Nyashechka Kavai
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A little loli girl ran down the stairs into the hall and began to dance around the nearest empty table. Hostor frowned as he watched this scene, his face twisting slightly in bewilderment. The girl continued to cut quick circles around the table, paying no one any mind. Hos, thinking for a moment (if such a word is applicable to his state), shifted his gaze to a mug of moonshine—already the seventh on the table, but the only full one—then looked at the girl again and sharply downed the swill. The alcohol burned his throat, making him wince, but there had long since been nothing left to eat as a chaser. With a loud thud, the mug landed on the table. Hostor raised his head, trying to catch sight of the dancing girl, but it was as if she weren't even there. After sitting in bewilderment for another minute, Hos let out a hearty burp and reached a conclusion:
- It both maims and heals... The old fool wasn't lying, that's for sure...
Hostor tried to stand up, but he was suddenly pulled sharply to the left and fell, knocking over the small table he had been sitting at. There was one huge plus to the innkeeper's death—no one was in a hurry to scold/demand payment/throw out an intoxicated guest. Cursing colorfully, the man crawled out of the "danger zone," scooted toward the wall and, leaning on it, began to rise. Standing on his feet more shakily than firmly, Hostor headed for the stairs, still clutching the wall and tearing off random notices such as "Seeking a paladin girl, slender, with breasts at least size 2 and blue eyes for joint sessions of exorcism and casting demons out of mortal bodies. Arandor, room 12" and "I'm sick of this fantasy. Loki."
Having reached the coveted stairs leading up to the rooms, the man paused to think. By some miracle, the remaining sober fragment of his more-than-completely drunk mind suggested that a flight down the stairs would lead to nothing good, so Hos chose his own technique of ascent, already proven by experience: sitting on a step, he scooted toward the second and, lifting himself up, sat on the next. This method could not be called fast, but the probability of tumbling was noticeably lower. After n amount of time ("someone" managed to doze off on the fourth step of the second flight), the man finally made it into the corridor with the rooms. He made it out, got onto his feet, and then horror gripped him—he didn't remember the number of his room...
- It both maims and heals... The old fool wasn't lying, that's for sure...
Hostor tried to stand up, but he was suddenly pulled sharply to the left and fell, knocking over the small table he had been sitting at. There was one huge plus to the innkeeper's death—no one was in a hurry to scold/demand payment/throw out an intoxicated guest. Cursing colorfully, the man crawled out of the "danger zone," scooted toward the wall and, leaning on it, began to rise. Standing on his feet more shakily than firmly, Hostor headed for the stairs, still clutching the wall and tearing off random notices such as "Seeking a paladin girl, slender, with breasts at least size 2 and blue eyes for joint sessions of exorcism and casting demons out of mortal bodies. Arandor, room 12" and "I'm sick of this fantasy. Loki."
Having reached the coveted stairs leading up to the rooms, the man paused to think. By some miracle, the remaining sober fragment of his more-than-completely drunk mind suggested that a flight down the stairs would lead to nothing good, so Hos chose his own technique of ascent, already proven by experience: sitting on a step, he scooted toward the second and, lifting himself up, sat on the next. This method could not be called fast, but the probability of tumbling was noticeably lower. After n amount of time ("someone" managed to doze off on the fourth step of the second flight), the man finally made it into the corridor with the rooms. He made it out, got onto his feet, and then horror gripped him—he didn't remember the number of his room...
