Post by Osvald, Gummy, & Terrible Co. on May 24, 2015 1:48:13 GMT 1
Osvald had been in the Great Hall for quite a some time now just enjoying himself. It’s been a year since he last had some time away from his dragons. That’s not to say that he didn’t miss them, or at least his Gronckle. Now that dragon never caused him much grief at all if any. No, it was the Terrors he was glad to be away from. Of course he knew that when they came back there would only be more of them.
“But that my friendsss… tha’s not to be happ’nin fer too lon,’” he took a big swig of his ale, “they be Terr’s af’er all, an’ they a’ways start new packs o’ they own.” He then grabbed someone else’s tankard and downed the beverage before finishing his story. “Then they be out o’ my hair. ‘Cept fer Ghost, he ne’er did leave the nest.” He slammed the empty container onto the table before drunkenly exclaiming “NEXT ROUND’S ON ME!” At this the table he was at cheered, even the viking he stole the drink from seemed to forget what just happened.
Yes, this was a great night, the food was great, the atmosphere joyful, and the ale was simply to die for. Then a whistling came from one of the other tables, indicating to everyone else that a dance was to come on. Seeing as most of his table began to clear up, he took that as his cue to get more food, since his seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. He couldn’t have eaten all that already, could he?
And when did he end up next to the Chief and start patting him on the back rambling about what a great feast this was? Ah well, who cares? He was having a blast! How much did he drink again? He couldn’t remember. “Hey, if ye e’er need any new boots, ye know where t’ find me. Hic!” He would never do this under sober circumstances, this was the Chief of Berk after all. Of course, being Chief meant being the most powerful viking in all of the village as well. Either way, the inappropriateness went right over Osvald’s head as he attempted to wink with both eyes and then sway over to the table of food.
He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, which happened to be a leg of lamb. He completely ignored the dragons that were investigating the same table, because he suddenly recognized someone sitting in a more quiet corner of the room. That someone was Woodrot.
“Hey! Hic!” He waved his leg, er, lamb leg in the air before stumbling closer. “Woodie! Hey, wha’ brin’s you here?” Picking the chair nearest to Woodrot, he half sat in it, and half flopped onto the table. He noticed the red-haired woman next to him. “This yer wom’n Woodie? Ha! Di’n’t think you had it in ye.” He didn’t register it, but he was reaching for Woodrot’s tankard now. Not that he wouldn’t have done that while sober. This was Woodrot after all, and from all his experience with the man, he was most definitely a loser in his books.
“But that my friendsss… tha’s not to be happ’nin fer too lon,’” he took a big swig of his ale, “they be Terr’s af’er all, an’ they a’ways start new packs o’ they own.” He then grabbed someone else’s tankard and downed the beverage before finishing his story. “Then they be out o’ my hair. ‘Cept fer Ghost, he ne’er did leave the nest.” He slammed the empty container onto the table before drunkenly exclaiming “NEXT ROUND’S ON ME!” At this the table he was at cheered, even the viking he stole the drink from seemed to forget what just happened.
Yes, this was a great night, the food was great, the atmosphere joyful, and the ale was simply to die for. Then a whistling came from one of the other tables, indicating to everyone else that a dance was to come on. Seeing as most of his table began to clear up, he took that as his cue to get more food, since his seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. He couldn’t have eaten all that already, could he?
And when did he end up next to the Chief and start patting him on the back rambling about what a great feast this was? Ah well, who cares? He was having a blast! How much did he drink again? He couldn’t remember. “Hey, if ye e’er need any new boots, ye know where t’ find me. Hic!” He would never do this under sober circumstances, this was the Chief of Berk after all. Of course, being Chief meant being the most powerful viking in all of the village as well. Either way, the inappropriateness went right over Osvald’s head as he attempted to wink with both eyes and then sway over to the table of food.
He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, which happened to be a leg of lamb. He completely ignored the dragons that were investigating the same table, because he suddenly recognized someone sitting in a more quiet corner of the room. That someone was Woodrot.
“Hey! Hic!” He waved his leg, er, lamb leg in the air before stumbling closer. “Woodie! Hey, wha’ brin’s you here?” Picking the chair nearest to Woodrot, he half sat in it, and half flopped onto the table. He noticed the red-haired woman next to him. “This yer wom’n Woodie? Ha! Di’n’t think you had it in ye.” He didn’t register it, but he was reaching for Woodrot’s tankard now. Not that he wouldn’t have done that while sober. This was Woodrot after all, and from all his experience with the man, he was most definitely a loser in his books.