Them Basement-Dwelling Blues

[Smol Rumblehide]

To Smol Rumblehide, the plan was foolproof.

To her traveling companion, Grumble, it was only the beginning of another migraine.

"Run this by me again," the orc muttered as he slid a couple fingers up the bridge of his wide nose in attempt to ward off the coming pain.

The kobold peered at him over a growing wall of empty, dew-coated glass mugs. "I'm not sure what's so difficult about this, Grummie." Smol took a moment to collect her addled thoughts and stuff another hunk of juicy turkey into her mouth. "We need money, right?"

Grumble grumbled. "Yes."

"And, as mercenaries, we earn gold whenever we can, when the opportunity presents itself, right?"

He could not argue that. "Yes."

Smol threw her arms wide, knocking one of her many mugs onto the tavern floor with an errant swing of a turkey leg. "Sometimes, you just have to create the opportunity yourself!"

Grumble watched as the little one continued to gorge herself on roasted meat and slightly watered-down tavern ale. For the fifth time that day, he wondered what he did in a past life to deserve this. It wasn't that he hated Smol--in fact, his feelings fluttered somewhere around mild tolerance--it was that he constantly stood by while she made terrible decision after terrible decision, and always stuck around to help her clean up the mess. Sure, she was incredibly handy in a fight and usually had her wits about her, but when she mixed desperation and alcohol...?

The huge orc rose from his chair. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night."

Smol followed him, her red eyes glazed over. She leaped onto her chair, slamming her claws on the table and knocking over a few more empties. "What? You can't go," she howled over the din of the patrons. "I need your help! This bill isn't going to rack itself up!"

"I'll be behind the stables," he said as he collected his pack.

"You're just going to leave all this food here," Smol slurred.

Grumble eyeballed the half-eaten sandwich left on his plate. The meat had long since gone cold, the lettuce had lost its crispness, and the bread hard and stale. "It's yours," he grumbled before turning towards the door.

Smol shook her head, trying to clear the haze in her eyes and that awful buzzing in her ears. She opened her mouth to protest her companion's departure, but by Drokar's balls did he say 'free food'?

[Smol Rumblehide]

A sharp pain in her flank brought her out of darkness. Despite her best efforts, the reptilian warrior wasn't able to meld with the floor, becoming one with the tavern to avoid the kicks.

Words cut through the pea soup that was her consciousness, a hollow command rattling the insides of her skull from a source she could not see.

"Oiwaygup."

Waygup? What sort of nonsense is that? A spell of sorts, uttered by a possessed wizard? One with a fat bounty on his head I can cash in after I clean the pieces of it off my mace?

Smol writhed about on the floor as a heavy boot made contact with her leg once more. It was either the fourth or the fourteenth, she lost count. Counting hurt right now.

"Wake up, lass," the gruff, accented voice growled. "Closing time, and you gotta tab to settle."

It took her what felt like hours, but eventually Smol recognized the voice. It was one she recalled hearing whenever she ordered ale. Was it back to give her more?

Her stomach twisted at the mere thought of holding anymore of anything at that moment. There was a brief argument between it and her brain over whether or not she wanted another drink, before her gut acquiesced and agreed that maybe one more for the road wouldn't hurt, once it made a little more room.

A loud curse ripped through the empty tavern as Smol threw up. A horrible, indescribable stench wafted into her nose, reminding her of the mistakes she made last night (or was it tonight? What day was it?) as the thick slop soaked into the side of her face. It wasn't enough to make her want to move from her spot on the floor; but it nearly brought her to hurl again.

Thick fingers wrapped themselves around the largest of her horns, and suddenly Smol found herself peeled off the floorboards and suspended in midair.

The kobold's eyes fluttered open momentarily. The flickering flame of the fireplace only served to re-ignite her massive headache, sending fresh waves of hell across her brain.

"Fuck's sake, lemme go," she hissed, swatting at anything and everything she could with her sharp claws.

"I'm sorry about all this," another familiar voice said, low and apologetic. Grumble, she eventually noted with some effort.

She could feel herself being carried through the air, and plopped down on the hard surface of a chair. Thankful for the support, Smol went slack, resting her head on its back.

"Water," she whispered.

"That'll cost ye' extra," said the voice she associated with beer-getting.

[Smol Rumblehide]

Her orc companion sifted around in his pack for a leather pouch, and produced a pair of coppers. Through the haze, Smol immediately identified that as money. Money that was changing hands from us to a party identified as not us. This immediately set off every warning siren and flashing red light in her head. This is not how things should naturally progress; the transactions were always supposed to be the other way around.

Smol opened her mouth to voice her disapproval, but the only sound that came out was a pained groan.

Her eyes tried to focus on the coins as the barkeep fingered them for a bit, what little of her jovial mood that was left giving way to despair as he pocketed them. The pounding in her head intensified as she tried to calculate how much money the two of them had left, how much their tab was from the night's adventures, and how much work they'd have to do in order to come out with enough gold to make it out of Concordia.

The asshole who dared charge them for water! moved back towards the bar, his steps cracking like thunder in the kobold's noggin. When he dipped the glass into the barrel, it was like a raging river. When he plodded back over to and handed her the drink and said "here", her head wanted to explode.

"Thank you," she managed after her snarl relaxed. "Powdered bitterroot. Malaxic. Some of that purple stuff."

"I'm not an apothecary," the gruff man said.

"Not you," Smol spat back. "Him."

She pointed a talon at Grumble, who already had her pack open. Seconds later, the orc produced specific amounts of the ingredients she asked for. Smol held out her glass, her eyes still clenched shut to keep the light from spiking her headache any further. When she heard the mixture of powdered herbs hit the surface of her drink, she stuck a finger in the cup and gave it a few swirls until the drink turned a sickening purplish brown hue.

The first sip was pure ecstasy. Like frolicking in a pasture with unicorns. Like tasting wine pressed from grapes fresh from the gardens of gods.

The warrior could already feel her headache receding.

"Now that ye' seem to be sorted, let's talk about all that ale ye' drank and food ye' ate." The hairy tree trunk of a man pulled up a chair and sat across from her, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward.

"We can't cover the tab," Smol said from around the rim of the glass.

"Yeah, I know, this green bastard already told me," he said as he jabbed a thumb Grumble's way. The orc blushed and suddenly found one of the wooden beams on the ceiling far more interesting and important than the current conversation.

"The way I sees it, we've only got one choice 'ere."

Smol's crimson eyes flickered to life. This was the part that always interested her--because it always led to another pay day.

The barman straightened in his seat. "We call the city guard and have the two of yez arrested for theft."

No matter how potent her concoction was, it was those words that snapped Smol out of her alcoholic stupor.

"Now, now," Grumble began, a look of panic in his beady eyes. "Let's not be too hasty--"

Smol tossed her glass aside and sprung to her feet, interrupting her fellow mercenary. "The seven hells you will!"

"Smol--"

"Quiet," she snapped at Grumble, fire flowing through her veins. The orc tried not to flinch, but couldn't help it. The kobold turned back towards the bar's owner, her voice a screech that rattled the windows. "And what do you mean by theft?! We stole nothing from you, you greasy son of a bitch!"

To his credit, the man had dealt with enough angry customers in his lifetime to not be impressed by the creature's outburst. "Ye' walked in an' took food an' drink without the means t' pay for it. Sounds like 'intent of thieving' to me."

The kobold snarled, instinctively reaching for her mace. Oh, how she would enjoy bashing this asshole's brains in, like she had done to many a villain in her lifetime. Instead, her talons wrapped around air, catching themselves on the stained brown fabric of her tunic. She started spinning around, sputtering a string of curses that would give a sailor pause and she searched for her weapon.

"If I may," Grumble cut in, his voice awfully calm, all things considered. "We've been without income for a while, now. We were hoping that you would help us find employment somewhere in town."