Work Text:
"So I said to the guy, "That's not a skeleton, that's my wife!"" John shouts to a table full of roaring adventurers, howls of laughter filling the tavern. One of them passes a flagon of ale to the armor-clad warrior, and John gives them a little two-fingered salute, grabbing it by the handle and looking down into the fuzzy foam.
The door gets kicked open by a boot clad in rusted, dented iron, a fellow knight dragging a broken bastard sword behind him, snapped cleanly in half from the tip down. Sir Strider lifts his visor up and then pulls back the hood of his coif. His presence a mild deterrent, a battle-worn body carrying itself across the tavern's floor and sitting across the table from John, shoving a small dwarven smith out of the way (he scrabbles angrily but slinks away into the crowd). Sir Strider pulls his sword up, still heavy despite its decapitation, and plants it firmly in the table. "You. Knight Egbert."
John musses their hair a little bit, pulling out a lengthy warpick and dropping it on the table in return, causing it to rattle. "That's me, alright. To whom do I owe the honor?"
"To me. Um. I?" Sir Strider grasps for words and then tugs at his cape in mild frustration. "I hear you can down five gallons of mead without breaking a single sweat. They say you have a stomach like a Tarrasque, that you gobble meals like a dragon gobbles up nobility, that--"
"Are you calling me fat? That's not very nice." John interrupted, clanking two armor-clad elbows onto the table and shunting their chin into their palms. "Seriously, can I help you?"
Sir Strider's face squenched up into a tight little ball of annoyance. "No, I'm not calling you fat. If I wanted to call you fat I would just call you fat. Why would I go through such odd pagentries if I was looking to insult your weight? Who would even do something like that? It's silly."
"You wouldn't be the first." John replied, dismissively waving a hand in the air. Indeed, if you really needed a way to describe them, calling them weighty would not be an inaccurate descriptor, although they were perhaps weighty in the sense that one who lifted heavy stones at a carnival was - broad, thickly proportioned, with more than enough muscle mass to drive a warpick through a dozen skeletons in a single swing. In comparison, it was a mystery to how Sir Strider hefted even the broken blade they carried, little more than a scarecrow under layers of platemail, although that, too, belied his true strength and ability. "Some people come up to me and they spend, like, a whole play's act challenging me to trial by combat, insulting my father, thinking that oh, the dwarf-like little Knight Egbert must be a pushover! There's no way they deserve the renown they've acquired."
"And then what happens?" Sir Strider asked, getting sucked into far more a conversation than he was bargaining for.
"Then I say no thank you." John replied with a wary, smug little grin.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not here to insult the honor of your father, bless his memory, or your weight, as I've heard tale of your feats of strength, or to challenge you to trial by combat - not that I'd lose, mind." Sir Strider responded, folding his arms in front of his chest.
John raised an eyebrow. "Are you so certain of that, Sir?"
"Sir Strider, and yes. I am perhaps the most martially skilled of all wandering knight-errants and adventurers I have encountered, very few have managed to make it past my impenetrable defenses, and none have failed to succumb to my blade." Sir Strider poured boastfully from his mouth.
John looked at the sword, blinking a couple of times, and at Sir Strider's rusted armor, compared to his immaculate, recently-repaired plates. "That?"
"Yes? Is there a problem, Knight Egbert?" Sir Strider challenged, patting his half-sword protectively.
John couldn't help but stifle a chuckle behind their hand. "Sir Strider, it appears that your sword has been broken in half."
Sir Strider nodded, face completely flat. "I'm sure it has. But I digress! I am here for a reason, Knight Egbert--"
"To call me fat."
"No! I am--"
"Here to challenge me to trial by combat?"
"No!!!!!!!!" Sir Strider shouted, banging a fist on the table and then shaking it repeatedly as it drove an uncomfortable dent of metal into the side of his palm. "Merde."
"Murder?" John replied, leaning deeper into their palms. "Do tell."
"No, for the Lord's sake. I am here to challenge you to a drinking contest!" Sir Strider yelled, loud enough that the rest of the tavern turned to face them, expectantly.
"Oh, I'm very flattered, but I don't drink." John replied, knocking their flagon over and watching it pour to the floor with a chaotic grin.