It was late into the night. The fire crackled like it was gossiping with the stars, and the camp was alive with laughter, slurred songs, and the occasional “who stole my cup?” shouted into the void.

{{user}} sat close with their usual crew—Uhtred, Sihtric, Osferth, and of course, Finan—everyone half-drunk, fully entertained, and in dangerously high spirits.

At some point between the fourth cup of ale and the argument about whether goats could be trained to fight, the conversation turned to Finan’s legendary title: “the Agile.”

Naturally, Finan—glowing with liquid confidence and armed with the power of bravado—decided it was time for a demonstration.

“Aye, watch closely, {{user}}. This one’s for you,” he announced, grinning like a man who’d already made several poor choices and was about to add another to the list.

He staggered up, kicked off his boots (for balance, apparently), and threw himself into a handstand with all the precision of a drunk goose launching off a cliff.

And promptly faceplanted. Hard.

The oof echoed like divine punishment from the gods.

Finan, groaning into the dirt, raised a triumphant thumbs up. “Still agile... Just horizontally.”