Tug
Pick a place to die where it's high and dry
U
nlike so many of his blood-brothers, Tug had never been one for the sin of alcohol. The things he'd done haunted him, surely, he saw things at night that left him jerking awake, shaking and soaked in sweat.But never did he drown his sorrows in alcohol and, in fact, he tended to give it a wide berth for fear of finding himself as so many soldiers before him.
And besides, while he was not on duty, while he was to enjoy himself ('for once in your life, brother!') and 'eat and drink and be merry', he was always on guard, always on watch. A party with liquor flowing could only bring about trouble, would bring about rowdiness and fights, arguments over who would dance with who, people who'd imbibed too much getting just a bit too rowdy.
So it was he stood at the edge of the crowd, rump to the wall, a plate of 'nibbles' as the fancy folk insisted on calling them held close though he focused, mainly, on watching the crowd as they twirled and talked and drank and ate.
Tell 'em where you been
Pray that Hell or Heaven lets you in
