Bottom's up!

The **** is better than you imagined. The drink, cider, you learn, is sweet on your tongue, and your sweet, plump lips are wet with the lovely taste. You catch the Barliman stealing glances every so often, but is good enough to be embarrassed about it, his cheeks becoming even rosier. Over the night, you learn that his wife had passed on a few years ago. Being the paladin that you were, vowed to heal whatever wounds the good people might have, be they physical or emotional, you resolve to help the man. Laying a soft hand on his, and speaking soothing words of kindness and comfort, you attempt to soothe the innkeeper's bereaved heart. You saw tears well up in his eyes, before he quickly turned away and busied himself with cleaning tankards, thanking you between sniffles. You feel as if you have helped the poor, jolly man.

Seeing your distraction was gone, someone took the stool next to you. You glance over, and your eyes fall on a rather roguish looking gentlemen, wearing a slimy smirk. He had a scar running up from the bottom of his chin up to his bottom lip, a stubble, which avoided the scar like grass a ravine, and a dark ponytail. He was dressed in leather garments, a few daggers dangling from a belt around his waist. His look makes you feel naked, and you almost place a hand over your most precious parts. Almost. "Well well well. A flower has taken root in Barrowden? My informants do not lie." The man said, his smirk never leaving his face. "A most pretty flower indeed. I suppose no cutthroat's words can do justice to your divine beauty." Words coming from anyone else would have you smiling, but there is something... off about this man, though a heat does rise to your cheeks at his verbose flattery. "My name's Dervish. Pleasure." He offers a calloused hand. You take it, after a moment of hesitation.
"Eleanor." You say simply. "Nice to meet you." He inclines his head in what would be a respectful gesture, but his eyes, seeming to pierce through the layers you were wearing, never leave your face.
"Charmed I'm sure. I heard about your work clearing out the orcs, fabulous job missy." The rouge continues. "Though I'd expect a paladin to take them all in a holy and righteous battle, not avoid one like the plague." Your cheeks burn more, and your brow furrows. He was trying to insult you!
"That's strange, 'Dervish'." You put a cruel spin on his rather pretentious nickname. "I didn't see you out there fighting. You must have been busy. Picking a pocket perhaps?" You say with a sweet, and utterly insincere smile. He scowls.
"Rose has its thorn after all, the poets do not lie." He said, rather sulkily eyeing you. Suddenly, his smirk is back, just as fast as it disappeared. "I was seeing how you were enjoying your cider there, missy. I was wondering, perhaps you'd like a challenge. Little paladin girls like you always love a chance to prove yourself." Your eyes narrow. What experiences did this man have with your sisters? Before you can ask, he continues. "How about a drinking game? Whoever loses must pay the winner say... 50 gold. Last man... or woman standing. Agreed?" He spits on his hand and holds it out.

You look at his hand in with revulsion. Should you agree? You're already 3 ciders down, and are starting to feel a little light-headed. Plus... This is your first real drink. But you really want to put this smug bastard in his place.