The Stable Boy

Fifty feet and fists stomping the floor and banging on tables shakes the entire room and almost lifts him in the air, certainly lifts the ale from his tankard. He’s not familiar with the tune it sounds Dwarvish but he stomps along all the same with the fast paced strings and flutes and growling voices.
Vistra is in the center on a table crooning the song sung in her honor, her braids falling in front of her face and clapping her hands passionately. Kieran thought he saw tears last time her face was turned upwards toward the light.
She is beautiful.
Kieran came to her delivering an offer from the family for half her hoard of mythril, Malcer sent him running as soon as word reached Charlamaine of the miner who traveled back to town with her chest out and head held high. She’d taken one look at him then put her meaty hands on his shoulders and clicked her tongue saying those bloody elves have gotten to you, like they were long friends. She snatched the sash from his waist and tried to rip his work tunic in two but only managed to split it to his bellybutton exposing his chest.
It sent a shiver up his spine and down to his toes, thinking about it now does the same.
He wants to touch her again, he reaches out to do so but someone pushes him and he falls into a sweaty bosom. Strong arms wrap around him and they dance, he and this unknown person, hopping and turning together in rhythm, giggling madly until he’s absolutely dizzy and plops down next to the richest dwarf in the town.
“More ale,” Vistra says, “no cup be empty in my presence ever again.”
“You’ll be out of money by night’s end” someone yells.
The tavern erupts in laughter.
“Nay, I have money enough for a hundred years,” she says quietly.
The air is muggy and thick in here now from all the bodies crammed in. Kieran leans in towards her close enough to feel the heat from her exhale so that he may speak lowly and she will still hear him.
“Will you stay here in Mythrite?”
She laughs so hard she spits out her beer.
“This is a place for coming not staying and I’ve got what I’ve come for."
She looks over at him and ruffles his hair.
"You smile too much,” she says.
“I can’t fathom much else at the moment.”
“You talk like ‘em too those elves, did you know?”
Kieran looks down shaking his head embarrassed yet pleased Vistra gives any mind to how he speaks.
It’s just the truth. Like those first days of spring waking invigorated to the yellow’s of the dawn instead of walking in near black to the stables, nothing Bjorn or the curt word of a Ilphelkiir family member could do to wipe the smile from his face.
Vistra never even considered the offer, the entire reason he was sent here, she probably didn’t hear it she was too drunk. It was a good offer or at least Malcer seemed to think so; maybe it wasn’t, maybe his confidence meant nothing, what an extraordinary thought.
That was hours ago and it feels longer, when this tavern was a wild, indecent place and now it was so familiar and he never wanted to leave. He should insist Vistra hears the offer and escort her to Charlamaine to meet with the family but the idea makes his nose turn upwards. He wants to have fun. He wants to dance and stomp and drink and smile, and he does just that but it all ends eventually.
He doesn’t remember but he’s walking through the district back to the Ilphelkiir demi-palace on the hill. He stayed too long, it’s the in between hours when the salacious establishments are closed and the day places aren’t due to open for another hour or so.
Someone tries to burgle him but all he has is the clothes on his back and they’re torn and soaked in ale. He tells his assailant as much and tries to be polite.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, ruffian?”
The ruffian slams a fist squarely in Kieran's face and sends him sprawling on the cobbled ground.
His legs feel so heavy as he begins the climb up Charlamaine Hill. He can hear his father saying “at least you’re not down a mine.”
Vistra was down a mine then she got what she came for.
He looks down at the Halberd where all is quiet. Those were working folk, his kinsmen, they have somewhere to be in the morning. Their simple houses just like his mother’s in Waterdeep except squashed together; he was raised in an open field with a manor in the distance. What is he here for? Nothing, he’s just doing what he’s always done and his coming here and his leaving has nothing to do with him. The sky’s already turning indigo, soon he’ll be feeding Windfola, Shadowfax, and Snowyowl, they’ll trot around for a bit in the bullpen while he cleans their stables and then he’ll take firefly for a ride along the wall since she’s been feeling restless; all the while Malcer and Varis and all of Mythrite will be looking for what they came for.
He flings the seeds from the tiny feed bag spraying them over the floor and stuffs everything he can into it hurridly, just two tunics and a pair of socks, pulls a pair of trousers over the ones he has on, buckles his tool belt around his hips, and wears his heavy winter coat dashing from his chamber, through the kitchen, out the service entrance and tumbling down the hill clear of Charlamaine.