Things always seem to be out of control until you get a taste of true chaos.
Were Storm asked merely a few moments earlier if things had gotten out of hand, he would assuredly have had no choice but to agree. It was logical – people were yelling and cheering, wild clapping in the once merely politely jovial bar, and the generally steel-stomached Veritas felt queasy at the taste of a brew that was certainly not intended for human lips.
At this point, the shit hit the proverbial fan. The never predictable Zephyriah had rambled in as if on cue, knocking over several and rushing around with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. Several patrons hooted and hollered, defiant yells against the demonic imbecile who acted of his own accord with a power that could only be described as “retard strength”. Adding insult to injury, Damon spewed forth his own drink in a thick broth that looked as though it contained part of his lung. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Urgh…. aww, f*ck, what is that?! Did he warm up with Haidian noodles before coming out tonight?
From here, Storm mixed to the counter-top soup his own brand of stomach butter. The stuff burned his throat even more vilely on the way up, the dwarven death drink enticing more and more of the stuff. It was terrible, and elicited a combination of disturbed groans and hysterical laughter. There were no doubt several other patrons that rushed the bathroom, seeking their own esophagal relief from what they had just lay witness to.
Ugh, oh God…
Veritas was in poor spirits to say the least as he popped up, but wiped his mouth with his very best poker-face on. To admit self-disgust was to admit defeat, and he had held his own chum at bay for long enough to consider himself the technical victor. Additionally, it was how one rallied, not how one fell, that determined the merit of a true-blue alcoholic. To puke is human, to recover divine.
“Shom-wom get that hem’roid-fashed dickhead one of these drinks! That’ll shettl down even the boldisht of braggartsh!”
Ooof. That sounded dumb. Should have quit at hemorrhoid face.
He pushed a patron away from the bar as he wrapped an arm around young Kaosi. The boy had fought his own stomach bile bravely, and Storm was feeling altogether philanthropic with compliments. They made sense at the time, but one may have had to be there to understand.
“Asha boy, you’re ok in my book… Ready forsh another one?”
His voice slurred, face reddened, and breath somewhere between embarrassing and abominable, Storm wondered why more of Althanas’ tournaments weren’t settled at the barstool and not the battle field. After all, damned near every quest seemed to spout from the tavern, didn’t they?
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