Chapter 176 - 174: Flirty Eyes On Him.

Chapter 176: Chapter 174: Flirty Eyes On Him.

This...whatever this is, is so uncharacteristically uncool of him.

He’s not even sure why he’s getting his hopes up that he might catch a glimpse of him down here; Drogger has always made it pretty clear that he is allergic to all things fun, so it’s hard imagine why he would come down to where the music is the loudest and the drunks are the rowdiest.

But he can’t stop himself looking anyway.

​(So uncool)

​The only thing that makes him feel somewhat less lame is that Drogger had never thought he was cool to begin with.

​And had kissed him anyway.

​...

​The fires burn high that night, each one a hive of activity. Traders and vendors make their way between firesides, doling out hot food for coin, and bards strike up and jostle for the best audiences.

They bid them drink up while they’re still young and take gold in exchange for a song, filling the night air with jaunty tavern songs that get their crowds chanting and stomping along with them.

Spirits run high, and as drinks and gold change hands, it becomes clear that this is a soldier’s idea of a party.

​For men who seemed wholeheartedly against dancing at the ball, they sure get into it now that it’s on their terms.

Some are up at the fireside, lured into the flickering light by the young women and men of the travelling fair, dressed in many colours and wearing bells on their ankles and stars in their eyes.

Commonfolk too, mingle in between them, barely discernible from nobles in the ever shifting shadows.

​A couple of soldiers –one in white and black, and one in red and black –and each bearing different sigils, prance atop the tables, and the crowd clap and stomp in time with them as they swing each other around, knocking drinks off tables as they go.

It’s their third bawdy tavern song in a row but they show no sign of slowing, and the men around them hoot and cheer and belt along to the chorus of each one until they’re hoarse.

Part way through, one of them slips on a spilled drink and takes a comical tumble off his table into a cackling crowd of his countrymen.

The other –the one dressed largely in black and red –shock of black hair a sweaty, mangled mess from his performance, takes the time to bow theatrically to the rabble before lurching back into his show.

​The soldiers reckon he’s from some kingdom out south called Najah, and a Captain, apparently, which the soldiers from other kingdoms find difficult to believe, since their own captains would never be caught dead wearing wreaths of flowers and dancing on tables.

He takes his reputation in stride, though, and leads the crowd in the next song, making up for his off-tune yowling with sheer enthusiasm.

​Even the troublesome Prince of Movang –circlet askew and expression lazy –seems drawn to the spectacle, drinking with his soldiers and hanging off his Captain like he doesn’t care who sees.

His men are either used to it, or pretend not to notice (or both), and his Captain’s steely eyes ward off anyone whose gaze lingers unnecessarily.

​Khobi’s never heard most of these songs before, but the choruses are easy and catchy, so every now and then he finds himself chanting along, too.

And in the heady warmth of the night, with spirits running high and inhibitions treading low, even he is no match for the intoxicating atmosphere, and with his head oddly light, he finds his gaze drifting from present company to the dancers, even locking eyes with the odd one, or two.

And the ale must really be catching up with him because, a sudden flush riding up into his cheeks, he lets himself wonder –for the first time in a long, long time –what it might be like to accept the wordless invitation; to sneak away into the less trafficked paths of the maze and warm the cold night with the heat of a stranger.

​As if sensing his wavering resolve, the dark-haired Captain –the one evidently from Nahja, and spearheading the overarching chaos –glances towards their table.

And not for the first time that evening, either. Accepting a tankard of ale from someone in the crowd while the bards catch their breath, he very deliberately sends Khobi a nod and raises his glass in greeting, low lidded gaze running appreciatively over the open collared shirt Rogard has selected for him, and lingering.

​After a long, overly showy moment of consideration, (and perhaps against his better judgment) Khobi returns the greeting, and finds himself on the receiving end of a wide, particularly feline smirk.

Shameless, the guy winks at him, and if Khobi flexes just a little more than strictly necessary as he leans back, well, who’s to blame him?

​Montrel catches the exchange and gives him a companionally shove, grin plastered from ear to ear.

​"A Captain, eh Khobi?" he jibes, and Khobi just rolls a crack out of his neck and folds his arms across his chest, just to see if said captain notices.

​From the way he raises an eyebrow in his direction, he most certainly does.

​"Dunno what you’re talking about."

​"Whatever you say," Montrel snickers, shaking his head in disbelief, like he didn’t think he had it in him.

"Look at you, kid, flirtin’ like a real pro."

Frankly, Khobi’s a little offended. It’s not like he’s made of stone.

He just has a bit more self control than the average soldier.

​More, but perhaps not quite as much as he thought –not with the way those catlike eyes are gleaming at him in the firelight.

He didn’t fight the guy on the battlefield, but he’d glimpsed enough to know that he was well deserving of the title Captain.

He can’t sing for shit, but he’s strong, for sure, and knows his way around a sword.

​(He wonders dimly, what else he might be good at.)