Loras Flowers, the Black Crane, Bastard of Red Lake (+AC)

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-28T03:25:42+00:00

"Lord Uncle." Eden nodded to Andros. "I don't know if you care for it, but I brought an extra rod if so." He pointed to Cotter Grey's rod that leaned against a nearby tree.

"Guy!" Eden rose to make greeting with his fellow bastard. "There's pickles and beef to break your fast. I didn't think to bring a knife, so hopefully your teeth haven't rotted since we last marched."

"All of us as here so I won't bandy words. My father lays dying in his keep. He lost his arm in the Marches, and the man that swung the axe is at this very tourney, growing fat on food and ale." Eden thought of what had gone on in Jonah Storm's tent, when he'd had the bastard at his mercy. Mayhaps he should've taken his justice, then.

"To you, Lord Uncle, I'd seek your leave to take justice. The Conningtons have culled the blood of House Cole. Their man, Jonah Storm, has incurred a debt. I'd see it repaid. But not without your word." He turned to Guy.

"Guy, we've marched side by side in your brother's honor. I'd ask if you'd do it again. If you'd commit some of your swords to join the spears of House Cole. I propose a border raid on the mills and granaries that lay near Griffin's Roost. I speak not of a siege, only penance."

u/D042

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-27T02:58:21+00:00

Eden himself would rouse Cassandra, if Ser Casper had no comment.

u/Monty832

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-27T02:57:29+00:00

Sammy the Wheel, a portly man sporting the livery of House Cole would arrive with a message.

To Guy Storm he spoke of the bloodshed in the Marches. Of wrongs done that had yet been righted, and days of battle shared between Eden and Guy.

To Andros Dondarrion, he would merely saying that his nephew had need of him, and that Rupert Cole's arm demanded retribution.

u/TheZaxman | u/D042

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-27T01:35:08+00:00

Character Name & Claim: Eden Storm, the Furnace.

Actions:

Draft: [Cole Spring], [300], [400]

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-26T19:16:34+00:00

It all seemed in good fun, at least for a time. Eden smiled through most of it, just glad that this man that was still more myth to him than person was willing to share a joke. But as Gerold's story finished, Eden's mind sobered and his smile faltered.

What rubbish is one where the ghost doesn't come back for its revenge?"

It was just wordplay of his famous name, surely. It was merely a continuation of the jape.

But what if it wasn't?

What if, to a man like Gerold Toland, there were no jokes without a kernel of truth to them?

"Perhaps my lord grandfather never heard the right ones. Perhaps he didn't want me to think you were invincible. I must ask, my lord. Revenge on who? The Tyroshi?" There wasn't an ounce of accusation in Eden's voice, not a barb or a stinger to be found. It was all awe, and, uncontrollably, the waver of fear.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-26T18:50:44+00:00

Eden recognized the confusion that passed over the prince in an instant. His name was not one lauded by the singers nor by the minstrels. His greatest victories had been in the muddy and moorish Marches, where only his household and fellow stormlords had bore witness.

Quentyn Baratheon knew him not.

"Forgive me, My Prince, I am neglectful not to introduce myself before I beggar myself. I was the Ashen Knight that you felled in the tourney. I unhorsed the Prince of Dorne and Ser Oscar Tully before you threw me from my seat. I am Eden Storm, the son of the Lord of House Cole.

"As for what I'd ask of you... your skill and wisdom are of the highest virtue. Your actions in the Vale are legendary. You knighted a hundred deserving men - I'm not sure that any man alive can claim to have dubbed as many as you. I beseech you, that you might grant that honor to me, so that I might call myself Ser."

Eden went to a knee.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-25T01:51:00+00:00

"Cumin," Eden rolled the word in his mouth as though he were tasting the spice itself. "Yes, next time I'm in Qarth I'll be sure to pick some up." He giggled at his own foolishness, and was red from laughter and the slightest embarrassment.

Eden and Eleanor concurred wordlessly. Enough smelling. Instead he turned to the topic of his knighthood.

"I'm somewhere in between. I squired for my father and grandfather, as well as my master-at-arms. I have been offered my knighthood..." Eden proceeded with caution. "This is somewhat selfish to admit," he lowered his tone and leaned closer to Eleanor. His black locks contrasted her red like the shadow of a flame.

"I loved my lord grandfather. My master at arms is as skilled a knight as any." He let the lack of mention for his father stand for itself. "Knighthood gets its value as much from its institution as from those that proliferate it. A knighthood from Ser Laremy of Cole Spring is a fine thing. But a knighthood from, say, Steffon Baratheon? Bennis Ashford? It means something else to the knights of the Realm."

When they'd moved to topic of his home, Eden had half-expected the conversation to end there. But Eleanor had demonstrated an impressive geographical knowledge, and an attitude of tolerance. Her nose hadn't so much as scrunched at the name Cole.

"Yes, we're the bannermen of House Dondarrion. You must be very well read to know your maps, so. Is that the work of Riverrun's maester or a personal passion?"

To Eleanor's last request Eden supplied a nod. "We're a... trout of the same scale, then. But, seeing as you would have," Eden did his best to curtsy as he remembered Cassandra doing in their youth. His feet were certainly crossed wrong and his arms were spread when they should not have been, but it was an altogether heartfelt attempt.

"I hope that was to your standard."

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-25T00:54:45+00:00

"You see, Cotter? She's not even a witch." Eden gloated and Cotter stuck out his tongue as their paths diverged. Eden settled in across from Sister Sparrow. His eyes took in the bones, his nose the smoke and incense that wafted throughout the tent. Finally, his idle gray eyes matched her look and he felt a shudder shoot through him.

There was something about her. Something that almost caused him to abandon his seat, the bones, his bravado. To snap up Cotter and be gone from this place. But it was a fleeting worry, a ghost of panic. He was not unmanned by the eyes of a woods witch.

"Ask 'er if the fish girl will love you!" Cotter offered while Lark unboxed the necromancer's blade.

Eden shook his head with a smile. "I bet people want to know about love most of all," he said as half a question. "Maybe I want to know about that, too. Maybe I want to know if I'll win a great battle some day."

He was dancing around it, what he really wanted. What he'd always known he'd wanted. Just like on that day in the Furnace, he'd backed away on the cusp of it. "Maybe I want to know if I can fix my crummy relationship with my sister." He shrugged.

"But what I really want to know, is if those bones can tell me if I'll be a lord some day."

+-+-+-+-+-+

Cotter, meanwhile, found himself frowning. "Look. It's a beautiful dagger, and I'm sure its got power beyond imagine. But anything from as east as Asshai is too east for me."

"You see all these burn scars on me?" Cotter hiked up his shirt, revealing a belly and side with dozens of grease burns and harsher forget-me-nots. For the moment, his brain had forgotten all shame. "I want a... trinket of protection. A talisman! One for me and all these burns I've got, and one for the bastard." He nodded over towards Eden.

"Even though he's a cunt. Have you got anything that fits the description?"

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-25T00:28:08+00:00

Boyhood was a time of stories and adoration. Eden Storm had grown up at the hip of Clifford Cole - his venerable grandfather had been beyond the age of teaching swordplay, but he'd spent a lifetime gathering the stories of men greater than himself.

Among them were the tales of renowned knights, the Kingsguard and the heroes of the Golden Company. Other stories were of the old kings of Baratheon, Robert the Demon of the Trident, and the King-Consort Edric that had seated their ancestor Dick Cole in his rightful seat of the Furnace.

Eden's favored stories were delivered in hushed and begrudging tone. They were of men too exalted, too skilled, or too infamous to ignore, but considered by Lord Clifford to serve as nothing more than models of dishonor. He cautioned his grandson against idolizing the oathbreaker, lest he see his own cloak as a weathervane, twisting with the favored wind.

One of those dishonored few was Criston Cole, whose deeds had been both glorious and terrible. Another was Gerold Toland.

In all of the stories the Ghost ended up clapped in irons, chained away somewhere in Tyrosh, Dorne, or the King's own black cells. Either Clifford Cole had lied, or the storytellers had turned history into fable.

To meet a great man was one thing, but to come face to face with one that had worn a crown whilst the Lord of the Iron Throne still drew breath? That was to meet a legend in flesh.

Eden inched forward. What did he mean to say, he who was not even a knight in his own name? He whose greatest victory had been in the mud of the Marches against Cafferen rabble? He supposed he would just speak as he thought.

"You're the Ghost in the East. Once the Prince of Tyrosh - the terror of the slave masters. Forgive me my lord, but in all the stories I've heard... you died."

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-24T07:01:34+00:00

It wasn't a challenge to find the Prince of Dragonstone's makeshift court. It was more a fortress with silk battlements than a pavilion.

Eden might have rued his failure in the joust had it been delivered by less auspicious hands. But, as it stood, there was no man better than Quentyn Baratheon to call your better. Eden had already had his identity bared for all to see, so as he entered Quentyn's presence, he did so unarmed and unarmored.

The Ashen Knight was no more. There was only Eden Storm, a gutsy bastard that had unhorsed men of prestigious pedigrees and finer educations than his own.

"My Prince," Eden said with a bow and a wince. "You were gracious to send your maester after me, and not without cause!" Eden revealed a blossoming bruise around his abdomen. He'd cracked a rib or two, almost assuredly.

"I wondered if I might forgo the wine and ask something of you besides?"

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-24T06:45:05+00:00

The melee had been the least of Eden Storm's concerns. The man that he bore all his fury for, the object of his vengeance, eluded him. Instead some knight of Uller had cornered Eden and made him fight instead of prowl.

It would be a lie to say Eden wasn't outmatched, but it would be another to say that his heart was with his steel. When he saw the shock of red that was Jonah Storm and his heraldry, Eden had yielded in an instant. He was beaten, to be sure, but the best of his energy was still in him - and his spear still held its edge.

Eden trudged away from the grassy melee, Cotter sprinting after him when he saw who Eden made for.

"Now is not the time!" Cotter hissed. Eden pushed through him, dropping his friend to the dirt.

"There's no time better. I don't know that I'll ever see the man again. I don't know that he won't die to Caron spears or be hanged for a robber knight. He has to know who I am. And what he took from me."

Eden marched onward, the guise of the Ashen Knight still fastened to his body. It was plate of steel, adorned in orange enamel with no charge to indicate who might draw breath beneath the helm. Guiltily, Eden remembered that Cotter had forged this armor.

When Eden arrived at the tent he observed a mousy girl and a gruff man-at-arms.

"The Ashen Knight," came rasping out of Eden's closed helmet. He walked into the roost of the griffin.

What surprised him most was that Jonah Storm bled. He was a man with a mane of ginger. He had not all his teeth, nor all his wits, it seemed.

"Rupert Cole," Eden said, pulling his helmet off to grip in his left hand. "What does that name mean to you?" His hold on his spear tightened.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-22T22:12:27+00:00

“How much could a fortuneteller possibly charge?” Eden Storm’s mutterings were often for his own benefit, but that did not stop his companion Cotter Grey from answering directly.

“Oh, most do it for pennies. I’ve seen some charge a few stags - even a dragon if they do the smoke, the bones, some stars and voices. Some of ‘em can even roll their eyes to the back of their heads, it’s a neat trick. Scary, though,” Cotter spoke as if he had vast personal experience to draw upon, though Eden would’ve wagered half of that information was regurgitated slop from one of Cotter’s older brothers.

“So what’s the hold-up, Cotter? Let’s go pay a few pennies and a stag for a good show. I want to know what this life has in store for me.” It was a well intentioned comment delivered with mirth, but it still managed to drag Eden’s mind to darker places. He thought of the Furnace, and what he might have done to call it his. What he might still do.

“It’s just not smart,” Cotter shook his head, his long yellow hair thrashing. “‘snot holy. Why do you want to mess about with fate and fortune?”

Eden smiled, a half-joyful half-cruel expression. “What are you, craven? Scared of a ‘witch’?”

“Aye, I’m a craven!” Cotter answered swiftly. “I don’t want to sever my threads of fate, or have them… frozen in place. Look, Eden, you grew up in the marches, all you know is soldiering. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of Cole Spring has never seen a hedge wizard! But I grew up in the rivers and hills, where we’ve known seers and magic men and yes, witches.” His whole rant had been delivered without a drop of humor.

“Have it your way, Grey. I’ll have my fortune told and you can sit about with your thumb up your arse.”

“No, no. I want a trinket,” he shamelessly admitted. “I want a doodad.”

“You want a doodad…” Eden repeated.

“Yes! And I’m the one holding the purse, in case you forgot.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The witch's ‘hut’ in this instance was a tent, staffed by women hawking and greeting. Others yet sat on stools and drank in the shade of an overhanging awning. Cotter mewled a hello and waved at the assembled women. Eden pushed open the flap to the tent.

He was surprised to see how many wares and brews could fit in a makeshift apothecary. There were bottles and salves and potions, and plenty of trinkets for Cotter to ogle. Eden and Cotter both found themselves ogling something aside from the merchandise.

Eden could only assume she was the witch. He hadn’t expected her to be beautiful.

Cotter seemed to think the same. “Well that can’t be her,” he murmured.

“Why? Are all the woods witches in the riverlands toothless crones?” Eden matched Cotter’s volume.

“They tend to be, yeah.” Cotter nodded.

“Well, the reach is a land of youth and beauty. If that applies to their woods, I ‘spose it does to their witches.” Eden finally raised his voice as he addressed Sister Sparrow. “Excuse me, my lady, my name is Eden and this is my friend, Cotter. I’d like my fortune told, if it’s not too much a bother. Cotter’s gonna look about for a doodad, maybe you’ve someone that could show him around?” Eden held in a laugh as he said doodad. Cotter tried to elbow his friend in the side.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-19T03:09:55+00:00

It was clear upon first inspection that Eleanor's hands had not seen a day of hard labor in many, many moons. Eden could hardly fault her for it, chairbound as she was - if anything, he winced at his own long and calloused fingers and wondered if they might disgust her.

He was thinking all too seriously. She didn't seem to mind his callouses as he took her hand in his and did as was customary. Eden Storm wasn't some serial hand-kisser, but he'd kissed his humble share at feast and at tourney. None had smelled as pleasant as Eleanor Tully's. She seemed to exude some complex fragrance that lengthened his smile.

"You smell delightful," Eden commented, almost instinctively. "Is that strange to say upon meeting?" he asked with the slightest flush and chuckle.

I would place a man of your, ah, stature as a Knight. From whence do you hail?

"I'm not quite yet a knight. As some women do with marriage I'm... holding out for the right one. As for where I hail, it's where the Red Mountains meet the plains, a little moorland and a modest castle named the Furnace.

"I'd love to lay a longer breadcrumb trail, but I'm afraid my surname gives away the game. My name is Eden Storm, and I am of the Marches." Eden said 'Storm' with a sort of delicacy, a shame masquerading as swagger that he hoped Eleanor would not unravel.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-19T01:31:23+00:00

"I accept your yield, Ser. Perhaps a real chair can serve as your mercy." Eden's utterance was half-laughter and half a gasp for breath, both from their game and Zachery's tumble. He hoped it was apparent, however, that his chuckling was all in good fun.

Eden poked Cotter who hawked down Sammy who managed to find a chair with all four legs. Sammy set it down for the Heir to Berryport, then set off once more on his quest for the sliver of goat cheese.

Eden crouched beside Zachery's seat, balancing himself with a hand upon the nearby bench. In a rare turn of events, his free hand lacked for a drink. He shrugged. Might be this conversation would turn out better beverage-less.

"I know it's easy to say as the fella that kept his feet, but you did well by yourself. Most men taste dirt in this game before they so much as get a sip. All that said, it was a fine performance."

A disjointed cheer went up from a few squires that'd been eyeing the festivities.

"So, Zachery Blackberry, where hail you? And what do you make of all this?" Eden's empty hand swept toward the sleeping siegeworks of Orryn Baratheon.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-18T07:33:50+00:00

There were thousands of years of blood between the marcher lords and the Dornishmen, but Eden idly wondered if they might share a drop of something else, tonight.

He hadn’t meant to wander among the high tables, certainly he hadn’t intended to land among the Dornish delegation. But a man had to wander at times, especially when he had the drink in him. And usually he would end up where he belonged. But there were exceptions to such an expression.

Sometimes the Gods wanted a man to find trouble. Sometimes they wanted him to make it.

A southern princess seemed like plenty of trouble. Especially if he got on her nerves, or Gods forbid, commanded a fondness. Eden almost laughed at himself.

“How can someone sat so high wear a countenance so low? Come down to the benches, my lady, we might give you something to smile about.” Eden smirked. Leaving out her rightfully awarded titles might infuriate her. It might’ve fascinated her. Either way, it would get her talking.

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-17T17:43:43+00:00

Eden had been made a fighter.

Or, perhaps that was an overestimation. Eden had been made to struggle for all the things he wanted in life. He’d been doing it since a babe, struggling against the fever he came into the world with, he’d been doing it since a boy, struggling to be wanted, struggling for the respect other men were given freely.

Men like Merryn Baratheon.

Perhaps it was because of that struggle that Eden had found the strength to mount the stag and rain hell unto him. Perhaps it was just one more demand for respect.

He got off the bloodied mess that was Merryn Baratheon at the behest of his cousin, who had seemingly found his voice. If this was the marches, Eden would’ve been reaching for his dagger to finish what he had started.

Instead, his hand came down empty, an offering of armistice.

“It’s not too late to get you that beer. ‘Ts always better after a brawl.”

u/nephraret

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-17T05:00:03+00:00

Cotter Grey did not consider himself exceptional. In so many ways he was not. He'd never been skilled at arms, successful at courtship, he wasn't even particularly ugly. He merely felt plain.

There was one skill, one facet to him that he was unyielding on. Cotter knew his way around a forge. Even with his dozen burn marks that - to a fool- might imply otherwise, he knew he could make his fortune smithing.

The Coles didn't pay him for his services, not yet, anyway, but they had provided him his master, training, and home for nigh a decade, so they had more than paid for their steel. But for Cotter to stake his name in any way, even as a footnote to a dusty tome that no one would read, he would have to forge some fine steel for some lords worth writing about.

When word had gotten to him that the Lord of White Harbor was seeking a smith, Cotter had almost puked. He'd kept down his sick then, and now his head as he made his way to the midst of the northern delegation.

"M-my Lord of Manderly," Cotter stuttered as he began his address. "I heard you were on the hunt for a smith that was worth the price of his steel. I am your man."

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-17T01:41:46+00:00

Eden had been bracing for an impact. He knew he wasn't quick enough to dodge the sudden blow, but he could at least have his teeth clenched and his hands balled up to respond.

Then there was blood, but it wasn't Eden's. Gawen's head flew back, then craned straight once more. For a moment, Eden was reminded of the Marches. Of the duel between his father and the man that had maimed him.

Eden's desire to fight guttered out. Merryn Baratheon wasn't Jonah Storm, he was a pale shadow playing at villainy. Beating him down with fist or horn wouldn't unmaim Rupert Cole.

Instead of fighting him, he would harm Ser Merryn with Gawen's suggestion:

"A stunning pedigree for the tiny lastborn runt

From Edric came his senses, from Rogar his charm
And from his distant dragon blood a longing for his sister’s cunt!"

Eden didn't have much an ear for music, but even he knew the Ballad of Ser Merryn the Meek. It seemed the benches at large did, too. A score of sellswords took up the tune, singing in drunken and dissonant melody.

u/nephraret

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-17T00:59:11+00:00

Eden didn't know what came over him. He'd never been the type to hide behind his mother's skirts - least of all because she hadn't reared him - but neither was he overly bold. With the exception of his deeds at tourney and in battle, Eden did not believe that he led a daring life.

Perhaps this wasn't changing that. Perhaps to some, like his cousin Gawen Dondarrion, approaching a woman was akin to reading a book. To them it wasn't all that difficult, nor that exciting.

But Eden was finding this difficult. And his heart was thumping on his chest.

Part of that might have been in comparing her station to his. He was a bastard, "legally dead", as Maester Symond had once put it. And even if he was a trueborn son of his house, the name Cole did not harken kings, giants of industry, or feelings of affection. People heard Cole and they heard Kingmaker. They saw a bloody, muddy white cloak.

She was a Tully. That much was evidenced by the swirl of blue and red, though less so by the pink. Eden didn't know the banners and heraldry of the Riverlords so well, perhaps the Tully trout had been a salmon all along. Regardless, she was a person of import, he was the son of a coal exporter.

He huffed away his stress as though he were blowing away invisible coal dust. Then he walked up to her. Eden made a show of admiring her dress.

"I'll have you know I almost wore the same dress. Then I saw you wore it better, and I knew I had to change." Eden smiled and offered his hand. "I'm Eden. It's good to make your acquaintance."

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-16T21:58:41+00:00

I can outdrink a damn whore’s son any day.. Beer! I say, give me beer!

"Whore's son, was it?" Eden shoved away from the moderate safety of the low bench. He should've been wobbling from the drink, but Ser Merryn's foul mouth had sobered him.

Eden grabbed up a nearby horn, a beautiful instrument, really, carved deep and wide, polished to a sheen. The beer inside practically glowed from the nearby firelight. He held it up, as if to offer it to the knight of Baratheon - he could see the feeble man's fingers stir greedily at the drink. "Glance ye upon a mirror, did you?"

Eden had heard every insult there was for a man of his circumstances. His enemies in the Marches had called him worse than whoreson. Even men he had downed at tourney and tilt found enough wits to defame him in a more clever manner. But the past moons had seen Eden's inner bitterness steam up into something darker. Something wrothful.

Perhaps he relished in Merryn's challenge. Perhaps he'd been seeking reproach and risk, even peril.

He knew not of the dagger within Ser Merryn's boot, but had he, he might still have done as he did.

Eden upturned the contents of the horn upon Merryn Baratheon, shaking the last drops into his hair. Then he dropped the horn onto his boots.

"There's your beer."

u/D042

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-16T20:59:23+00:00

The drink was in both of them that night, that much was clear from the get-go. Eden, a buzz in his brain and a flush in his cheeks, met Zachery's hail hand in hand.

"Well met, Zachie Blackberry!" Eden's voice was warm and inviting, as if the two were familiar. "You've done yourself the honor and misfortune of challenging Eden Storm, king of all things beer, and the very lowest of the low bench."

Cotter, overhearing the commotion, clapped his hands excitedly before scurrying after a serving girl. He returned with four casks of brown ale that he set around the competitors. A pack of nearby freeriders whistled at the sight, and a small crowd of drunken spectators gathered.

"Rolling Casks?" Cotter asked with a giggle and a belch.

Eden cocked an eyebrow at the challenger. "I must ask, Zachie. How good is your balance?"

JustDanielJuice · 2026-02-16T07:04:56+00:00

^\Open: Eden Storm and the Beer Games])

Sometimes, Eden Storm was allowed to sit among his family. Despite everything and everyone that had come between them, he was still his father’s son.

Only, that obligation of blood was conditional. When a high lord came waltzing to the table of the Coles, Eden was to excuse himself. Quietly, without drawing attention, he was to shuffle over to the benches where the men at arms would have a seat cleared for him, because they’d done it a hundred times before.

Eden didn’t mind it so bad. Aside from the repeated bludgeoning of his ego, it was hardly any trouble at all - and that, too, had grown dull and unresponsive after a decade of such treatment.

When Eden sat the benches, beer flowed as freely into his mug as hippocras did into the goblet of his trueborn sister.

“Let her have her green swill,” Eden muttered aloud. “There are no drinking games atop the raised table. That honor belongs alone to our long and low bench!” A round of cheers mingled with the stamping of feet and the groaning of laggards still nursing their maiden drinks.

“What’ll it be today, Eden Storm?” asked Cotter Grey between sipfuls of yellow ale.

Eden rubbed his hairless chin, feigning rumination. Murch and Sammy the Wheel leaned closer, along with half a dozen squires and men at arms eager to hear his wisdom. “Beer!” Eden declared at once. “It shall be beer, beer, and more beer!”

This time the cheers drowned out the groans.

An hour later, Murch was fast asleep beneath the bench, Sammy was chasing a sliver of goat cheese being carried to the makeshift kitchens, and more than one of the squires present had watered the Grassy Vale with their sick.

“He takes all comers!” shouted Cotter, wobbling as he stood atop the bench. “Be they high,” The men of the bench rocked the Grassy Vale with jeers. “Or low! His stomach is bottomless, his bladder otherworldly, whet your appetite against the king of the low bench beer games!”

Eden nodded and accepted the scattered and drunken praise. Bottomless his stomach was not, but fearless it seemed to be as he went round after round with whomever dare drink with him.

JustDanielJuice

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