Westmont's Lord

The celebration carried on well into the night and even the early hours of the next day, the streets of Westmont alive with song, laughter, and the clinking of mugs.

Damien, who had initially planned to keep things light, found himself swept up in the festivities.

Arielle, ever the persuasive one, managed to coax him into trying more drinks, and before long, the young Mercenary was seated at a table surrounded by cheering townsfolk.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" they chanted, slamming their mugs on the table as Damien tilted his head back, finishing yet another pint of beer.

He slammed the mug down, his silver hair disheveled, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm starting to see why people enjoy this," he muttered, a lopsided grin on his face.

Arielle, seated beside him, laughed. "Told you it wouldn't hurt to loosen up a little!"