Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World: Volume 7 [Complete] by Schuld

Author:Schuld
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

[Tips] Spit trades are a traditional means of signifying a claim among ogres. The ritualistic kiss signals to one’s battle-starved sistren that they are not to pluck the fruit while it is still unripe.

By the time eight bottles of whiskey were opened and emptied, my stomach could take no more and I gave up.

I couldn’t help it—we just weren’t built the same. Ogres towered at over three meters tall; that was anywhere from fifty to a hundred percent bigger than a mensch, and the sizes of our guts scaled similarly. Physically speaking, their capacity to drink was in a different league. I’d put back as much liquor as my liver could process, making sure to expel as much of the fluid as possible—from the right direction, of course—but I’d never stood a chance when my opponent could do the exact same things.

That said, things ended inconclusively because I had at least not passed out. That didn’t sound like a very workable ruleset to me, but I was just counting my luck that I hadn’t been made to puke to fit in more booze.

I had no interest in acting like a Roman patrician, after all. Besides, hurling didn’t magically undo everything: the stress would constrict my stomach, the bile would burn my throat, and my brain would take the act as a signal that something was wrong and actually make me start feeling sick.

As painful as it was to leave this duel unsettled, Miss Laurentius was gracious enough to say we ought not force ourselves to the point of disrespecting our own food and drink. So we came to a compromise: to prove that I wasn’t secretly plastered, I would need to show that I could still wield a sword.

Even with my Heavy Drinker trait, putting on a one-man show of swordplay with all this alcohol sloshing around my body proved quite the experience. Worse still, I tried to excuse myself after a quick performance, only to have Miss Laurentius join me in a drunken craze. Unsheathing her two real blades, she spun around and around, drawing arcs of glimmering steel; though her movements were largely the same as those from this afternoon, it was clear from the gap in polish that these were the weapons she’d entrusted with her life.

We danced, the tips of our blades just barely not crossing. For how long, I could no longer remember: I could believe that it had only been a few minutes, but the indescribable high and the fatigue seeping into my muscles told me it might have been a few hours.

What a strange day.

In part as compensation for my performance, Margit and I were given a room on the second floor for free. It was a simple bedroom, but staggeringly clean weighed against the chaotic mess that was the first floor.

The sheets may not have been laundered, but they weren’t terribly stained, and they weren’t so bad that lice fell out as soon as I picked them up. Taking a cursory sniff, the bed didn’t even smell.

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