A New Friend

"Raivo," he answered, and took Otto's hand with a firm grip. Not like his handshake meant much after his drunken introduction. This Otto the Younger fellow was no doubt formidable, the type with which Raivo would have used extreme caution in approaching. If sober, Raivo might not have approached at all, despite the wolf scent. A decade in a guild full of thieves and assassins taught him the most important lesson, pick your targets wisely.

When it came to making friends, Raivo had the same policy. Those he could trust included other exiled guild members and bartenders who served him unpoisoned ale. Never had another werewolf come into the equation. This fellow though, Otto the younger, there was something else about him aside from their shared curse that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Well if you're the younger," Raivo said clearly, drunken stupor wearing off over the shock of meeting this man. "I'd hate to see the size of the elder."

Wolfman

“Aye, maybe,” Otto mumbled. He had been on several adventures, though he was not sure if he had a sense for such.

He watched the barmaiden move around the corner. She tilted her head and smiled, though he was not sure to whom she batted her eyes. This fellow seemed like the sort that kept the taverns running well, though Otto admitted he knew nothing of the man to think such a thin.

He looked over the fellow. Despite his witty remarks, the man was fearsome. Such nails! Otto had only seen such daggers on the eagles or wolves! He was a dangerous-looking fellow – and likely an even deadlier werewolf.

“I am Otto the Younger,” he said simply and offered his own large hand to the beast before him. “Pleased to drink your ale.”

More drink

"You just need a few more drinks in ya," Raivo said, slurred nearly to the point of jibberish. Even with the other wolf's sharpened hearing, it'd be a miracle for him to have made out the words. Even so, the giant Raivo had sniffed out must have comprehended what was being said better than Raivo himself.

Full of liquid courage, Raivo slapped the other wolf on the back while shouting at the barmaiden for another round, on him.

"No sense of adventure," he said, and somehow it was more coherent than his previous statement.

Face to Face

Otto had been certain the phrase was not uttered to him. He knew no one there, and few paid him mind. Still, the strange words echoed over and over, pointed at him. He turned on the stool, watching his knees as he turned, and looked down into the other man's eyes.

"Friend, I am going to have to pass," he said with a laugh.

Then, once the smell of the drinks passed, he could smell the blood of the werewolf passing through this one. Somewhere in the ale there was a beast. Otto had not been expecting that. He considered taking the man's offer, but reservation would be better. He had not seen another werewolf in a very long time.

"Sit, if you can manage it," he said instead.

Never Too Many Drinks

For once, Raivo failed to finish his drink. He set it down on the counter, careful not to knock his, or anyone else's over. It might still be needed later, but whether for celebration or to ease pain was a toss up.

His feet hit the floor with a thud as he slid off the stool, arms out for balance. There were more of them, he was sure of that now. Watching the behemoth he suspected talk amongst his friends had confirmed that, drunk idiots though they may be. Perhaps they'd be easier to get along with.

Raivo took his time to confront the stranger, one step at a time, careful not to trip or knock anyone over. Whatever conflict that might arise from such an accident, Raivo would win no doubt, but it would draw unneeded attention. One step at a time, still using his arms for balance, occasionally swaying with his steps until he stood where the other werewolf sat.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Raivo blurted out. Until the words left his mouth, he never once thought there was such a thing as "too drunk."

Watched

Otto drank his first bit of mead. He did not want it to disappear so quickly. He had worked hard for his father and picked up a job escorting some fool chieftan to the mountains for his coin. He did not want the drink to go to waste. As the delicious poison pulled apart his muscle, he found himself thinking lighter and happier things. Helga was refilling drinks. Fin's friends were down the bench drinking. One was nearly on the floor. He grumbled and finished his drink.

The thick hairs on his back stood. He could swear someone was watching him, but the place was crowded, and he was a large man. Of course someone was staring at the massive Otto the Younger. Someone always was. Besides that, he had just finished a long journey home through McLain's foul swamps full of watching witches. A journey like that made a man's hair stand on end for days.

He scratched at the hairs. They still would not settle. He grumbled and turned to the tables where some of the men gambled on stones. The counter was too busy with moving bodies to see anyone. He scratched the hairs and moved toward Fin's friends.

"You boys being good?" he asked, not sure how to speak to the whelps. Of course they weren't being good. They were three strapping young men drinking at the tavern without anyone to watch them. "Not picking fights with an'one bigger than yerselves?"

They were too drunk to understand. Otto grumbled and lumbered to the counter for another drink.

The Tavern

The force with which Raivo slammed his empty glass onto the bar nearly caused him to fall off his stool. Grasping the edge of the counter with his free hand, he steadied himself, head spinning. So his reflexes still worked, in spite of his balance washing away with every drink he swallowed. Raivo took a moment to steady himself, a few slow breaths to make his head stop spinning.

Raivo risked a glance around the room. Crowded, full of faces either new or long forgotten. The smell was of musk, sweat, and ale, plausibly tolerable for a human, but with a heightened sense of smell, Raivo thanked the Gods alcohol dulled the senses. Though one scent stood out. The scent that invoked a sense of familiarity, kinship, and likeness. He was not the only one of his kind here tonight.

Turning back to the counter, he found his glass once again full. At least the wench had the hang of it. He would have to remember to tip her well, if he even made it out of the tavern conscious at the end of the night. Taking a sip, he spun on his stool once more, intent on locating the other werewolf. The brute on the bench might just be him.

"Keep an eye on that one," Raivo whispered to himself under his breath.