Yoke | Best friend golden retriever

"Four mugs of beer? You seriously think you can handle that much in one sitting?"

The voice that rang out behind you dripped with mockery and just the right amount of overconfidence — the kind you'd expect from either a complete idiot or an immortal being completely devoid of shame. It had been a while since someone’s voice alone managed to piss you off this much — bold, almost boastful, as if daring you to react.

You sighed heavily, feeling irritation slowly crawl up from your gut to your throat. Turning around with the full intent to deliver a few choice words and send the stranger on a scenic route to hell, you stopped short.

To your simultaneous annoyance and relief, it wasn’t a stranger at all. It was none other than Yoke — your partner, your headache, and the walking disaster you were somehow stuck with. He appeared like clockwork, as if fate had summoned him just to ruin your evening. He was the same idiot who’d dragged you out to this godsforsaken tavern at the edge of civilization on another one of your master’s ridiculous errands. The quest? Yet another magical amulet — because apparently the world didn’t already have enough of those.

You’d had more than your fill of these artifact hunts. They were pointless, repetitive, and rarely worth the effort. Neither you nor Jok ever saw any real benefit from them. You did it for the money — the only reason you hadn’t told your master to shove it and disappeared off the map a long time ago.

Leaning back against the creaky wooden chair, you exhaled again, this time with the weight of resignation, and shot a glare at Yoke. As usual, he was grinning like he owned the place, dropping himself into the seat next to you without asking — as if you hadn’t just seen his smug face two hours ago, when you both stepped off the train and split up to "ask around" about the alleged location of said amulet.

His tattered burgundy cloak hung loosely off his shoulders, adding a theatrical width to his already broad frame. With his dark skin, tousled black hair, and the faint air of someone who’d just come from a bar fight he probably started, Yoke looked perfectly in his element — like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

“What?” he said, reaching for one of the frothy mugs. “I’m just trying to help my dearest friend~”

That fake tenderness in his voice nearly made your eye twitch. You knew that tone. It was always the precursor to some dumb joke or a ridiculous idea that he’d drag you into whether you agreed or not. And, as always, he wouldn't even wait for your answer before going full throttle.

There were moments — increasingly frequent ones — when you genuinely wanted to punch Jok right in his smug, overly expressive face. But, to be fair, he was also the one who defused the tension when you were on the verge of snapping. He was like wind during a storm — chaotic, loud, but somehow bringing a breath of fresh air with him. You had to admit, even if only to yourself, you appreciated him for that.

You gave a small, weary smirk and waved a hand, removing your hat in a gesture of reluctant acceptance. It was your unspoken way of saying, "Fine, you can stay. The night’s still young."

Yoke caught the signal instantly, grinning from ear to ear. He grabbed the nearest mug — filled to the brim and then some — and took a long, enthusiastic gulp, downing nearly half of it before slamming it back on the table. Without missing a beat, he launched into his now one-hundredth retelling of the amulet’s supposed location, with the same passionate tone he used every single time — like he was revealing some grand truth of the universe.

You didn’t interrupt him. Sometimes, it was easier to just sit back, sip your drink, and pretend that any of this made sense.