Winifred awoke, and had a moment to wonder where she was before the pain hit her. A dull, throbbing ache echoed throughout her head, and her stomach felt like it was filled with molten lead. She leaned over the edge of the bed, and her nose was filled with the stench of vomit from a bucket on the floor. The slight motion and the smell was enough, and she vomited messily into the bucket, adding to the mess inside. She spat a few times and rolled back onto the bed. She looked around carefully. Had she been poisoned? She did not seem to be bound, but her vision swam and she was unable to focus to see where she was. Beyond the bed she could only see a dull white. She tried to think. The last thing she could remember was visiting Culann. The wolfhound had been in good spirits but, like her, needed more healing. The vets at the stable were quite capable and, as they explained, used to animals being made ready in a hurry. They had left for the staging house, then what?

  She slowly removed herself from the bed. She felt cold tile, and laid there for a while, resting her head on the tiles. When she could, she stumbled to her feet, and moved for the white expanse. As she stepped forward, arms outstretched, she felt rough cloth, and fell forward through the curtain. She looked around from the floor. She was in the hall of the House, the long room where she had slept previously. She could see Felix, sitting on the edge of a bed, a pipe in his mouth and one eye blackened and swollen. Wakesfield stood beside him, holding what looked like a scarf of some shiny material in front of his chest stretched between both hands. Naran was sitting with her back to Felix, bent over with her head between her knees. There was no sign of the priest, Fuath. “Mornin’” called down Felix, his voice hoarse and raspy. Winifred vomited again.

  After they had cleaned up, they slowly staggered away, following the stomach churning smell of food. Wakesfield led them, insisting they would feel better after some food. Winifred tried to remember the night, to little success until she had a flash of a memory. Felix had been standing on the bar counter, singing the type of song made for places where strangers gathered to drink. The type of song with a simple tune you could clatter mugs to, and the occasional shout of a rude word for all to join in on. She shook her head as they entered the dining hall. She retched as the smell of soup hit her, but was pulled ahead by Wakesfield. They shortly moved with a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread, torn by hand, each, and saw Fuath at a table, already finishing a meal and greeting them with a wave. She averted her gaze as he chewed a bit of bread soaked in soup, the unpleasant mash between his jaws unsettling her stomach even moreso. She looked around at the table. Felix was happily slurping his soup, and fanning away Wakesfield who was attempting to rub a cream into his swollen eye. Naran was carefully sipping, taking her time with each spoon. Winifred swallowed a mouthful of soup, and sat waiting for her stomach to stop rolling like a ship in a storm.

  “What happened last night, dare I ask?” asked Winifred, her voice hoarse and painful.

  Felix gave a chuckle as he took another spoonful. “The finest of bonding traditions is all. A drinkin’ contest!”

  Winifred had a flash of memory. Five of them were sat at the table, four with a small pile of glasses before them. Wakesfield sat with a pint glass in front of him, looking blankly at them as four of them slammed down another round. She remembered the burning in her throat. There had been a crowd surrounding them, evidently taking bets on the winner as someone was shaking her shoulders and urging her on.

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  She returned to the soup, taking another spoon slowly. “Who won?” she asked.

  Naran raised a hand with a stony face, and Felix gave a hearty clap. “Did herself proud, did our Naran.”

  Naran lowered her spoon. “My tribe has a tradition of accepting all challenges, our way of avoiding bloodshed. For the fourth time in my life, I damn this tradition. There was no victory.” She raised the spoon again, and took a long deep breath before continuing to eat as Winifred nodded in agreement.

  Felix chuckled. “First out was the priest, who knew a wooden man couldn’t take the wet stuff?”

  Fuath managed to look embarrassed with no moving facial features. “I don’t believe I had drank alcohol before, I’m proud I could take four.”

  Winifred stared for a moment at the priest of wood and stone. “Wait, how’s that work? And you’re up earlier and look to be no worse for wear?”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” interjected the flat tone of Wakesfield. “He was fine until the fourth glass, then keeled over. Woke up this morning without a care”

  Winifred looked down at the soup. Despite the rolling of her stomach, it did seem to be settling. “Lucky man.”

  Felix puffed on his unlit pipe. “You were next out” he said, pointing at Winifred. “Seven glasses, not bad for a youngster.” Winifred tried not to remember the burning taste of the drinks as he continued. “Myself, I bowed out at eleven, leaving our proud victor at twelve.” He clapped for Naran again, who glared silently.

  Winifred pointed the spoon at Felix. “And what happened to your eye then?”

  It was Naran that answered. “There were some that were displeased at the winner of our contest. They had lost quite some money, and grew more so when we refused to cover their losses.”

  Winifred thought as she took more soup, her stomach feeling confident enough now to eat normally. She vaguely remembered the fight now. She saw, in a hazy memory, Naran smashing a stool over a large man’s head. Felix had sailed through the air clutching a tall scalefolk’s head by the horns, landing on the far side of a table while smashing the scaly face into the wood. She saw Fuath and Wakesfield against the wall, removing themselves from the fight, though Wakesfield took a bottle from a counter beside him and smashed it over the head of a surly looking dwarf that had produced a knife. She remembered turning, and saw a large orc coming at her, saw the fist pull back and launch forward. She felt the explosion of pain in her nose, and her memory faded. She gently touched her nose, and recoiled as she felt bandages, and pain spread out from where her fingers had made contact. “Oh Queen damn it, is my nose broken?”

  Fuath looked up from his now empty bowl. “Not as badly as it was, though you may wish to visit the healers again. They treated your arm while you…slept. So it should have gotten some secondary healing.”

  She looked down at her arm. She had forgotten about it, the pain in her head and stomach distracting her. The splint was gone. There was still a great deal of bruising, and a stiffness as she flexed her fingers, but it was well on the way. She grunted, and continued eating.

  Felix chuckled as Naran spoke. “If it helps, you subdued and broke the arm of the person that did it.” There was a hint of respect there. “It was an interesting technique, I have not seen someone take down a larger opponent in that way before.”

  Winifred said nothing, but her ears reddened with a small bit of happiness.

  Wakesfield gestured at the bowls and bread. “You should all finish. We have but a day and a half to prepare.”