No Rest for the Wicked

Tarmen could now say without a doubt that he hated it here.
“Reassigned,” the missive had said. Some steaming pile of Honor and Loyalty followed, but all he payed attention to was his new position as a soldier.
By the Five, he could almost hear Zane’s laughter as he wrote it. Tin man was really starting to piss him off and the lack of sleep was just great for an already frustrated temper.
Hence why he found himself at the docks this night. The soldiers he had for company had been able to bribe some stronger drink from somewhere; he didn’t even bother asking.
He didn’t even know why he was trying to drink anymore for that matter, his tab at the Hare spoke enough to how little it had done. No matter how much he drank, it was the same damn voice taunting him, the voice of the shriveled head he still kept by his side.
Bringing it off of his belt, he again thought of chucking it into the surf. Would serve the imp right, dissolving in some fish’s gut.
He downed the rest of his bottle and chucked it instead. Something never felt right about getting rid of the head.
Why should he? It was his trophy and he had never ditched one before. Imp could suck him off if he thought some bad dreams was a decent curse.
He grumbled something along these lines as he reached for another bottle, a dull fury brewing at his fingers grasping air. One of the soldiers staggered back from grabbing the crate, pointing a finger at Tarmen as he formed a thought.
“Look mate, we’seen you at th’Hare. You look, smell, and act like shit.”
Standing above the boy, Tarmen winced and held his still tender side. He still needed to find Alexis to thank her for that. The pain didn’t stop his sass though.
“I see, your mothers worried about me is she?”
The soldier made no effort to hide his outrage, but his inebriation made it a mix of holding back a drunken guffaw and wanting to defend his mother’s honor. His two fellows stifled snorts and laughs didn’t help this.
“Shut it ‘n listen. There’some stuff going around. Puts you out like a candle. Don’t need it m’self, but you, migh’wanna ask ‘round.”
He shrugged and swayed to return to his friends, taking the bottles with him, hollering over his shoulder.
“Lowood. Tha’s where sellers seem to’be.”
A sober Tarmen would have appreciated such advice. He would have thanked him for the directions and wished him a good night.
The soldier was instead thanked with a bruised wrist, the crate being pried from his hand. The others were cowed by the fury of a jungle man being denied booze, a look in his eyes that promised them a dive into the water if they tried to stop him.
Meandering back to his quarters, Tarmen did mull over the information. He had never shied away from using drugs, having been a major part of his youth in order to survive most of the ‘occupation hazards’.
If this mystery drink could give him sleep, then he would find it.