Chapter 92 - 91: One Drink.

Chapter 92: Chapter 91: One Drink.

The thing Rogard hates most about jousting is how bad the helmets make his hair look.

Sure, when it’s on and paired with a full body of armour he looks a real treat, if he does say so himself --not everyone can pull off plate mail the way he can --but once that helmet comes off it’s an entirely different story.

Everyone pretends otherwise, because it’s unseemly to complain about it, but it’s fucking hot inside those things. And that’s no good for his hair. At all.

A real troll of a human stares back at him in the mirror, and Rogard tries his best to smooth his locks back into some semblance of a style and then sighs at the result.

If anything, it looks worse . This is why he doesn’t joust more. He enjoys it, but he has a reputation to uphold. One that has perfect hair, no matter the circumstance.

There are a lot of reasons he’s been envious of Loac (admittedly fewer, nowadays), but the most enduring is that he’s never seen anyone make helmet hair look so good.

Rogard splashes water over his face and tries again. It’s as futile as ever, so in the end he just gives up and stomps back out to the jousting lane where he’s spent most of the evening flattening every soldier Drogger can throw at him. It’s not like there’s anyone around to impress, anyways.

There’s a practice match on when he arrives, and from the drab, undecorated armour one of the participants is wearing, Drogger himself is taking his turn.

Rogard’s just in time to see his opponent take a lance square to the chest, and those watching all wince sympathetically as he goes flying off his horse and plummets unceremoniously to the ground.

Drogger’s horse nimbly sidesteps him as it flies by.

"Nice shot, Master," he remarks conversationally, as Drogger wheels his horse back around to check on the guy he’s just winded.

"Oh, you’re back," Drogger comments, flipping up the lid of his visor as a couple of servants duck out to scrape his poor opponent off the ground.

The guy will be feeling that for days , it was a clean hit if Rogard ever saw one. It’s kind of weird, he doesn’t think he’s actually ever seen Drogger use a lance before.

It looks like he really knows how to use one.

"You okay?" he asks, dismounting in one smooth movement and handing off his horse’s reins to one of the nearby grooms.

Plate armour is notoriously heavy and ungainly, but he moves in it like it’s weightless, "You were gone a while."

"I’m fine," Rogard huffs, sulkily fiddling with a lock of hair as Drogger yanks off his helmet and tucks it under his arm. He wanders over, wiping a streak of sweat off his forehead with the back of his glove, and Rogard does a full on double take, and is forced to immediately revise his earlier assessment.

Loac is not the only one who can make helmet hair look good.

It’s a thought he immediately shoves to the back of his mind, only to have it come roaring back as Drogger leans in on the fence separating them, cheeks flushed and hair tousled in a way that Rogard can only describe as effortlessly, ruggedly handsome.

Which, in general, is not something he tends to be drawn to.

In general.

Rogard finds that it really suits him.

He swallows, heavily, and pushes that thought away again.

"How’s Ynoro?" he asks hurriedly, to cover for his lapse in concentration. He’d knocked him off his horse pretty hard.

Luckily Drogger doesn’t seem to have noticed anything odd. Which, considering the state of his hair, he probably should have.

"Winded, but no major damage," Drogger replies with a small shrug, as Rogard hurdles the fence, eager for his next round.

He’s taken a hefty hit to the shoulder once or twice in the last few days but he’s sure it’s nothing he can’t walk off. The armour was there to take damage, after all. "He’ll be fine --where do you think you’re going?"

"Uh...to get my horse?" Rogard replies, only to have Drogger hold up a hand to halt him where he stands.

"You’ve done enough for today," he assures him solemnly.

"I can still do more," Rogard disagrees, frowning, because he thought dedication and hard work were the sorts of things Drogger always demanded of the men training under him.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Drogger snorts, and then adds, sternly, "You’ve done well."

"Have I?" Rogard argues, jamming his helmet back on with the intention of storming back over to get his horse.

"Well enough to win ?" He’s naturally gifted at most things, and jousting is no different, but even so, he’s been hit more times that he would like. Definitely more times than his father would appreciate seeing.

Thrown, even, once. Which is not how you win.

"Go home," Drogger says firmly, clapping a hand down on his shoulder to stop him in his tracks, "...And get some rest."

"...But Master --" he begins to complain, pitch only slightly off a whine, when Drogger pushes him, right in his sore shoulder --right where an enormous bruise is already welling up underneath his shirt.

Rogard yelps and recoils, glaring at his captain and clutching at his chest as it throbs angrily at being disturbed.

Drogger just meets his stare unflinchingly. Knowingly, even. And that makes Rogard annoyed, because it’s not fair that he can tell.

"That’s enough for today, Rohard," he repeats, unapologetic, and final, and Rogard knows he’s fighting a lost cause. "You have to know when to rest."

"Tsk," Rogard sulks, and refuses to admit that his shoulder is already starting to freeze up.

The armour was made to absorb damage, but in reality, it only did so much. The force behind a lance was no laughing matter.

He feels a little bad about how many soldiers he’s sent flying. "You’re only saying that because you’re running out of soldiers for me to flatten."

That makes Drogger snort, and Rogard thinks that that might just be the closest he’s ever gotten to making him laugh.

"Gods above," Ynoro trills in a singsong voice, making his way over while the rest of their companions set about removing their armour.

Compared to Drogger’s plain, boring old armour, the white and gold designs of his were quite pleasing to the eye.

Jousting was traditionally a sport of nobility, and their armour tended to be flashy to the point of bragging. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a smile , Drogger?"

He’ll never know, since his comment makes Drogger grimace again.

"Ah, that’s more like it," he sighs, undaunted, and leans on his friend’s shoulder like he’s not his direct superior.

Something only Ynoro could get away with. And even then, probably only narrowly .

"What are you after?" Drogger asks suspiciously, and Ynoro looks politely wounded.

"I have to be after something to talk to my old friend?" he huffs dramatically, looking to Rogard for sympathy, "Did you hear that, he thinks --"

" Ynoro ."

" Fine," Ynoro sniffs, dropping the act, "If we’re done here --"

"We’re done here."

" -- Then ," he continues, as if Drogger hasn’t spoken, "Some of us were going to go down into the city for a drink."

"I don’t see how this concerns me," Drogger deadpans, although it’s painfully obvious where this is going.

"I think you should come." Clearly, Drogger disagrees but Ynoro has a real god-given talent for not seeing what he doesn’t want to see. "Rogard, what about you?"

"A drink?" Rohard remarks in surprise.

"Yes," Ynoro replies, and mimes taking a swig from a mug in case he’s not familiar with the word. It’s hardly necessary.

Rogard’s an adult,he knows what drinking is. He’s just a little surprised by the invitation, is all. By the expression on Drogger’s face, he is too.

"There’s a nice tavern down in the city. Lovely music. Even lovelier women. Care to join us?"

It’s getting late, and his father will be expecting him home soon. They haven’t discussed Rogard’s late evenings spent in the training grounds, even though he’s sure his father is aware of them, and he’s not exactly looking forward to when they inevitably do.

As for going off galavanting into the city, amongst the commonfolk, well .

Rogard gives Ynoro one of his most dashing smiles.

"I’d love to."

"Excellent," he chimes, adding almost as an afterthought, "Women are drawn to you, aren’t they?"

"Of course."

"Perfect. We’re all meeting down there. Drogger, you know the one, right?"

"I don’t recall agreeing to join you," Drogger points out dryly, and Ynoro sighs exaggeratedly.

"Come on, Captain," he urges, "You can have one drink." Drogger rolls his eyes to the heavens.

"One drink?" he echoes flatly, glaring in Ynoro’s direction. It glances right off.

"A drink," he says lightly, "That’s all I ask, my friend. You haven’t let your hair down once since --well, since I’ve known you, but that’s hardly the point.

We’ve been back home for how long and all you’ve do is train and do paperwork. And maybe sleep. I think."

"That sounds no fun at all , Master," Rogrd points out, shaking his head in dismay and earning himself the eternal gratitude of Ynoro and the considerable ire of his captain.

But he’s out of arm’s reach right now, and Ynoro is a lot stronger than he looks, so he flashes a winning smile, adding, probably with a little too much cheek, "You have to know when to rest."

Somehow, the great Second Captain has gone and gotten himself trapped. And he knows it.

" One drink," he finally relents, and pretends not to see the generous handshake that’s exchanged behind his back. " One ."