The second wedding wasn’t grand. It was loud, messy, and real, a city barely standing throwing a feast in the rubble. Fires burned in oil drums, drums thudded from scavver hands, and every table was stacked with whatever could be pulled from stores, traded, or stolen for the night. Clay jugs of rough brew were passed from hand to hand, sharp enough to strip rust, sweet enough to make you forget the ache of living.
No one thought to stop Styll when she tugged one of the jugs toward her with little ferret claws. Someone even laughed, muttering, “What’s the worst she can do?”
The first few sips just made her whiskers twitch, her silverback fur bristling. By the time the jug was half gone, she was standing upright on the table like a commander addressing her troops, tail whipping for balance.
“Warn!” she squeaked, then screeched louder, her voice cracking in strange new ways. “Warn is big liar! Warn says Styll get more chicken, but Styll never gets chicken! Warn only gives bones!”
The whole table erupted, scavvers pounding their fists, Jurpat nearly choking on his drink. Warren tried to hush her, but she stabbed a claw in his direction and continued.
“And you!” she shrieked, pointing at Jurpat, her little body wobbling with fury. “Tall boy! Thinks he’s strong, but Styll saws him cry when Bastard steal his boots!” Read full story at novęlfire.net
Jurpat’s mouth opened, closed, and then he just groaned into his cup as the tribesmen howled with laughter.
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Styll staggered across the table, stepping in plates and kicking over mugs. She stopped in front of Manmeat and hissed, “Manmeat! Fancy boy! Always combing hairs, but hairs look stupid!”
Cassian’s jaw dropped. “What the hells did she just...”
“Stupid!” Styll shouted again, tail lashing, before lurching toward Florence. “And Florence! Always saying Stylls is cute, but Florence talks too much! Shut ups!”
The crowd was in tears now, tribesmen slapping each other on the back, Bastard sitting smug with his tail curled, as if enjoying the chaos.
Then she turned on Deana. “And you, Deana! All smiles, all pretty dress, but Styll remembers when you call Styll a rats! Rats!”
The laughter stalled. Deana’s face went crimson. Warren pressed his palm into his eyes.
“Styll…” he muttered, but it was too late.
She spun, claws raised like daggers. “Grixes! Nanuk! Cats! All of you! Think you better than Styll! You nots! Styll fights everyones! Styll wins!”
Bastard yawned, stuffed and unbothered, and Styll flung a plate at him. It hit Batu in the head. The scavvers howled again, drunk and delighted.
By the time Warren managed to grab her by the scruff, she was swearing at Anza, calling her “loud bug-eater with dumb hair, ” and trying to pick a fight with Muk-Tah, who just looked deeply confused.
She kicked, hissed, and spat the whole way down before slumping in Warren’s arms, hiccuping and muttering, “Warn… liar… chicken bones…” until she passed out cold.
Warren carried her back to the house, tail limp over his arm. He set her on her bedding, tucked her in, and sat staring at her tiny, snoring form for a long while.
“Never again, ” he said finally, voice firm enough that even Bastard, lounging nearby, flicked his ear in acknowledgment. “Not one drop. Ever.”
The others teased him for weeks, retelling the night’s chaos like a favorite campfire tale. But true to his word, Warren never let her near drink again.