When you are sad...
     I will get you drunk and help you plot revenge
     against the scum-sucking bastard who made you sad.
When you are scared...
     I will laugh at you and tease you about it every chance I get.
When you are worried...
     I will tell you how much worse it could be and to quit complaining.
When you are confused...
     I will use little words to explain it to your dumb ass.
When you are sick...
     I will hold your hair while you pay homage to the porcelain god.
When you fall...
     I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
This is my oath... I pledge until the end.
Why you may ask?
Because you're my friend.

=================

Day 2, at the post-wedding celebration

There'd been a couple of false starts involved before he got around to it, 
but Tinker had finally managed to gain the attentions of Lord Fowler. A 
momentary shiver of self-doubt made his skin tingle from head to toe as he 
reviewed the checklist of things to say and questions to ask. One just 
didn't walk casually up to one of the kingdom's nobility and make casual 
conversation.

His Lordship had recognized Tinker at once when the latter man came into 
view the first time, remembering him from the hearing about the former Lord 
Gingle. One of his aides had remembered the facts that had slipped Fowler's 
weary mind, supplying them when Fowler had seen Tinker start-and-stop a 
couple of times in his general directions. 'Poor lad,' the Lord had 
thought. 'Newly Joined to a dragon after a lifetime of being spoonfed the 
Cult's lies.' His own brush with the Cult - including the death of his son 
- immediately endeared Tinker in his eyes. Both were victims, and were 
doing what they could to ensure that justice would be done.

"Young Thralenkier," Fowler's booming voice echoed in Tinker's ear, 
bringing with it the faint scent of dragonwine. "Let me offer my 
congratulations on your Joining."

Tinker's firm grip on himself slipped for a moment, his eyes widening in 
surprise and his rehearsed litany of ideas forgotten for the moment. 
"T-th-thank you, Your Lordship. You are too kind."

"Nonsense, lad," replied the nobleman. "Few enough of us Landbound are 
chosen as riders by the dragonkin. It warms me to think of what Gingle 
would think of this - the bastard, may he rot eternally, would turn purple 
with rage at one of his subjects learning the truth he longed to keep from 
them. It gladdens me to see you - even in the short time you've been free 
of his spell, it's like you've become a new man, and you are better for 
it." The latter sentiment was punctuated with a grin and a gentle finger 
poking at Tinker's chest on every word.

At the mention of Gingle's name, Tinker's face flushed with embarassment 
and anger, the former at how he'd acted when he'd first arrived, and the 
latter at the man whose shame Tinker now wore like a cloak he couldn't 
shed. "I d-don't know what to say to that, Your Lordship, but to thank you 
again."

A gesture from Fowler brought a goblet forth from one of his attendants, 
one that Fowler himself took and handed to Tinker, pressing it into the 
smith's hands with a powerful, working-man's grip. Fowler raised his own 
goblet in the air a bit, holding Tinker's grey eyes with his own. "I salute 
you, young Thralenkier. To your health, and that of your dragon partner."

Tinker took the toast with as much grace as he could muster, raising his 
own tankard in return. "And to yours, Lord Fowler, and your kith and kin." 
Both men took healthy pulls from their glasses, the smooth and strong 
flavor of the drink taking Tinker by surprise in how much he liked it.

Fowler saw the surprise on Tinker's face and laughed heartily, clapping the 
wiry dragonrider on the back with a friendly hand. "Beware of women and 
strong drink, my friend. Both can be a great joy, or your undoing."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Tinker replied earnestly. "Actually, I did 
have something to ask you, if you have the time."

The rather no-nonsense Lord waited just long enough for a passing server to 
refill his goblet, then nodded. "What do you want from me?" The shock on 
Tinker's face amused Fowler for a moment, who then realized that he 
might've upset the boy's sensibilities. "Oh, don't be like that. I wasn't 
born into my position, lad. I've just come to know that most people want 
things from me, and I prefer laying it out on the table rather than dancing 
around the subject. Out with it, then."

Again, Tinker was flustered for a few moments as he marshaled his thoughts. 
"Well, sire, it has to do with coal."

Fowler wasn't terribly surprised. Most of his interaction with the Warren 
came in the form of tithes from his extensive coal-mining operation. Coal 
was first and foremost used to fuel the dragons' fires in Wraith combat, 
but no small amount of it was used for heating, cooking... and blacksmith 
work, though he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen anything come 
across his desk regarding allocations for a forge. "Go on."

"Well, the forge here at Whiteriver has been dormant for over a year, and 
I've gotten permission from Merissa to revive it and take on some of the 
metalwork requirements for the Warrenfolk. To do that, I'm going to need 
quality coal stocks to work from."

The Lord's face took on a thoughtful edge. "The Warren already gets some of 
the best quality coal to come out of my mines, lad. Can't you take it out 
of that allocation?"

"It's the wrong kind," Tinker stated flatly. "What you send to the Warren 
is good coal - I've handled it personally. But it's the wrong sort. The 
best kind for forge work is the hard variety, anthracite. It's harder to 
initially ignite, but it burns hotter and longer than the softer coals."

Nodding, Fowler took another swallow of wine. It wasn't often that he found 
someone who could speak intelligibly on the rather complex subject of coal 
- but, being of miner stock himself, it was a subject that held no small 
amount of fascination for him. "Indeed," was the Lord's only commentary, 
but his hands and eyes gestured Tinker to continue.

Which he did. "There's also the issue of impurities. The softer coals have 
a higher concentration of other things in them than anthracite, and when 
working with some of the more reactive alloys, those impurities can have 
lasting effects. Blades become brittle, armor rusts too quickly... even 
jewelry can be spoilt by high impurities in the forge. My master found some 
ways to eliminate the effect of some impurities, but many of them are 
impractical on a small scale basis."

Suddenly intrigued, Fowler raised a hand to halt Tinker's diatribe. "Who 
was your master?"

Tinker's head tilted to the side a measure as he tried to make sense of the 
question's timing. "Rathlog, your Lordship."

"Ah," Fowler said in great thoughtfulness - and a measure of respect could 
be heard in his tone as well. "Your choice in masters was fortunate. One of 
the few independents to work within Windtide and avoid Gingle's wrath. He's 
well known throughout the Lands, and well thought of."

"I thank you on his behalf, Lord Fowler," Tinker replied earnestly. "One of 
the lessons he drilled into me was that of quality work, as I'm sure you 
know if you know of him. Having a good supply of the right coal will do a 
lot toward giving the Warren the best my meager skills can provide."

Fowler's laugh was loud and honest, and he again clapped Tinker on the 
back. "I see you bear Rathlog's humility lessons as well. One of the best 
smiths to ever work a forge, and he's always 'humble' this and 'meager' 
that... if you learned as much metalwork from him as you did modesty, son, 
I will have to commission a blade or ten from you for my guards."

Tinker smiled shyly and his skin flushed the lightest hint of pink. "You 
are too kind, Lord Fowler," he replied earnestly.

"Don't push it, son," Fowler teased in return. "Now let us test your 
knowledge, then. I've never worked in a forge, but I understand coal and 
fire quite well."

What followed next would have only been interesting to blacksmiths, boiler 
workers, or civil engineers. The level of technical detail and depth to 
which the subjects were explored would have stunned less-knowledgeable 
personages, but from the outside it just looked like an ordinary, if 
boisterous, conversation - and it successfully insulated Tinker from having 
to talk to anyone else.

==============

Day 2, evening
Same party, different personage

Sarah took a moment to lean against the wall in the Dining Hall as people 
flowed past her. She hadn't intended to come, but the noise had woken her 
up. It seemed like a good idea at the time somehow, but most things did, 
she thought as she rubbed her eyes blearily.

The wedding itself had been short and to the point, a blessed change from 
most of the weddings she had been at. The problem was this interminable 
reception.

Dizzily, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her own breathing. It 
had started out harmlessly, a glass of wine with dinner to control her fear 
at being with so many people. But the glass had been refilled and refilled 
more times than she knew. Watching the dancers, someone had pressed a glass 
of honey mead into her hands.

Unthinkingly, she had been drinking whatever was thrown at her. And now she 
was quite thoroughly, she mused to herself as she hiccuped in the darkness 
behind her eyes and stifled a giggle, plastered. Not throwing-up drunk, but 
if she didn't settle some food and water in her soon, she would be.

Blinking a few times to clear her head, she tried to focus on the flames 
across the room. Somewhere near the hearth there had been trays of food 
left out for the party guests and that's where she was heading even though 
she didn't feel very hungry. Sarah tried very hard not to stumble, smiling 
vapidly at the puffy blurs of faces whirling by her on the dance floor like 
a child's spinning toy gone mad.

Holding the flames in her mind like a beacon, she staggered and wove across 
the crowd in inner silence Nobody else would have noticed her difficulty 
because she was moving around knots of people, unless they had looked in 
her eyes. Glassy, unseeing, they stared at nothing in an attempt not to be 
overwhelmed by everything.

As she placed her hands on the edge of the nearest food table with a sigh, 
she had a small moment of gratefulness. At least she wouldn't remember any 
of this in the morning. Bad enough to go through it once, never mind twice.

Sarah had been lucky (or cursed) to be blessed with the rare trait among 
women of not getting hangovers. Blackouts were infrequent, as she wasn't 
normally a heavy drinker, but the more likely result from an overdose. This 
was a blessing in disguise with claustrophobia, because it meant she could 
drink enough to overcome her fears but not have to relive the experience in 
the morning.

Tonight, she thought as she picked out some fruit and cheeses to go with 
the cold cuts piled high on the plate, she'd overdone it just a wee bit 
somehow.

Slumping into a chair near the fire, she nibbled at her meal and asked a 
serving girl for a pitcher of water and a glass. Provided with said a few 
minutes later, she rapidly downed half the pitcher without even pouring it 
into a glass, belching loudly and giggling. One young fellow turned to look 
at her, but grinned when she just shrugged and looked innocent. Too much 
air in her system. Thankfully the music covered the noise.

Now that she had some water in her to buffer it, she began on the food in 
earnest. The fruit went first, since that's what her body seemed willing to 
accept with a blood alcohol level that should have left her asleep on the 
floor. She alternated between meats and cheeses until her body stopped 
feeling like it was going to spin apart and put the plate down.

Carefully, she tucked her head between her knees and closed her eyes. First 
thing was to let the food do its work, to regain her equilibrium. Second 
thing was to get the heck out of here. Enough for one night. Quite enough. 
She'd done her duty to warren and hold already.

In the darkness and relative calm, Sarah finally started to feel a little 
like herself again. She waited a few more minutes between risking movement 
of any sort, especially moving her head upwards. Staring for a long moment, 
she waited until the dance floor resolved itself into individual human 
forms instead of an incredible writing mass of colour and flesh.

Somewhere off in the distance was the door. All she had to do was get back 
across the dance floor and she could go home and go back to sleep in front 
of the fire. This would all be forgotten in the morning.

With very slow, deliberate movements, Sarah rose from the chair and 
steadied herself. Good, the floor was staying still. The bride floated by 
with a heady laugh and she dropped a barely civil curtsey to the new couple 
- any more and she would have toppled.

Intent on her goal, she inched past them and began working her way across 
the floor again. Small steps, don't look at anyone directly, weave with the 
flow of the music. The process of making progress was a sort of dance in 
itself, tossed to and fro on the movements of the celebrants like an errant 
leaf along the river outside.

About halfway across the dance floor, she overheard a voice debating 
vociferously about anthracite and volatility and energy conservation. 
Turning her head absently, she watched a familiar lock of white hair 
nestled in a carpet of black-brown bob up and down in time with the voice.

It wasn't until the voice stopped and the hair started to move that she 
began following it. It wasn't intentional really, but it drew her across 
the room like a moth to a flame. So bright. So different.

Catching up to the dancing lock of hair was a bit of a surprise, and trying 
to attach the voice that went with it turned out to be very hard.

=========

Tinker was in something vaguely approximating Sarah's condition when she 
ran into him. The conversation with Fowler had been both terrifying in its 
complexity and dizzying in the depths, twists and turns that it took, and 
neither man had kept careful track of the number of times their glasses had 
been filled. Fowler seemed to be fairly undisturbed by the quantity drunk, 
but Tinker had started first feeling the warmth, then slowly-spreading 
disconnected feeling as more of the alcohol wound its way into his 
bloodstream. His thoughts remained clear and sharp, but he could slowly 
sense his body starting to betray him.

Eventually, though, someone else had decided Tinker had hoarded the 
visiting Lord long enough, and with a hint of disappointment, Fowler had 
shifted to attend to the latest supplicant to desire his attentions. While 
he was disappointed at losing his excuse for 'being social' and staying 
around the party, Tinker celebrated inwardly that not only was Fowler going 
to divert a goodly supply of the proper coal for the forge, he was also 
deeply interested in the lighting project Tinker had outlined briefly. In 
exchange for being kept abreast of developments in that arena - and 
permission to use Tinker's ideas in his own holdings - Fowler was willing 
to provide other materials, including the piping that was the heart of the 
system.

But, at the moment, most of what he was feeling was an urge to leave. No 
one else seemed terribly interesting to talk to from those that could be 
seen, and he still felt the stings of several peoples' disapproving glances 
in his direction. Even as it stiffened his resolve to prove himself to the 
Warrenfolk, their negativity toward him felt like a smothering blanket 
around him.

He turned to leave, only to find himself face to face with Sarah. Even with 
his limited knowledge of people and even more limited knowledge of her, he 
noticed at once that she looked much the worse for wear for having been in 
the gathering.

"Sarah," he said somewhat glumly, "You got stuck coming out too?"

She nodded, very slowly. "Yes, I thought I should come but now I think it 
might be a good time to leave. I don't feel well."

Her exhausted brain struggled with remembering who this person was. A 
stupid nursery rhyme about tinkers and tailors and sailors tickled across 
her consciousness, but it was enough.

"Tinker, I've had a little too much to drink," she said, amazingly steady 
considering her condition. "I think I need to go home but I'm having some 
trouble getting around the crowd and could use an escort..."

Sympathy flooded the young man's eyes. That explained the difference in 
her, and it was a syndrome he'd come to know well in his youth from seeing 
many of his elders find their way to the bottom of their cups on a regular 
basis. Remembering something she'd told him before about herself and 
crowds, he ventured, "Had a few to take the edge off the fear?"

Sarah nodded. "They refilled it - I didn't notice..."

Gently, he took the woman by the arm and began leading her out of the 
building, helping her to weave through the people and the dancers towards 
the blessedly fresh air outside. Stepping out of the throng into the 
moonlight made Sarah feel like she'd grown wings and could fly.

For all of ten seconds.

Tinker knew the vaguely squirmy look on her face and steered her off to a 
nearby handy bush. Without wondering if his own stomach could handle it - 
and being bolstered somewhat by Narshada's endless fountain of support - he 
held her hair out of her face and waited until the worst effects of her 
body's reaction subsided.

"Well, that wasn't exactly a surprise," he offered when she looked up at 
him with a mortified expression. Handing her his pocket cloth, he offered 
with the faintest bit of cheer, "But you probably feel a WHOLE lot better now."

Sarah looked up at him with shaded eyes and gaping mouth, blushing bright 
red in the relative darkness. "I am so embarrassed. I've never been sick 
like that before, I'm sorry..."

Tinker wrapped an arm around her shoulder, all protectiveness and 
reassurance bolstered by his own measure of liquid courage. "There's 
nothing to be sorry for, Miss Sarah. It happens to the best of us 
sometimes. Especially when people conspire to get us too drunk."

"You're right though," she said with a giggle, "I do feel better now." 
Sarah thought feeling better had more to do with being outside than 
throwing up a whole plate of dinner and gods knew how many glasses of 
alcohol. Being with a friend helped too - and after three days here, Tinker 
was the closest thing to a friend she had.

The teacher closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself. 
Tinker watched her, unsure if he should go back in or stay with her. He 
didn't want to be at this party, and now that the coal issue was as settled 
as it would ever be, she probably needed her more.

Besides, he would rather be with her than all of them. But he had to keep 
that from Narshada or she would become insufferable. Besides, he didn't 
want to leave her all alone, not like this. The nascent gentleman in him 
just couldn't do it.

"Sarah, why don't I walk you home. It'd be safer that way," he said, taking 
a huge chance, but not sure what else to do. He'd noticed the number of 
folks sleeping off last night's party in whatever places they'd fallen 
down, and the thought of Sarah being in that position offended something 
deep within him. He just wouldn't allow it - she deserved her dignity, if 
nothing else.

Opening her eyes, Sarah nodded, slowly, then reached out to wrap Tinker in 
her arms for a grateful, if slightly drunken, hug. "That... might be a good 
idea."

Completely off guard, Tinker stood feeling like a fool for a moment before 
he hugged her back and gently stood her up. The feel of her body wrapped 
around his sent all the blood in his veins crazy and he couldn't afford 
that right now.

Taking her hand very gently, he led her across the green in the darkness, 
trusting himself to see the holes and trip-spots she might not. The night 
hid his flaming cheeks and shy grin as he dropped her off at the door with 
a whispered good-night and headed home himself after a long day.

[* Why did you not mate with her, Tinker? *] Narshada asked when he moved 
quietly into their part of the hatchling barracks. [* It's obvious to me 
that you both want to mate. *]

Tinker threw a pillow at Narshada, the soft missile barely missing her and 
bouncing off the wall. "It's not like that at all. People are different 
when they're drunk. They wind up doing things they'll regret the next day. 
Ask around if you don't believe me. Listen to how many stories you'll hear 
from your kin about how their riders had some problem or other because of 
things they did while drunk."

He retrieved the pillow and settled in to get some much-needed sleep, but 
Narshada remained awake for a while. She did just that, asking many of the 
older joined dragons to tell her stories of the sort Tinker had described. 
What she learned surprised her immensely, and amused her no end, as those 
stories did all dragons. Most of the stories she got were of a sort she 
began calling 'mating under the influence', and they seemed to be some of 
the more interesting stories she'd ever heard about the humans.

Being a dragon, though, she couldn't understand the big deal about the 
subject, or the recriminations that always followed such things... and she 
realized that humans tended to want to mate more when drunk than sober. If 
Tinker was ever to learn to mate, she decided, she'd have to keep track of 
the women who got drunk a lot and steer him in their direction.

_____________________
NRPG: Still more on the way... but probably not tonight.
_____________________
Respectfully submitted,

Brian Cook as Tinker/Narshada
   and
Betty Punkert as Sarah


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