“To chop some damn wood.” He had to get started on it now if they were to have any hope of leaving the next day.
The girl he’d met in the clearing off the Amber Road would have quailed at his surliness. This Guinevere took it in stride and bestowed upon him the warmest, most beatific smile that he’d ever seen.
“For you I shall negotiate a meal fit for a king,” she promised.
“Bread and ale is fine. Don’t use any more of your trinkets.”
She ignored this and waved him off.
The innkeeper hadn’t been exaggerating; there was a veritable mountain of logs out back, all needing to be split and stored before Labenda’s damp leached into them.
Working by torchlight, Oskar soon lost himself in the mundane task of swinging an axe down on one doomed log after another. There was refuge in the mindless physicality of it. He didn’t have to think about pretty women with fiancés, or spider-emblemed mercenaries, or secrets lurking inside a pearwood trunk. And perhaps he’d end the night so exhausted that he’d fall asleep immediately, without thinking about who was in the room with him and how sweet her kisses had been.
He chopped wood until his muscles burned and his stomach growled, and then he pushed a little past that. It was bitter work for so little in exchange, but nothing he wasn’t used to. Only when his head was starting to swim did he make his way back into the inn, wanting only to grab a bite and pass out on the floor of his and Guinevere’s rented room, in that order. The hour was late, and he was expecting her to have already retired. She should have already retired, because there was another long day of travel ahead of them tomorrow.
Thus, Oskar was justifiably annoyed to find Guinevere still in the lobby of the Drowned Nest, surrounded by other patrons. The evening’s festivities were in full swing; a burly dwarf was playing her lute in the corner, and the ale was flowing. Some of it was flowing into Guinevere. Prim, innocent Guinevere, chugging a tankard like a seasoned sailor while her audience cheered.
“Oskar!” She lurched to her feet when she saw him. Her eyes were shining, and she looked so happy that he almost couldn’t breathe.
Then she stepped closer, flinging her arms wide open, and he said, “Don’t,” because he was sweaty and dirty, but she hugged him anyway. He automatically looped his arms around her waist. The inn’s patrons hooted, but they might as well have been wallpaper. For him, there was only Guinevere, soft and warm in his embrace.
She gave a sigh of contentment, snuggling against his chest. “You stink.”
“So do you, princess,” he mumbled into her silver hair. She smelled like a distillery. “How much have you had?”
“Enough” was her mysterious reply. “I said I’d never had any, so the nice innkeeper offered it on the house. I like ale so much better than wine, Oskar!”
“Clearly.” Oskar glared at the innkeeper, who at least had the decency to duck his head, abashed.
“This is a decent establishment, son,” said the innkeeper. “No harm was going to come to her under my watch.”
“Yes, don’t be mad at him,” Guinevere implored, tapping a finger gently against his right tusk. Oskar turned his head to look from the innkeeper to her, a motion that settled his jaw firmly in the curve of her palm. “I was bored, and you were gone awhile.”
What was it about her touch that could instantly soothe his temper? Oskar sure as hells didn’t know. He calmed down, mad about calming down, and attempted to lead her to their room. “We need to get you into bed.”
She shook her head fiercely, rooting herself to the spot with surprising strength for someone so short. “Not until you’ve eaten first.”
He knew better than to argue with somebody who was in their cups. And, besides, he was famished, and she could probably stand to get some water and bread into her to cancel out all the ale.
With a hand on the small of her back, Oskar returned Guinevere to her table. The people already occupying it took one look at his expression and fled to other, less life-threatening seating arrangements. Guinevere didn’t notice until she was sitting beside Oskar on the bench; only then did she peer around owlishly. “Where have my new friends gone?”
“You just met them,” he said. “They’re not your friends.”
“They are!” She wagged a finger at his face. “There’s Nulf, who owns the mill. Artin, who grows mushrooms. Orkelm, who has a tendre for Kali—that’s the musician over there in the corner—but he’s sort of in between jobs right now and can’t offer for her hand . . .”
As a serving girl brought food and beverage to their table—as Oskar dug in—Guinevere continued rattling off the names, occupations, and hopes and dreams of what seemed like every customer in the Drowned Nest. Oskar was actually paying attention, gods help him. He couldn’t contribute to the conversation at the pace he was eating, but he listened to her every word.
When she finally ran out of people to tell him about, she beamed at him and asked how he liked the meal. He grunted to show his appreciation. A hunk of roast pork seasoned with coriander, beef and carrots in a flaky pie, some buttered potatoes, slices of freshly baked bread to be dipped in a generous bowl of the pork drippings . . . It was the most luxurious supper he’d had in ages. Perhaps in his whole life.
“I explained to the innkeeper that he’d already gotten quite the bargain, you doing the work of ten men for a measly room with only one bed,” Guinevere said proudly. “I did not have to give him a single thing from my satchel. I am very good at negotiating, aren’t I, Oskar?” He nodded, his mouth full, and she proceeded to chatter at him about how the old man was thinking of selling the Drowned Nest and retiring to Zadash, where his son lived. “I suppose Zadash is our next stop, isn’t it? It’s apparently a rather grim city. My friend Lunete fell into the sewers once. Oh, I have not told you about Lunete; she lived next door to me in the Shimmer Ward before she married . . .”
Guinevere was slurring her words and inching closer to him, and before Oskar was even fully aware of it, she was in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went on talking, and she was very, very drunk, and he finally stopped eating so he could feed her and give her water, which was easier to do with her in his lap. Hence, why he hadn’t removed her from it. Obviously.
“You,” he said, “are going to have a devil of a headache tomorrow morning.”
She gave him a wounded look as she chewed her potatoes. Her eyes were glassy in the firelight, as dark as a deep ocean. And damn his ego, but there was something to be said about the most beautiful woman in the whole swamp gazing only at him. His chest puffed up at all the envious glances being leveled his way.
But it was only a dream. He was delivering her to her betrothed. The Amber Road didn’t stretch on forever, and these days couldn’t last.
It wasn’t long before Guinevere started yawning. Oskar swept her into his arms, tucking one behind her back and the other behind her knees, and he stood up and carried her to their quarters. She made no protest; instead, she sleepily cuddled closer while her slim legs dangled gaily in the air.
“You shouldn’t be so trusting of everyone you meet,” he muttered. “You barely know anything about the world.”
“I know that you’re the strongest, bravest, most handsome man I’ve ever met!” She yelled it to the rest of the inn, which exploded in good-natured cheers of assent before Oskar kicked the bedroom door shut.
He helped her clean her teeth and take off her boots. He didn’t want to undress her—she would probably keel over from the impropriety of it—so he put her to bed still wearing her travel-stained clothes.
“I’m going to wash up now,” he told her gravely. “Behave.”
She giggled, wrinkling her nose at him. Her long hair was spread over the pillows in a moonlit cascade, and some odd compulsion made him tuck a few wayward strands behind the shell of her ear.
He finished washing and changing behind the privacy screen to find that she had dozed off, splayed out like a starfish, her mouth slightly open. Oskar bent down to carefully liberate one of the pillows. He was almost, almost successful in this endeavor—but, at the last possible second, Guinevere woke up. Those incredible eyes fluttered open and those slim hands were fisting in his shirtfront and she was tugging him down to her, upsetting his balance. He barely managed to avoid crushing her, catching his weight on his elbows, caging her in between the mattress and his body.
“I like kissing you, Oskar,” she confessed shyly, biting her lush bottom lip. “Shall we do it again?”
Would that it were that easy.
“We can’t,” he rasped. “You’re drunk.”
She pouted. “But do you want to?”
The noble thing to do would be to tell her that it didn’t matter what he wanted. Even if she were sober, she was still promised to someone else. But Oskar wasn’t very noble, and he couldn’t bear to bring up Lord Wattledump or whatever the fuck his name was. Not when Guinevere was all giggly and tipsy in the lamplight, and looking only at him.
He pressed a kiss to her smooth brow. “Go to sleep, Gwen.”
“You’re a meanie,” she said without rancor, her eyes at half-mast.
“I really am,” he ruefully agreed. “You shouldn’t forget that.”
She drifted off without another word, her breathing evening out, and only then did he move, easing one pillow out from under her and reluctantly clambering off the bed to sleep on the floor.
From the book TUSK LOVE by Thea Guanzon and Critical Role. Copyright © 2025 by Critical Role. Reprinted by arrangement with Random House Worlds, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Tusk Love will be released on July 1, but you can pre-order it right now.
Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB
