Pursuit of the Sun 1.2

—Yeah... —the berserker says meaningfully after a long pause, tossing the writing utensils into the empty mug. —With such a masterpiece, it's not a pity to sink to the bottom of the void, to scatter in the wind with the knowledge of combat styles, so to speak... —He runs his hand over his forehead and reads the resulting masterpiece of their joint creation once more. —It turned out great, guys. If mostly dark days occur in the world given to us, then for the sake of void balance, something like today had to happen. My face hurts, my mind hurts, but my soul has been cleansed by drinking and newfound wisdom. Let our battle cry spread throughout the world, from the cold north to the hot south, so that people sincerely slap each other in the name of fun and the void.

—I wouldn't have expressed it better myself! —Sigheber drowns a tired but satisfied tear of a proud teacher in beer. —Here's literacy for you, for once it's not just a loss of sanity. Cheers, everyone! Well, the evening is just beginning — I suggest everyone grab a woman and continue the gathering in the bathhouse — so that not only souls and minds are cleansed, but also mortal bodies. Who's with me?
Judging by the cheerful expressions on their faces, almost everyone is. Only Baison, who was waiting for Rigobert in the tavern, and Hans refused at first. The latter was looking so intently at his meager purse that Daile had to bring him to his senses with a light tap on the back of the head and an assurance that if someone couldn't afford to chip in, someone else would chip in for him, because the coins are all the same, and they are unlikely to live to see next year, and even if they do meet again, the moment will be irrevocably lost.

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—What are these scribbles? And who are you? Answer me.

The lackey just opens his mouth, and it becomes clear that there will be no answer — because he has no tongue.