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Why does every good story always start in a god-damned bar?!

Storm tended to get thoughtful when he drank mead; a pleasantness settling in his belly as the honey fermented ale slid down his throat in a smooth, warm tumble. This batch was sweet, but not the piercing, brutal sweet that some batches could be, and held enough kick to give his head a good turn. The jug he had started with was feeling light as he reached for another pour, listening to the prattling of some local rube. They all had their stories, puffing their chests out with the bravado of invented successes.

“So there were three of them, and they wouldn’t leave my friend alone, see? But those Raierans are never as tough as they think! I dropped the middle guy, the big fellow, one shot! The other two knew better and took him out. How’s about you?”

No matter where upon the far stretches of Althanas he traveled, even here in Radasanth the locals were oblivious. The hardened electromancer fought his intoxicated impulse to toss the barstool across the room with a wave of his hand, and in doing so fire this sloppy, hairy, overweight jackass and his crooked grey teeth away with it. He fought harder to bite through his tongue and indulge discussing his travels, which had ventured into the preposterous by now. The slaughter in Lornius still hung to his brain, and it was those newly-inked memory cells he had come here to kill.

“Me? I’ve dabbled in a few things. A little science work, a little labor; whatever pays the bills. I bounce around, and I’ve been lucky enough to travel a bit. No complaints more than the next schlep, I suppose.” Storm sipped smoothly at his mead as he tried to stare a hole in the bottom of the thick glass tumbler.

How f*cking boring do I need to pretend to be for this imbecile to move on?

The wizard had clothes that didn’t perfectly correlate with his story; the bespoke suit was cut in all the right spots and French cuffs cut back perfectly at the wristline in razor sharp, obscenely straight edges. His face had been shaved professionally not over a day ago, the first hint of stubble just now beginning to tease his jawline. With his thick, grey and black hair pulled back against his handsome head, he looked the part of a youngish aristocrat. This local drunk must have smelled the money on him, like a shark sensing a few drops of blood in warm waters.

Breathing deeply, it was clear that Veritas couldn’t clear his head so easily. The tavern was fairly brightly lit for the evening hour, and not too well traveled. There was nowhere here to hide and tie one on, and the mead was simply too good to walk from. The bartender polished his spotted glasses and peeked back at drinks of a few nobody-types that also drank at the bar, all those lucky bastards who remembered to dress like the poor fools they were.

I’m going to have to buy this guy a drink to get rid of him without spilling blood here, aren’t I?

Again, the impulse to drive his dagger through the soft underbelly behind this liver-spotted clown’s chin was nearly as strong as the impulse to relax and get drunk, but fortunately for the stranger, Storm Veritas felt fairly cash-flush. For its horrors, Lornius had left him sore and a bit wealthier, and as such plinking down a few extra crowns made more sense than getting himself chased through the alleys again.

Mercifully, the door of the Cow’s Bell swung open, bringing a more interesting character into the fray. The frustrated magician swallowed another rich mouthful of the syrupy drink as he expected that business was about to pick up.