munching on another spoonful of stew, Malton kept
his face blank and perfectly stupid as his father’s eyes
widened at the implications of that sentence. The old orc’s
square jaw dropped open, before he caught himself and quickly snapped
it shut, glowering at his son.

Before he could launch into a tirade of abuse, though, the
waiter returned and dumped his and Gilvarin’s father’s
bowls of watery soup in front of them with none of the fanfare he
displayed when delivering the kodo liver stew. The two fathers didn’t
notice though. If someone didn’t have coin to spend then they
weren’t worth talking to in the first place.

Having a hard time controlling himself, Malton carefully
swallowed the food in his mouth and set down his spoon, taking the
time to school his features once more. It occurred to him that it
would probably be bad if he did laugh with a mouth full of
kodo liver stew. He looked up and found Gilvarin’s eyes on him.
The elf’s shoulders shook, and it looked as though he was
having a hard time holding back his laughter too. Malton started,
suddenly realizing that they seemed to share the same sense of humor.
The orc buried his tongue in his cheek to control another rising
grin, and turned his attention back to the few words his father had
exchanged with the Sunchaser patriarch.

It wasn’t long before the
dismal conversation between the two older men turned to their
favorite topic; money. The mood lifted then since their minds were
taken off how much their sons’ meals were going to cost them,
and they discussed everything from how to increase their already
considerable fortunes, to how to what was the least one could pay
hired help and still expect decent service.

Malton smiled- on the inside-
unable to help but be amused by just how absurdly stingy his
father was, and even more amused by the fact that Gilvarin’s
father was nodding his head sagely, adding some insightful comments
of his own, such as his observation that one of the best ways to save
money was to simply not tip waiters and hairdressers, who needed all
the encouragement they could get to “ditch their wastrel
lifestyles and get jobs that actually mattered.”

He would have liked to leave most of his meal untouched-
eating Malton’s leftovers was the only way that the orc could
get something substantial into his father- but he just couldn’t
help shoveling one spoonful after another into his mouth. The thick,
meaty stew with its rare spices and chunks of soft vegetables was so
damn good that he had to resist the urge to simply upend the steaming
platter and tip it down his throat. All too soon though his plate was
empty and he sat back to rub give his stomach a little more room.

Scratching his stomach as he glanced around the room, he
gave a start he met Gilvarin’s eyes over the table. The elf had
actually finished eating before Malton had and was watching him. The
orc was glad he hadn’t just upended his plate and drink the
stew after all.

Dran and Gilvarin’s
father were still eating, the last ones to finish, as always. They
liked to make their food last so that it seemed as though they got
more for their money. The two men were beginning to bicker and make
loaded suggestions about which one of them should pay for the meals.
Malton smiled slightly, amazed that the world could possibly produce
two people who were so impossibly similar. Bored, he fiddled with the
edge of the table cloth.

Gilvarin cleared his throat, trying to catch the orc’s
attention. When he looked up, the elf raised his eyebrows and nodded
pointedly at the door that led to the restaurant’s bar. “Want
to?” he mouthed discreetly.

Malton nodded and smiled broadly, but quickly straightened
his face before his father caught on. Alcohol was quite possibly at
the very top of the list of thing that the old man thought of as the
absolute height of wastrel spending. Coincidentally, it just happened
to be one of Malton’s few favorite things. Honestly, it was! He
thoroughly enjoyed the way a fine wine could roll over the
tongue, or the warm burn of strong liquor down his throat! The fact
that it just happened to make his old man grit his teeth and glare
was merely an added bonus. It wasn’t that he tried to do
things just to make his father angry, it was just that the grizzled
orc made himself far too easy a target.

He watched the elf across from him stand and bow slightly,
murmuring some unintelligible excuse and heading in the vague
direction of the washrooms in back, but then take a sharp turn
and head straight for the bar. Malton carefully controlled another
grin and waited a few minutes before making his own excuses as well.

Absorbed as they were in their discussion of the possible
finance leverages that might be placed on any ships they dredged from
the Stranglethorn Coast, neither of the men paid him any attention.
The orc stood there for a moment, watching his reflection in the
shiny green bald spot on top of his father’s head as the old
orc quickly ran through a series of numbers aloud, the elf beside him
nodded as he mentally double-checked the figures as well. He couldn’t
help but shake his head.

Walking away from the table, he crossed the grand, low room
quickly enough, bypassing the few tables with more obviously wealthy
patrons, clad in silks and gold and jewelry the orc rarely saw
outside of the elf dignitaries that periodically visited Org’.

The bar was, of course, as lavish and ornate as the rest of
the restaurant, all dark, polished oak and dimmed lighting. There
were many more people in here, standing in small groups or chatting
at the tall tables, though still not nearly enough to say that there
was a crowd. Malton peered around, spying Gilvarin’s blonde
head at the right end of the bar at almost the exact same time that
the elf glanced around to check for him. He started to make his way
over as the elf waved vaguely at the row of empty stools.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” he said, hopping
onto the stool beside the dirty-blonde elf.

Gilvarin snorted, huffing with
half a smile. “What, that my father finally found someone who
also likes to balance his company’s coffers to the final
copper?”

Snickering, Malton was glad to see that they shared a common
bond of kinship. “Or thinks that not charging for the year’s
“room and board” is a generous birthday gift?” he
offered with a wry grin.

“Light help me, I swear I thought my dad was the only
one who did that!” Gilvarin laughed, his eyes twinkling
good-naturedly. He lost his smile, glancing around at the bar before
turning his gaze back to the orc. “Alcohol is a frivolous
waste,” he said, deadpan, arching a mild brow.

“’Yeah, it is.”
Malton humphed, hunching his shoulders. “If you’re going
to kill yourself slowly boy, at least do it in a way that won’t
cost me so much money,” he growled, in a near perfect imitation
of one of his father’s ornery moods.

“Haha!” The elf
barked part of a genuine laugh, his face seemingly caught between
grinning full-on and rolling his eyes in disgust. “Words aren’t
quite the same, but my father’s said the same damn thing to me
for years now.” He shook his head suddenly. “Gah. Enough.
What’ll you have?” he asked, changing the course of the
conversation away from their respective parents.

Cracking a smile, Malton
shrugged. “Well since it’s on my old man’s tab…”
he drawled, trying to think of a good, expensive wine that the
restaurant was likely to have. Preferably one he wouldn’t
normally be able to get back home in Org’. “Vintage
Purple Pupellyverbos Port, if they got it.”

The elf’s long ears perked up slightly, and he twisted
in his seat to look directly at the orc sitting next to him, clearly
surprised that the man would choose a pricey vintage known almost
solely to connoisseurs. “My, a man of sophisticated taste,
huh?” he said, his mouth twitching in a faint, easy grin. “Or
is that the one name you know?”

Malton crossed his broad, bare
forearms as he leaned sideways against the bar. “A smoky
dwarven Stout wouldn’t be bad, so long as it’s amber or
umber and not a pure red.”

Gilvarin leaned back, appraising the orc again, as though he
saw him in a new light. He gave a slight jerk of his head in
acknowledgement. “Impressive, orc.” The elf was obviously
intrigued. “You really know your stuff.”

“Comes with experience,” Malton said,
nonchalantly shrugging one shoulder, though he was pleased that he
and the elf seemed to share more than just similar fathers. The orc
glanced up to see the elf was still eyeing him.

He arched a brow at the orc’s
gaze, his curiosity obviously piqued. “Hit’em hard, eh?
Take it strong?” Gilvarin asked, cocking his head slightly to
the side as he mimicked a hard drinking motion, “Or do you like
to linger over your drinks?”

Sensing that this was the prelude to a not-so-subtle
challenge, Malton willingly rose to the bait. He’d always
managed to hold his liquor rather well, compared to most of the men
he’d drank with. He spread his big green hands out on the
polished wood of the bar. “You know, usually I prefer to
linger, but tonight I think I’ll go hard and strong.”
He’d show this twig what an orc was made of. Malton didn’t
necessarily expect to win, but with the added bonus of a full
stomach, he knew he’d be able to put up one hell of a fight!

The elf appraised him from the
corner of one sapphire eye. “Alright then,” he said, a
sly smirk slipping across his lips, “I have just the thing.”
He rapped his knuckles on the bar, catching the attention of one of
the goblins at the far end. “Hey, barkeep! Two of your
strongest!”

Flipping a white towel over his shoulder as he walked
towards them, the little green man laughed when he heard Gilvarin’s
order. “Oho, two of the strongest eh?” he taunted, his
shrill voice full of good humor. “You know what you’re
getting yourself into, pixie?”

Gilvarin bared his teeth in a challenging smirk at the
racial slur. He leaned both elbows on the bar, pushing himself up
slightly. “You know what they say, kim'jael, if the
first time doesn’t kill you, you’re going to be back for
more.”

“Ahaha!” the goblin
screeched, throwing back his little bald head as he laughed. “True
enough, elf! Alright, two of the strongest for you and the
lightweight there,” he said, gesturing at Malton. The little
man turned, waving a hand at the goblin at the far end of the bar.
“Rizzo, two Nuzzrim’s!”

The- also bald- goblin was over
in a flash, his sharp, hatchet-shaped face parting in a startlingly
white grin. “It’s popular,” he drawled in a
surprisingly deep voice- well, deep for a goblin. He had already two
great, thick-glass mugs prepared for the two of them. The little man
set them down with a wink, moving quickly back to his previous
customers.

Malton picked up his mug,
curious about its contacts. ”What’s this?” he
asked, peering down.

“Nuzzrin’s Revenge.” The elf swirled his
glass, his bright blue eyes meeting Malton’s over the rim of
the drink. “Only beverage used to season meat, cauterize
wounds, and still be potent enough to fell an ogre with one barrel.”
The corner’s of the elf’s pale pink lips twitched up in a
grin. “The goblins use it as rocket fuel,” he said with a
wink.

It wasn’t particularly reassuring. The orc glanced
down at his cup, watching the dark contents move a little too slowly
to be a liquid. “Uh,” he started to say as his survival
instincts started to kick in. Sure, he was an experienced drinker,
but there were times that even he knew it would be a bad idea to
press forward. Like the time with that night-elf rum that had the
spiders from Felwood in it. Malton shuddered at the memory of all
those twitching legs. Actually drinking the crazy kaldorei stuff was
even worse. From what pieces he’d managed to gather together,
it had turned him and the six other idiots who’d drunk it into
gibbering madmen.

Malton stared into his cup. Yeah, this rocket-fuel stuff was
giving off the same vibe the spider-blood had. “Mag’tha,”
he swore, under his breath. How did he get himself into situations
like this?

Unfortunately, the elf didn’t
seem to share Malton’s hesitation. Gilvarin grinned at the orc
over his mug. “It’ll hit hard, so toss it back quick!”
he warned, straightening slightly as he prepared to gulp it down.
Gilvarin cocked one corner of his mouth as Malton slowly raised his
own mug in return. “Cheers!” the elf said, toasting the
orc before he threw back his head and chugged.

Nerving himself, Malton took a deep breath and put the glass
to his lips, preparing to just gulp the brew down as fast as he
could. Yet, even though he was expecting the worst, nothing
could have prepared him for the nightmare horror that hit his tongue.
Eyes snapping wide, the orc almost gagged as he felt his tongue
shrivel up and die in his mouth. He gulped desperately, knowing from
experiences it was worse to choke and heave it back up than to force
it down just once, but it was no use. The chemical ooze seared
his throat, he could feel it strip away three layers of skin! Tears
gathered in the corners of his eyes when he accidentally sucked a
frantic breath through his nose, choking and quickly slamming his
glass to the bar as he struggled to clear his throat of the terrible,
burning liquid.

Never again, he swore, coughing nasty wads of phlegm
and probably stripped-off skin from his lungs. Never again!
Thrall’s great green balls, his lungs were heaving so
desperately for cool air that he thought he was going to die! Malton
hacked the last shred of the foul taint from his throat, tears of
relief slipping down his cheeks at the blessed feel of normal air
once again filling his lungs. He glanced to his side, his jaw
dropping to the ground when he saw that Gilvarin was still chugging,
his adams apple bobbing with the last few gulps.

The elf slammed his mug on the bar with a satisfied hum.
“Ah, good stuff.” He turned to the crumpled orc beside
him, giving the broad-shouldered man a few hearty wallops on the back
as Malton nearly coughed up his guts. “You alright? Not dead
are ya?”

Honestly, the orc wasn’t quite sure. It felt like he’d
just swallowed a vial of acid. Gur-mag’tha! Even his
lungs were burning! Malton sucked a deep breath, hacking hard. Well
he wouldn’t be in such pain if he had died there, right? “I…
I don’t think so,” he wheezed, straightening as he tried
to feign indifference about the drink.

Gilvarin grinned cheerfully, his face a picture of innocent
bliss. “Perfect! You’re up for another one then!”
he exclaimed excitedly. Malton’s stomach surged to his throat.

“No-,” the orc started to beg, but his whimpered
plea fell on deaf ears. The elf had already turned back to the
laughing barkeep, who gleefully slammed another pair of drinks down
on the bar.

“Ready?” Gilvarin asked, thrusting a new glass
into the orc’s big hands. “On three now.”

His great square jaw slipping into a long, sad frown, Malton
sighed with resignation, ignoring the whimpering protests of his
tongue, stomach, and throat. His head started to spin as the elf
started to count.

Working courage into his shaking nerves- and steeling his
roiling gut- the orc stared mournfully at the foul liquid swirling in
his cup. By his Ancestors’ blood, the stuff moved like
molasses. Malton bravely bit back a muted sob, almost ready to call
it quits when Gilvarin finally called out “Three!”

Before he could think about the wisdom of a second swig, the
orc had promptly tossed it back- finding that it did indeed go down
easier this time- and slammed the cup down on the bar. He sat there,
the room spinning crazily for a moment as a cheering, teary-eyed elf
gave him a few congratulatory whacks on the back.

Then he blacked out.

--___---__-__---___--

silly orc. should know better than to take a bet like that.
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Ripple Recovery