Closing Time (Bar Fight Thread – Open to All!)

(This thread is open to everyone, whenever you want to jump in, and for however long you want to stay in. Let's keep things fun and frantic.)

The Minister's Alehouse lay just a bit outside Stonevale, but its proximity to the roads leading in it out made it a popular destination. Behind it ran a river used to ship mined ore all across Scara Brae, and a crossroads stood not twenty feet from its main entrance. It was a massive, two-story long house, with a solid stone foundation and thick oak for both floors. Glassless windows dotted its side and provided fresh air and an escape to the everyday smells that plagued taverns. Though grass surrounded its three sides, it was brown and well trodden on from wagon wheels, horse hooves, and many boot falls in a drunken stupor as they left well into the night. Just above its front door was a sign, depicting a spilling coin purse into open, delicate hands.

Though the name had some officialism to it, the inside was as rancorous as any large tavern. A small makeshift stage in the center, by a well tended hearth, was used by a bard singing bawdy tavern songs that fell on the deafening noises of the crowd. Thick smoke wafted from the cooking fires, across the rows of thick, heavy tables laid from front to back over a well scuffed floor, and every one of them seemed occupied by some curiosity or another. Humans, elves, orcs, dwarves, and even fae; it seemed that the place was a microcosm of the whole of Althanas, all sitting together under swinging candled chandeliers amid laughter and merriment, arguments, and the occasional breakdown into tears.

Among is all, Morus sat at a table square in the middle of the floor. He was alone, as preferred, although the crowds around him more than made up for that fact. He sipped a simple ale out of a much too large cup for him, trying his best to ignore the noise of it all. But despite closing his eyes to meditate, one nearby conversation kept creeping into his ear. The table just behind his was in the middle of a heated debate, between one orc and one human rogue. Their voices were like knives, cutting through the clamor and focusing nearby attention.

“Kuglor think King Iradaetes was best monarch in Scara Brae's past,” yelled the orc between swills of his drink. Clad in leather and hide, he kept a brutal looking small ax to his side that he pet now and then as a reminder of it. The one gnarled tusk in his mouth told all the stories of battles past needed. “King Iradaetes' wheat subsidy boon for economy.”

“You're a fool, Orc,” the rogue responded, doing half the talking with his hands. He wore leather as well, though dyed dark colors, and with an arm guard on his wrist for the large bow he had slung next to his chair. “The current Queen Valeena's habit of increased levies from the duchies for municipal security forces have decreased smuggling in the capital by tenfold, and done far more for the economy than artificially inflating the price of bread for the common man.”

“Iradaetes!”

“Veleena!”

“Gentlemen,” said Morus, turning in his chair to be crouched on top of it, facing them. The boy was tired of them both, not just their tone, but their clearly wrong opinions on the matter. “There is no doubt that King Malraetes puts both those choices to shame. He managed to put down not one, but three separate rebellions of the duchies. While managing The Great Corn Blight, I should add.”

“He was a puppet,” cried the rogue. “He let his councilors handle everything!”

“What kid know?” The orc half growled it at him, standing up from his seat with a startling quickness.

“Proper syntax, for one.” There was a smugness to the boy's response, as he played with the collar on his sleeveless jacket. The orc, however, was not amused. He towered over Morus, snatching the drink from his table and pouring it over his head. The beastly warrior let out a chortle as ale soaked through the waif's rags and spilled into the saw dust on the floor. A flush of embarrassment reddened the boy's cheeks, and without thinking he summoned his power to his hand and let out an invisible blast that knocked the orc over and sprawled him on top of the table. The room grew quiet then, as a hush overtook the crowd. All eyes seemed to fall dead center, and a tension filled the entire room. His rogue opponent laughed, although he was soon greeted by a resounding smack to his face that sent him sailing two tables away. His flailing form caught a group of dwarves unawares, knocking their drinks over and spiking their tempers.

And then the orcs black eyes narrowed on Morus. As he rose, he cracked his thick knuckles so loud that it just covered up the the audible gulp from the boy. Nearby, the group of dwarves began to rile up, arguing for drinks on the rogue's tab and being shouted at by other patrons around them.

BooooooOOOoooooze.

Fenn loved a busy tavern like the Minister’s Alehouse, buzzing with patrons and heated arguments. People were so distracted in crowds like these. Who bumped me? Why did someone throw up and not clean up after themselves? How can anyone argue politics that badly? Why is everyone yelling? The young puck thrived in the chaos barely contained. It was glorious, for distractedly crowded people yielded the easiest steals, and more frustrated confusion than loud outrage when things disappeared after the brief presence of a passing gust of cold air, after the dead-silent wandering of a tiny brown-cloaked figure with his hood up.

Things like, say, thirteen mugs of ale, five pints of beer, a couple fancy wines, and some glasses of very strong spirits that he didn’t recognize in the least (but didn’t taste too bad when mixed with the wine, actually).

These drinks and a couple of empty plates surrounded Fenn in the space underneath a covered table. He didn’t mind the dusty, crummy nature of the floor; the sticky spills and stains from today that had yet to be mopped up. It was comfortably dark under here, and the stiff black tablecloth muted a lot of the tavern’s racket, which his sharp ears were starting to take issue with. In a sense, however, perhaps the raging storm of noise was a good thing. It completely drowned out the hiccoughs the little fae was desperately failing to smother. Didn’t matter how long he held his breath or held his hands in front of his mouth (as if that’d stop them from leaping out). They just kept coming!

He couldn’t steal more shit like this!

His ears pulled back in irritation, the little fae peered underneath the inch of gold light filtering in from under his table, trying to ignore the jolting of his chest and the bitter smell of the wood polish his antennae picked up on.

Lets see… he’d taken shit from that table, raided the bar a few too many times for it to be safe to visit again, stolen some of those ale kegs out from under the nose of those rowdy dwarves… where hadn’t he taken from? He squinted through his blurry vision. Maybe that table with — hic — all the emptiness except for the one pair of feet. They were very small feet, very dirty bare feet, not quite touching the ground…

Wait. The fae blinked. Another kid? In here?

Green feet stomped past his table. Oh! So loud. The force of the footsteps clattered the empty dishes gathered inside Fenn’s table-cave, knocking over the tipsy wine glasses. A flash of cold anger filled the drunken fae. Like what he needed right now was another distraction when he was trying to think amid all this noise and buzz, damnit. In a swift motion of pure spite, the tiny frost sprite stuck his leg out from underneath the tablecloth.

Orc face, meet floor! That’ll teach you to be less of a stompy fucker!

Follow Panthor's will.

The customary farewell of the Order rang still within Ulrich's mind. Sent back out into the world to express the desires of the Goddess, the samurai knights and their protection was left far behind him, staying to protect knowledge and whatever small power the order holds, back in Akishima with his friends and mentors.

The air here was different too. For the last five years, Ulrich had grown accustomed to the smells of life in the small temple. Patrolling the grounds with another of the novice's or studying in the modest library, a crackling fire warming half of his face while he searched for new knowledge. The smells of forests and old books growing to become precious, safe.

The smells of this town were different. The harsh bite of the salty sea air was so different to him that it was jarring, and the unique smell of people living in close proximity, was almost reminiscent of his childhood. Ulrich was unsure how it all made him feel.

He needed to sit down.

He needed to process... how different it all was.

And more importantly: Ulrich craved direction. Panthor however, was silent.

His feet moved as he was lost in the haze of his own thoughts. Some un-confronted desire to move out and away from the centre of the town, further from the hard bite of the sea air and closer to the trees on the far edge. Pulled by a desire for what was normal to him and towards somewhere that was hopefully warm and sanitary. The Minister's alehouse shone to him like a beacon. A quiet night where the traveller could rest. Guiding his horse with rein and thigh he tied up outside the front door.

"I'll be back in a bit See-see. Best behaviour"

The horse whinnied in a potential affirmative and Ulrich tied the reigns to the post before pushing his way through the heavy wooden door.

And straight into his own personal Hell.

The bar was loud, roudy, and bordering on violent. His eyes moved over an orc on the ground, spread eagled, Dwarves in the corner were arguing over a dark dressed rouge, who was reaching for a knife. The packed tavern was building in tension. Eyes were narrowing. Weapons were being drawn. Ulrich was at the bar, his step slowing while his mind was questioning if this a good idea anymore. Keenly aware that he didn't have a weapon that would work in a confined space if everyone was working out frustration on each other.

So he did the only smart thing. Turned to leave, finding the door blocked by a two more drunken idiots, yelling at each other about how drinking at sea was better than drinking on land.

So he picked a stool, hunched over the bar and wished he could be invisible to all but the bartender.

Five minutes before the altercation...

Zack Blaze stood at the table of the local tavern, his left hand over his right wrist as he twisted the latter back and forth. One of Althanas most wanted criminals, the ghostly white lines that covered a good three inches on of length on each of the street fighters arms served as a reminder to the Haidia that was an Aleraran prison. He started a war for Misery Business, did their bidding and created a war in Eiskalt, and as such, became a living target for any would be heroes such as the Ixian Knights and Ashla Icebreaker. Despite his service to the organization, it was Queen Veleena of Scara Brae that moved for the warrior's freedom. Without her, young Zack would still fancy a scruff quite unbecoming of his features, and chains that kept him from unleashing his max potential in times of war.

All of the items that Alerar stripped from him while incarcerated now rested on his person once more. The youth owed so much to Queen Veleena, a woman who told the scuffler that her kindness was a debt repaid for the orc Zack 'slayed' years ago that terrorized the town for years. He did well not to mention to the monarch that, in reality, the fallen orc actually now found his services employed by the very man she thought fell it. His freedom was earned after years of tortures, interrogations, and constant terms of malnutrition. Of course the first place he wished to go was to a bar in order to fill his gut and forget what were once his woes. Somehow, the coloration and feeling of simply being 'free' seemed foreign, almost as if he were in a dream.

"Back on track I guess," he whispered while his gaze shifted over to the drumstick that was set meticulously upon his plate. The steam danced through his nostrils, a smell of fresh oil and slightly burnt poultry skin that in itself brought saliva out of the corners of the young man's mouth. His hand reached for and grabbed the smaller part of the drumstick and began to bring it to his mouth. Zack's teeth ached for the taste of meat that did not sit in a grog hall for days before being served. That first bite of warm protein screamed ecstasy through the whole body of Althanas most renowned street fighter, and it was not long before the bone of the dinner most foul found itself stripped of all its meat.

And then, the political argument and subsequent bodies through the bar happened.

The young man brought his thumb and index fingers to the bridge of his nose with a sigh. It seemed as though no matter where the young brawler went, a large scale fight was sure to follow. He glanced over towards the epicenter of the engagement with a smirk crept across his features. Within the span of three seconds, Zack disappeared and reappeared with a quick jab at the face towards two of the three of the instigators, his form stopped at the body of the rogue who found his new seat upon the table of a few poor souls that were attempting to enjoy their mead peacefully. His fingers interlaced with one another on each hand for an axe handle that attempted to fall upon the rogue's face with a force strong enough to shatter the table his back rested on.

"Just when I was thinking I needed a warm up to get back into the swing of things," the criminal spoke as his shoulders popped as though they wished to broadcast their inactivity to all, "there's always a few idiots willing to become victims, I guess!"

It had been a long day or two for Leoric. He had been traveling by sea with a horribly green crew and then decided it best to leave that crew behind and head more in land to see if there was a Job or someone looking for someone to get hurt. Once he entered scara brae the first thing he did was start talking to some of the local gals. It didn't take long for one or two to get attracted to his gruff, big strong adventurer, look. So when he asked where the nearest tavern was they insisted on going with him.

It was still relatively early in the night for Leoric’s taste when it came to visiting taverns, but after the two days he felt like he needed to get right drunk and probably start a fight or two, maybe get laid in the process.upon entering the ‘Minister’s Alehouse’ the Bar brawler, with woman in tow, found a table in the corner with a messy table top and sat down at it. Snapping his fingers for a bar maid to come clean it up. It didn't take long before he had ordered a feast for himself and his companions and had by his count at least a dozen or so Ale’s and some shots of some elvish swill that made his head feel funny.

“You see, once the Demon cried out my name i made sure to rip off his lower jaw so it would be the last thing he ever said. And then i cut shoved my sword into his head and got sprayed with demon blood.” Leoric said with a joyful demeanor. His leather vest was starting to grow heavy on him and his pants just felt all kinds of bunched up on him. It wasn’t long before his body began to ache. The booze was setting in.

“But isn’t getting demon blood on you a bad thing?” One of the girls said.

“I heard it turns you into a demon yourself.” the other said.

“Nonsense! That was well over a year ago and i am no demon! I may be a demon of the bottle but i am no legitimate demon…” The drunken brawlers words seemed to trail off as a disturbance broke his concentration. Some little brat had just pushed a fully grown orc back across the tavern, and then that orc shoved a ranger, no maybe a rogue, who was laughing at him into some dwarves who were starting to get rowdy.” … Girls, leave the tavern. This is about to get messy.”

The girls were all too eager to leave as the tension in the air began to thicken. Leoric was ready to jump in the fray to take care of the orc. Cause it had been a while since he had to fist fight one. But then the Orc seemed to fall flat on his face. If Leoric had drank another mug or two of Ale he probably would've missed the little foot tripping the behemoth of an orc.

THUD!

As silence fell across the tavern everyone looked around for a moment before the raucous behavior broke out once more. Leoric spotted a seemingly Unpleased individual enter the tavern and take a few steps before turning to leave. Only to be stopped as there was now two drunken idiots blocking the way out. Leoric chuckled to himself as he spotted another orc getting increasingly angry at the person at his table. He stood up and let out his battle roar.

At this another Orc stood up and started growling. Leoric knew all too well what was to come next and quickly stood up, He was going to go after the orc duo that was about to start their fight when he noticed something quick move out of the corner of his eyes. As his eyes met the individual about to strike the body of the rogue Leoric leapt into action and let out a quaking strike towards this individual who as he spoke triggered the memories to flood back into the Brawler's mind.

“You are right in more then one way, my old friend!” Just before his punch would connect a gust of wind rushed towards Leoric from all directions, kicking up any loose dirt, dust, or detriduce on the floor before sending it up in a double helix pattern around leoric. The gust of wind then quickly poured its way down his right arm and expelled a tremendous force intended to impact his target’s cheek.

A flimsy left hand scribbled notes at a blistering pace. Ever set on her goals, Lilly had spent most of the day with an archmagus who was kind enough to show off several spells, channeling orbs, and prophetic scrying tools. During their interaction the drow woman had detailed every nuance of the archmagus’ demonstrations. It had lasted hours and the elf had no time to consider her own hypotheses, devoting their time purely to scribing down his lessons in perfect order. And now, within the crowded Minister’s Alehouse, she finally had a chance to put her own ideas to paper.

Of course, she was on her fifth bourbon. Or was it the sixth? The fact she had lost count and the words blurred into one another meant it likely wasn’t the best time for her to work. Sadly, the haze of alcohol had convinced her that this was, in fact, the perfect time to notate her discoveries.

Sitting up at the mahogany bar, atop one of multitude of cushioned stools, she wrote away. Tipping well meant that refills were coming in as fast as she could finish each drink. As she polished off her sixth or seventh bourbon the glassware clanked on the wooden surface. Another half page written, the diligent girl went to grab her drink only to find an empty glass. Snapped away from her focus, she finally recognized the cacophony of an on-going bout just behind her.

Swiveling around in her chair the ebony skinned lady beheld the chaos of a political debate gone awry. Chairs flying, fists flailing, and burly orcs kissing the wooden floorboards. The happy drunk was displeased, how could she hope to get anything done amidst this racket? Worse still, her glass remained empty with the barkeep too busy watching the spectacle in the center of the tavern.

Softly, but purposeful, the elf said, “excuse me, can you take your fight outside?”

Her words were lost. Spoken too low, too calmly, to carry through the ensuing carnage. She raised both hands, cupping around her mouth and inhaling before shouting, “take it outside!!!”

They heard her this time, but she was ignored. Words rarely spoke louder than the smack of knuckles upon bare flesh. The mob was enthralled with bloodlust and anger as civil discourse was eroded entirely. Were she sober the blue eyed woman would have realized this conflict would not end until only one person was left standing. Inebriated, she was incapable of thinking clearly.

Perhaps if I get in the middle of the fighting I can convince them to stop, she schemed in her mind. Rising to her feet she took a few steps forward, teetering to and fro in an intoxicated state. As she got nearer to the fighting a cheery dwarf was pressed backwards and directly into Lilthis, spilling ale across her torso and upper thighs. Enraged, the pure blood rapidly increased her pace.

“That’s enough,” she issued as she grew ever near the nucleus of the combatants. A flurry of air whipped around the girl as a mighty warrior was readying a punch. On the backswing of his blow, likely unbeknownst to him, his elbow collided with the dark elf’s glass jaw. Lilly was sent spiraling back, like a flower floating through the wind.

Luckily an on-looking Coronian saw her face introducing itself to Leoric’s arm and was there to quickly drag her body out of any further harm. He leaned her stiff body against the wooden bar, reeking of spilt beer and dashed pride.

BOOM!

A window crashed open in a splintering of glass and snapping wood. The tiny frames that held those thick panes between them was barely anything under the sufferage of the huge hoof that slammed against. Shards of glass splurged over the table under the window like rain; light caught in the fragmented faces glinting rainbows in a else sorrowful world. Outside, a raging roar of anger could be heard, and the hoof was slowly lowered. It was quickly replaced by the horned head of a big-bosomed faun-lady, clambering through with a fox under one arm and a struggling small boy under the other.

Confidently, she stood on the table as the previous participants scrambled back, hoping their drinks had not been contaiminated by her or the glass.

"Behold!" she held the tiny boy aloft with a hand. As she did it became clear that she held not a boy, but rather a very small halfling. An adult, but nevertheless aboslutely tiny. "This creature has never drunken before."

And she gently placed him down, giving the room a great beam. Some of the people were silent - those closest who stared with wide eyes, whilst about three quarters had never even heard the window shatter because they were already so loud. The small halfling man shook himself as he tried to realise, and come to terms with, exactly what had just happened. Still, the faun kept beaming at her stunned crowd, before he spoke up.

"Geez, Philomel," he said in a thick, farmer accent, "Yeh didn' have teh go and do tha'."

"You have not ever drunken," Philomel shrugged, now looking to her other arm, where the fox beneath it was just blinking large golden eyes. She reached over and scratched behind his ears. "That must be fixed."

The halfling rolled his eyes as he slid off the table, carefully avoiding the glass. "Oh, hire an expensive one they said. Experience they said."

"Hey, I told you I was on holiday, Emsmoor," the faun growled, her brow suddenly coming low over her eyes, "yet you insisted-"

"Bah," he dismissed her.

Philomel pouted slightly before looking back at the people around her. They were thoroughly pissed, most of them, and the ones with beer-stained beards and wet blouses, or with shimmers of glass in their hair had good reason. Pausing, she bit her lip, before starting off the table, shifting the fox around to her corseted chest. "Sorry," she whispered.

The night time was always a interesting time period for Stonevale.

There was a place in Stonevale where miners and other Stonevale citizenry could go blow off the frustrations of the day. It was a pretty rough and rowdy place. The Minister's Alehouse, and Nosdyn had attended and made use of it's services there before. That night, Nosdyn sat on the porch of the establishment on a rocking bench. His eyes were narrowed and he was pondering gong home when several familiar figures went into the establishment to start trouble. Nosdyn noticed the faun, a friend and ally...Philomel was her name...enter in a flashy sort of way. There were others too...some he recognized from The Citadel Leagues, and others he did not know about.

The inside of the structure was already getting rowdy as the first few fights went underway. It was a mad-free-for-all there. Nosdyn looked up at the night sky, stars twinkling over head. Each star a promise of tomorrow. Then one particular individual went into the bar and chaos started after that. Nosdyn recognized the criminal, Zack Blaze...from past events. Further, he was a well studied individual when it came to constant Citadel League participants. Zack was a well known and gifted fighter.

Once Zack entered the establishment, Nosdyn grinned. The hour is upon us. The old style building, formatted in Scara Brae rustic architecture design, was designed to take a lot of damage. Nosdyn stood up at that point. He looked around the porch area, up ahead was the very outskirts of Borkenthorn Forest. Before he'd settled down in Stonevale, he'd been living in a camp somewhere in Brokenthorn Forest. Nosdyn walked with heavy boot falls. He was never built for stealth or speed, so he relished in the fact that people would know he was coming. Glaring eyes from some of the more savage patrons of the bar immediately spotted the demon.

Nosdyn looked at Zack Blaze who was already being a loud mouth. Arrogance and hot air mostly... Nosdyn thought to himself. He walked up so that he was well within striking distance of Zack Blaze. He then raised his right leg and proceeded in an attempt to throw a strong kick towards the lower back of Zack Blaze. Should his attack connect, it would be first blood. Nearby an unfortunate orc was knocked off his feet by a more tactical minded individual. Nosdyn waited to see if his attack would connect with Zack Blaze...

The entire time his mind was calm and he was tactically organizing strategy and various other components of battle.

"Can I just get a-"

Ulrich was trying and failing to get the attention of the bartender for something that would distract him from the situation. The situation that was only getting louder and less appealing as the traveler shrunk in on himself and stared intently at the wooden pattern of the bar infant of him. Swirling knots and inlaid lines almost hypnotic. Rising and falling with the steadily growing ruckus of the bar. Pulling into a revere that whispered promises of not being part of the entire situation.

Excuse me..

The half spoken words tugged at Ulrich's attention, turning his head to witness his dark skinned neighbor of the bar, attempt to address the room to roughly zero success.

His eyes slid down the woman, to the stack of papers that covered the elve's section of the bar. He made no attempt to hide his interest, she was clearly drunk with an empty glass where just a moment ago there was a full one. His eyes read what he could, scrawling of theory and hypothesis covered the paper. The hints of ink from the bottom of the pile read much more clearly and with higher reasoning than the near scrawls that had been placed there most recently.

Take it outside!!!

Ulrich winced and his ears rang with this new assault. It was a surprising volume to come out of the stranger who looked almost frail. Then she surprised him again. She stood up, and walked towards the fight. Drunkenly slurring as she went. Almost straight to the biggest and meanest looking brawler in the tavern. She was going to get hurt.

Or not. Who knew?

His attention moved back to the top of the bar. A stack of secrets now abandoned and calling out for rescue. Ulrich was in Lily's bar stool, digging to the bottom of the pile. A great smash resounding throughout the room, glass scattering across the bar room floor and the first few assaults were thrown that would turn a bar room brawl into a small skirmish. a lot of power was going to be thrown around and Ulrich was on edge more than ever. Looking over his shoulder, the door was still blocked. There was however a new opening at the far side of the bar. All he would have to do is get past the goat lady and what looked like three different fighters, a kid, and an unconscious orc. All while not engaging with anyone.

Easy? Sure, if he was tiny and could fly.

The bar shook as the dark skinned woman was returned, all the worse for wear. The Coronian gave a grunt and turned back to the ruckus. Ulrich was frozen for a moment, torn between helping this stranger and being elsewhere. Ulrich didn't move. Instead he turned back to the bar, curiosity providing another distraction from the building violence. Instead focussing on the early scrawling on the papers infont of him. Some of it was self evident, to Ulrich at least, Some of it was inspired. So inspired, to him, that they found their way inside Ulrich's overcoat while he looked over the room, planning a way out that didn't get him into an unmatched fight. There was going to be blood. and he sure as hell didn't want it to be his.

Yvonne pushed apart swiveling saloon doors and paced into the tap house’s main booze hall, kitchen behind her. Her perceptive and pointed ears swiveled as well, detecting changes amid the noisy commotion. Unaware of what had disturbed the customers she sought the answer to her question.

Rogues lay prone over tables, orcs collapsed face first onto the floor - an unconscious Lillian propped against the bar? Fauns had broken windows and demons kicked at other patrons. This scene spiraled out of control in so many ways. Yvonne inhaled a frustrated breath and heaved a sigh. Pivoting on a high heel she pushed her way back into the kitchen without a word.

Moments later a wide-brimmed silver platter made its way between the tavern’s inhabits, wobbling, side-stepping an air-born orc that flew by and crashed into a shattering chair. The bounteous platter carried on with its course (its main course, GETIT?), filled to the brim with all manner of fruit and berries. Oranges, mangoes, melons, apples and pears encircled the plate. Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries piled from bowls in the center, but tomatoes were the giveaway mention.

The platter came to rest upon the bar, near a table of arguing dwarves just trying to enjoy their drinks. They fell silent when they noticed what the waitress wore - a frying pan strapped to her chest and another strapped to her back. She had a saucepan upside down over her head like a helm and a devious smirk plastered across her face.

“Ye thinking what I be thinking?” a shaggy bearded, redheaded dwarf asked his comrades.

“I think I be thinking what yer thinking,” a black maned dwarf, white of skin replied. Yvy lifted herself up onto the countertop and cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. She took a deep breath.

“We about ta see ourselves ta a good old fashioned--” red beard began.

“FOOD FIGHT!” the little black-skinned deviant boomed throughout the room. "Come on boys! Up and at ‘em!" she commanded the dwarves. Her black fingers quickly began plucking up mangoes and hurled them at misbehavers - at a human man and Nosdyn! The dwarves sided with Miss frying pan vengeance herself and grabbed for handfuls of tomatoes. They unleashed fruity hell on the rogue, an orc, a criminal and the faun!

Yvy; final boss of fruity mayhem had entered the arena.

Why was a teenage girl entering a bar?

She despised the act of drinking with a burning passion, so that was a no.

In fact, she loathed drunk loving too. Absolutely not.

It was fights.

Fights were what she was here for.

She heard the commotion all the way from downtown. She was sucked towards the chaos like a magnet. Indeed, once she entered… it was a “I wish I could not hear my own thoughts” paradise. Fighting. A lot of fighting. It was all a blur; dwarves throwing tomatoes, a bunch of people absolutely demolishing each other. The stench of beer, sweat, urine, even blood all meshed together, cancelling out the pleasurable scents of food.

First, eat. Then, fight.

The fiery redhead made a b-line towards the counter, “Get me food. Lot’s of meat and fruit.” She placed the coin on the wooden counter before twirling around. A snarky smirk crossed her face as she surveyed all the unfamiliar faces in the crowd. A blond street fighter, some kids younger than her, was that a faun totting a halfling around like a tiny dog in a hand bag?

Amongst all the flying food and undecyferable shouts, she slammed a fist into her palm.

“I’m bored! Fight me!”

She took her number and slipped the paper into a pocket. She then stepped forth, fists already up in a skilled boxing stance, into the fray.

Intriguing.
Spark monitored the tavern from a distance, watching as various objects and even the occasional creature flew out various doors and windows, screaming.

A tiny black feline head pokes its way out from the synthetic's bag, and watches, its green eyes defying the darkness of the night. "Even in an alternate realm, the bar is still strewn with chaos, it appears." it protrudes its full body from the bag, settling on Spark actual's shoulders. "Perhaps they have trinary?"

Spark 5.5 buzzes, and shakes its monitor head. "Unit doubts it. However, it may learn something of this place... amidst the chaos." the robot watches as an orc is shoved out the front door onto its face, and then dragged back in by its legs, screaming.

"...Perhaps." the tiny cat AI responds, still monitoring the chaos. "Perhaps."


Spark stands up, flipping its hoodie over its head, and dimming the light coming from its CRT-head. "It would be best if this unit did not reveal itself entirely." it states, now standing and moving towards the tavern.

When it reaches the door, it immediately has to jump out of the way as it crashes open. An organic runs out, apparently not capable of coping with whatever was going on.

"...Breach and clear." Spark states, kicking the door and moving inside quickly.

SPLAT

Spark is immediately smacked in the monitor face with a tomato, which slowly inches down as gravity pulls it, smearing the glass. It reaches up, slowly, and removes it, staring at the food item. ...Oh, so that's how it is. it thinks to itself, crushing the item within its robotic palm.

"Warning: additional incoming projectiles detected." beeps Spark 5.5m, slowly beginning to move back into the satchel Spark wore, realizing the danger it imposed on itself by being out in the open. Spark immediately rolls to the side, stopping at a kneeling position, and pulls out the kinetic accelerator from its back, clutching the weapon in both hands at it aims down the sights.

BANG

Spark catches a food item in the air with a shot, sending apple bits flying everywhere, and startling the shit out of some nearby organic, which runs out the door immediately, apparently deciding to be done for the night. "Good aim." the feline offers, its head poking from Spark's satchel again. The accelerator whirs and finally emits a click, indicating it was ready to fire again. The hoodie drifts over Spark's optics a little, and it immediately shoves it back, revealing itself entirely. Eyes immediately seem to focus on the robot, some in confusion, others in alarm at the newcomer.
So much for not revealing itself.

A nearby organic almost flies into Spark as they're tossed like a ragdoll, causing it to roll to its left again, landing just underneath a table. Thinking fast, Spark upends the furniture item, barely saving itself from a thrown axe, which impales the table. It stares out over the side and examines the area. "...This is just like the Cyberiad." it notes, emitting a soft ping.

Spark's attention is caught by organics at the other end of the room, tossing food at various individuals. Emitting a buzzing sound, it set a new objective. Bean them back, with lightning.

"So what are these green blobs? Mutants?" the robotic feline in Spark's bag inquires, catching the attention of a nearby orc. It turns to look at Spark in absolute rage.

"WHAT YOU SAY ABOUT ME?!" it yells. It charges at Spark... and immediately gets blasted in the face with a kinetic shot. It flinches, its nose bleeding, but the blast doesn't seem to effect it too much as it continues to barrel forward. When it nears, Spark kicks the table forward, knocking it into the orc and causing it to bend over, releasing a gasp in surprise. As it attempts to stand up, the blue robot acts fast, slamming the butt of the weak rifle onto its head, before delivering a sharp kick into its face. It howls as it falls off the table, and onto the ground on its backside, only to be met with a merciless blast of electricity from Spark's palm. The creature screams as Spark doesn't let up, eventually slamming its head on the ground and knocking itself out. "Target incapacitated." it states, giving the unconscious orc another kick. A picture of a middle finger appears briefly on its monitor, before it looks away from the creature. Spark stares at its arm briefly, electricity dancing through it. "This unit needs to exhaust additional electricity anyways. Cell charge at one hundred and ten percent, and elevating." it ducks behind the table again, looking towards Spark 5.5m. "Try not to draw further attention to this unit, however." it states, prompting an almost irritable buzzing sound from the cat, which only states, "Noted."

Placing the accelerator on its back again, it begins diving from cover spot to cover spot, trying to prevent itself from attracting too much more attention.

Distraction diverted Yvonne’s lustrous silver eyes for too long a moment and a mango she’d previously thrown came back to ding her on the saucepan helm, splattering violently into a juicy, sticky and stringy mess. The impact rocked her onto her heels, circular flailing arms all that kept her footing upon the bar counter. Recovered, she ducked her head from a tomato as more patrons caught on to the food volley - some of the food not breaking on impact and reused counter-offensively.

Yvonne scampered along the counter top, her feet avoiding mugs and hands and-- oh me gosh! Leaping off the bar as a heavy-set minotaur slammed horns first into the stools and wood, thrashing its head about, the little one flew through splinters and bar-shrapnel as she ran for her life. Someone couldn’t take a joke, yeesh! What’s a tomato-splodge between friends?

The drow-dwarf delinquent hurried under the closest table to confuse the lumbering goliath. On all fours she skittered across the floor as hastily as she could, passing through tablecloths. Just as she’d escaped to the other side of the material the minotaur slammed its club-like fists down on the table above, pounding it into pieces without effort. As the aggressor picked through the broken shell of the former table, looking for a black and red smudge beneath, Yvy crept under the next table-shelter as soon as she could.

Fenn! Good grief, fancy meeting ye here!

She whispered with overwhelming emphasis, “Mister Wenn, no time! Flee! Scary cow-man!” The warning was the least she could do for the frost-puck before she abandoned the position herself altogether, slipping through yet another table cloth.

Poking her head up to scout her surroundings she watched a shiny metal golem thump and fry a much larger orc opponent, beating and sizzling the brute in swift succession. She had no idea who controlled the golem or what its purpose was, but one thing she knew for sure! It would be a whole lot safer behind that shiny golem. It knew how to defend itself, obviously!

The minotaur raged in frustration when it couldn’t find Yvonne’s pulverized remains, raising up and mooing in fierce aggravation. Beady eyes noticed the little hybrid scurrying through the tavern, using all the cover she could, but such trickery could only be so effective. The lumbering beast threw Fenn’s table aside like a toy it no longer found interest in. Its legs stepped over the fae’s little huddled form and its hoof crunched down on the weakening floorboards behind him. Somehow he’d survived the passage of the minotaur unscathed but fully exposed.

Yvonne bee-lined for her saviour, the technologically advanced golem, quickly ducking behind it in its hiding place.

“Hello there! A pleasure ta meet ye! Sorry about that dangerous bull creature charging right for us!” she greeted cheerfully.

Fenn was- Fenn was out in the open?

So Much chaos had happened since he had tripped that orc. What had he begun? Had he started this? Yelling, explosions, upturned tables… the tavern was in utter uproar! For a while, Fenn had stayed safe underneath his table, but then Yvonne of all people had appeared out of nowhere and advised him to flee from a cow. All the drunk fae could manage was a crossed-eyed puzzlement as she crawled through his mess of dishes and vanished through the tablecloth.

And then his table and flew up into the air, one leg almost hitting him. And then the earthquake of a cowman had passed.

The little fae was left shock-struck amid piles of broken glass ground into decimated floorboards. What? His hiding place? He almost squished? He scowled and hiccoughed as the burly minotaur smashed off toward other unfortunates. A part of him was afraid to move because of the glass — oops. A very different part of him was stuck on the realization that this bar was totally trashed and thus no longer able to dish out drinks and deliciousness. And thus, there were no more foods or mugs for him to make off with and nurse in quiet joy.

His eyes narrowed and his cheeks puffed out in irritation.

It wasn’t exactly intentional, the steady trickle of ice that slicked the floor outward from where he sat, but it was indeed done with the relish of spite and puffs of livid snowflakes once he realized he was doing it. Those brawlers could eat floor too, just like the stompy orc. ‘Specially that minotaur. Hooves and slick ground didn’t mix together well.

Ninjas. It had to be ninjas.

It seemed like every time I robbed an Akashiman shogun of an ancient Scaran artifact in order to rescue my goddess from the clutches of a frost-titan, I ended up surrounded by the black-masked fuckers.

They had caught me as I moved through the field next to the shogun’s manor, surrounding me. All sixteen of them. Some of them produced shuriken while others unsheathed glimmering blades. Secretive silent hand-talk flickered back and forth between them, laying strategy.

They could not hide their intentions from me. My hazel eyes saw all, saw inside of them, to their souls and their histories. They had a pecking order, and they attacked in predictable sequence.

Like a thresher running through a wheat field I chopped them all down, disarming and disabling with soft holds and swift blows. Within seconds I stood amidst a field of fallen warriors, their groans and cries mingling with the creaking of the trees.

“Well done, Breaker.” I heard slow applause and looked up to see the shogun himself standing on a wide veranda. “Well done indeed. It is no wonder that people always whine about having to fight you.”

“What do you want, nameless villain?” I demanded. I plucked the artifact, which was a simple if large and thick silver coin, out of my pocket and held it up in the moonlight. “I have what I came for. I was leaving. You needn’t have sacrificed your men.”

“Ah, so you may think.” The shogun replied. He twirled his long, thin mustache. “But while you were being so badass, my best ninja was teleporting to a little pub just outside Stonevale. Do you know who he’ll be meeting with there?”

My blood ran cold. What had I walked into?

“He’ll be meeting with your friend Philomel van der Aart, and he has a potent gift for her. A most poisonous pricking, and then an everlasting sleep.” He smiled venomously. “Give me the coin, and I’ll give you the pub’s name. You might just be in time to save her.”

“Tell me!” I commanded him, using the great power of my voice to attempt to sway him, but he had a stern resolve. I drove a fist into a calloused palm. I had to save Philomel. She was not just a friend, she was the Lyre Bearer. I had sworn to Am’aleh, Suravani, and Drys that I would protect her. “Fine!” I shouted, figuring I could kick a frost titan’s ass any day. “Here!” I threw the coin up to the shogun.

“Thank you,” he said, catching it skillfully. “You’ll find your friend… and my assassin… at the Minister’s Alehouse!”

That was all I needed. I turned east toward Scara Brae and took a greatstep through the folds of reality, emerging in a rush of air and sawdust amdist a massive bar brawl.

“Philomel!” I called, searching for the faun. “You are not s-”

A plateful of mashed potatoes and gravy caught me full in the face and sent me sputtering and stumbling sideways. I tripped over a kid (there seemed to be a couple of them around) and tumbled artfully between two barnstorming orcs. I accidentally rolled over their feet, and they howled in pain and left off fighting each other to kick me repeatedly in the ribs.

“Enough!” I roared, and one of the orcs shit his pants. I rolled backwards and caught the other one in a twisting heelhook, destroying his knee in a way that would never quite heal. I spun to my feet and deftly caught a tomato whizzing toward my face, throwing it back at the dwarf that cast it with alarming precision.

Amidst the melee I jumped up on a table, still dripping warm mashed potatoes, and scanned the area, searching for Philomel or her potential assassin.

“Lyre Bearer!” I called. “Where have you gone?”

Personally, Philomel believed food should remain on the plate. All this infantile foolishness was not for her, with the tomatoes and good bread - not stale - being thrown across the room in all directions.

The short dwarf lover who's name she had now forgotten, had scrambled away hastily when all started going to hell. The faun recognised some of those involved - the tiny fae Fenn, except now he looked somewhat insectoid, and the fiery fighter Felicity - and others she did not. But her main concern was currently focused on not getting stains on her perfectly fine clothing and so she hid beneath the same table she had crashed in upon.

"Well," she said in a disapproving voice, looking at her beloved fox who was all but hissing with his back arched like a cat and tail savagely waving, "This has been a change in circumstance."

Veridian scowled at her with deep golden eyes, skipping to the side as what once had been a hunk of pork slid along the floor towards them. The faun herself frowned deeply and moved further towards the wall the table butted - that with the window she had broken. Lips pursed she checked her assortment of weaponry and decided to pick out a green-bladed dagger over either of her sword and crossbow. Streadily she held out it, blade up in case any other cold dishes, dressed in dirt, should come their way.

Do not like, Veridian stated into her mind. Not at all.

"Well we could try to get out of the window," Philomel suggested, peering at a bench beside them, though it was covered in shards of glass. "We came in that way."

Veridian looked at her and growled, baring his teeth. Anything.

The faun shrugged and pushed herself onto her knees. Moving over to the bench she began to ease her way up, pushing aside the glass with her scarf in preparation. Behind her Veridian continued to spit, and she started to heave herself upwards, and from then on the aim would be to clamber onto the table itself, before -

Slam. A fist caught her hard in the face.

It was only her supernatural speed taking hold as her head was knocked back that kept it from knocking hard against the table. Quickly, she breathed in, gasping as colours blurred before her, a a jeer of dark and red.

"What ..."

There was a roar as Veridian was there, leaping forwards with his jaws agape. As Philomel righted her sense his form merged with the shadow before her. She heard an enrgaed cry, a bowl and a ripping of flesh. Summoning what energy she could she flicked the switch on the underside of her dagger and suddenly it was ablaze, flames proudly licking up and down the blade.

Shoving her form through the gap and making it wider, she stood upright and came face to face with their assistant. He was clothed in black, had cloth wrapped around his face and had the fiercest eyes she had ever seen. In his hands he held sais, but one was currently only hand held as he attempted to grapple off the fox who was clutched about his throat.

Suddenly a call: "Lyre bearer!" it yelled.

She looked around, knowing she recognised that voice. From some months ago now but it was so well know .

"... Maul slayer."

Zack Blaze: The Catalyst of Chaos, Avatar of Anarchy, Prince of Pandemonium, Savant of Shitstorms...

The brawler's mind was busy mentally listing all the cool names that would be bestowed upon him whilst his hands slammed the rogue through the bar's furniture. Splinters of wood and splashes of drink flew out in every which direction and threatened to make themselves known upon anyone foolish enough to continue standing around the fighter and his prey. Just as Zack started to let loose, a familiar voice rang out from behind the former prisoner. The smile across the criminal's face widened as he began to turn to face a man he completely decimated in the citadel once before, and was more than happy to do so again. As he turned, his shirt ripped completely off of his form, a result of Nosdyn's kick only barely failing to find its mark and as a result disrobing Zack's upper body.

"Hey, I liked that shirt," Zack spoke as his brows furrowed and his smile disappeared, "but I guess Loseric isn't absolutely useless after all. After I take care of you, I'll deal with him."

He looked to the man who dared attempt to interrupt his fun. He looked around Zack's height and weight, though it was incredibly difficult to take one's eyes away from anything but the urine colored eyes of this demonic-looking foe. "You're face already looks a little trashed, pal," Zack took a deep breath as he slung a small uppercut in Nosdyn's direction, "and the best thing to do with a pile of trash is to burn it!"

Zack's hope was that his words distracted the Haidian native from the real attack. A small shark-like fin of flames began to cut through the wooden floor of the establishment as if Blaze's hands threw the fiery attack like an underhanded baseball. Small embers sprang out and sparkled onto the floor before they quickly died away while the hot attack attempted to find its target in Nosdyn. The attack would hopefully cover the weird eyed warrior in flames, and if not, at least would give Zack a clue about whom he now fought.

The wizurai huddled behind the bar, out of sight, with a series of golden threads dancing above his head to form a sturdy parasol of protection. At his feet lay the unconscious Dark-skinned elf. Behind him and beyond the bar was chaos.

The bar-keep has left.

—what felt like 20 seconds ago—

Ulrich, with his mind on the notes. Formulated a plan to leave this place, get on his horse and leave. The second part of the plan was to never return to this ruffian infested squalor of bad drink and rough housing that only ended with unconsciousness.

Then there was the fruits.

And the robot.

And the Minotaur.

All of which circled around anyone strong enough to fight a mountain and manage to find a way to simply destroy everything at one. There was chaos. Like, did no one want to take a number and line up to take their turn!? He rolled his eyes and soon there was more that he couldn’t keep track of.

With a resounding crack, a plate of meat and chips flew into the side of his head, setting the world into a dizzy spin. A lazy foot falling forward in a desperate attempt to be somewhere else as a great horned beast smashed its way through the majority of the bar. Dislodging a handful of spectators who had claimed it as a sticky viewing gallery. The crunch of wood, as loud as lightning, shook Ulrich out of his reveere as he made for the door. Tripping over Lilly’s leg. Landing face first in what he hoped was a spilled drink but either way was a memory that would stick with him.

Pushing himself from the floor he looked around. Spying more contestants as the floor froze, an Icy glow taking most of the bar’s uneven flooring and taking out more of the green skinned foes in a comically efficient way.

Looking down at the near defenceless form at his feet, his brown eyes made another lap in their sockets as he leaned down. His fists bunched into lilly’s outfit and heaved them both around to the other side of the bar. Utilising one of the many opening now available to them.

—now—

Another ripe tomato sores over the bar and somewhere into the back. Either bad aim, or someone liked to throw things. All the while, his mind and fingers worked. Stitching the golden thread that had been shielding him, onto his boots. Forming blades on the soles which pointed outwards in a fashion he had seen the tumblers use on frozen lakes to gain speed and stability.

He hoisted the elf onto his shoulder and hobbled to the start of the ice. Beyond that was an angry looking fey creature. And beyond that, an undefended and previously smashed open window.

His motions were unpracticed. Clumsy. But quicker than most, as the ice was clear of all but the orca who lay prone. Most wise enough to clear away from the hazard. The fairy he passed causing the ice he tried to shout towards, but the room was too loud. Instead motioingjng with his hand to communicate a- “thanks” as he slid past on magical skates. Bending his knees he pushed off.

Catching the window’s edge with one foot and spring boarding into the cold air.

"Now then."

Nosdyn said carefully as his body was ignited in flames for a moment or two. His body was scorched and he suffered some degree of burning, but for the most part he endured Zack's attack. That was a nice attack. Nos looked through the hot fire as he looked at Leoric's position. There were other combatants in the area, and a that point he noticed that the floor was somewhat slick with a sheet of ice. Nosdyn would have to maneuver a little carefully. He was thankful for his boots at that point.

As he stared back at Zack, the fellow spewed nonsense out of his face.

"Let's see you try, Zack." Nosdyn knew the man's name as he was a participant and member of The Citadel's ranks. Nosdyn had good knowledge of most of the warriors that frequented The Citadel's halls. As he stood there for a moment longer, he cracked his neck. "I hope that's not your only trick." Nosdyn stalked forward towards Zack. Though he was sincerely a reformed Demon, he knew Zack was a criminal and his capture would give Nosdyn a nice payday with the local guards.

As his eyes narrowed his body gave off steam from the criminal's attack. Be ready to strike back. Nosdyn thought calmly. Though his own growing unarmed combat skills needed a lot of refinement, he still was no slouch in his training. He just needed more experience. Nosdyn fought in the unarmed combat style of the demon horde. As he walked forward, Nosdyn grabbed a chair, and the sap that was sitting on it fell on the ground. Nosdyn had a weapon at that point. I could use my sword but that would be cheating, besides...I have to train more. Nosdyn thought to himself. When he was in striking distance, Nosdyn swung the strong oak chair right at Zakc's upper body.

He waited to see what Zack would do. "Not a fight without some damned chairs." Nosdyn grinned.

“Lyre Bearer!” My voice echoed over the cacophony of combat. My hazel eyes flashed over the flicker of flames, the fighting foes and the flying fruit. As a soldier slipped on a pile of slush and slammed into a slack-jawed sycophant, my swift eyes and godly cerebellum made sense of the situation.

I spotted Fennik Glenwey, the little puck of a fae responsible for coating the floor in frost. I had helped the child-sized fellow fine tune his ice magic. I scanned past a man who called himself Zack Blaze, seeing many details of his checkered past in a single instant. The demon Nosdyn and the warrior Leoric who faced Blaze would have their hands full. Already flames licked at the floorboards as a result of his noxious powers.

At the window behind the bar, a strange-looking fellow called Squiggy struggled to kidnap a female drow, whose name was unclear. It seemed his intentions were pure, however, so I saw no reason to intervene. I had my hands full looking for Philomel.

There.

Past the pilferous puck, behind the battling boys, and through the fast-spreading flames, I finally spotted her. The faun Philomel, the matriarch of the Gilded Lily, my traveling companion and ally of many years. In her hand was a flaming dagger, in her face was a masked foe, and on his face was a feisty fox-form fellow I knew as Veridian.

I leaped from table to table, the wooden planks jostling beneath my boots, fruit and vegetables flying past me on all sides. I jumped over the spreading flames, intentionally upsetting a tray full of ale mugs which splashed down in attempt to extinguish the fire. The bar owner could thank me later.

Sprinting the length of the last table, I took a flying leap and lashed out with a metal boot at the back of the ninja-assassin’s skull. If the bastard was tough enough to defeat me, Philomel, and her fox, then we didn’t deserve to call ourselves the Awesome-team. Which we never had done, but probably should.

With nobody attacking her, despite being smack in the middle of the room, Felicity stalked back to the counter. She caught a plum flying midair, scowling as she ate that and the food set out for her. Grumpy, she devoured her snackages with wrath. Her food was her opponent now. She caught another flying fruit, an apricot this time, and took a bite as she pushed her empty plate back. She made swift, aggressive work of the fruit as she stalked towards the center of the room again, Let’s try this again, shall we? Maybe I should stand on a table this ti-

*WHAM!*

Felicity was barreled over. All her senses, including her magic sense, absolutely creamed.

Dazed, she looked up from the floor. She saw where the sense of explosive, tremendous magical power came from… he was a man, crying about a lyre or something, completely demolishing a group of dwarves.

Nope. She was not going to mess with him.

Then – Ice! The floor was ice! Not lava! Ice!

Her mind was spinning, her magic sense still tingling.

She held her head as chaos swarmed around her. Making it on her feet, she – hey – that lady looked familiar!

“HEY, YVONNE! IS THAT-“

She slipped on the icy floor. “Oof!”

There are moments in life when one small turn can cause a cascade of unforeseeable effects, like the smallest of drizzlers finally bringing a dam to its breaking point. Then, of course, there are moments where things go about how you would expect. The bar was a bubble set to burst before Morus ever summoned up that strange energy from his body. There were countless creatures and strangers all drinking away their sorrows and aggressions. He should have known the second he struck the orc down something like this would occur. He’d been in a few bar scrapes in the past, several of which he caused when he snuck an unsuspecting coin purse into his pocket. But nothing had ever prepared him for the battle royale that was now taking place.

The orc who wanted his blood had gone down to the floor from some unseen trip, though it soon became apparent it was the foot of none other than Fennik, a fae the waif had become all too familiar with in the dreamscape. When the windows started getting smashed in by strange faun creatures, and plates of food were sent flying through the air, the orc had gone off to join the melee at a more interesting point. A strange artifice golem had snuck in to battle the orc’s ilk, while an odd man crying out with a voice like thunder rushed to the faun’s aid against a masked assassin. Fennik froze the floor with a flourish of magic, while a brawler engaged two others in a fight of sickening machismo that made the sensible boy roll his eyes.

In fact, despite one tomato smacking into the side of his head, Morus had pretty much been left alone, sitting soaked in his seat with wide eyes watching the brutality unfold all around him. A bottle of ale came soaring over his head, and he managed to snatch it up with a clumsy catch, sipping it slowly as the chaos kept getting crazier around him. But his bemusement of the show around soon ended when a second bottle came shattering on his table. The time to flee the scene was fast approaching, but all around him the scuffle only intensified. Flames were erupting from the apparent criminal who matched blow for blow against the demon Nosdyn, whom Morus had faced in The Citadel not too long ago. A girl who, only moments earlier, punched her hands in eagerness to join the fray slid across the floor on her back. The boy needed to clear a path.

First to the bar to, in some sense, gather a few unattended supplies.

Though right after that, he would be out of there.

The floor was a danger to the barefoot urchin, covered in shards of broken glass, frozen in ice and, slick with blood. Instead, he hoped from table to table, doing the dangerous dance of avoiding the food fight and thrown daggers as they hurtled through the air. A charging minotaur knocked the tables in front of him out of the way, just feet before he reached the treasure trove of libations that almost seemed to call out to him. With a sigh, he slipped his form into the dreaming, to phase jump the last ten feet to just behind the bar. There were knives stuck into the wood, shimmering next to pools of blood and dislodged teeth that meant more than a few faces had bounced off of it.

As he stuck a few bottles beneath his dirtied clothes and into his belt, a man jumped upon the bar with a sudden leap. He wore colorful clothes in peacock style and brandished a rapier in his hand that shone with every swipe of the blade, as he flourished it in the air behind Morus. The boy only sighed again, summoned the power in his right hand, and sent the man flying back along with a few stools that sat next to the bar. He didn’t see where he landed, but his trajectory seemed to place him near the brawlers engaged in a fight.

And just for fun, Morus hucked a few bottles of the cheaper stuff into the crowd, hoping to knock against a few heads, or at least get some people liquored up before his escape.

Philomel saw the boot come in at a nervously acute angle. She ducked back, calling out Veridian'a name loud and clear, shoving herself with a mighty push from the black-haired being. As she did a fresh tomato landed on her shoulder and she found her lip curling with disgust. But it was not the fight to concentrate on. No, rather there was this man here, right in front of them, prepared to end their life.

Veridian was flung off the face as the boot connected with flesh ans fabric. The small beast let out a yelp as he flew into the air, letting himself be released. With a sudden burst of speed Philomel darted, catching him with one arm as now the assailant began to topple forwards. It seemed she had been the only one to properly notice the boot.

Careering forwards the masked man smashed head first into the table littered with splintered glass, palms flat out in an attempt to soften his landing. The faun, though, was the faun. Pulling back her head only slightly she dragged in a breath before throwing her head down. Her horns met his skull with a sickening sound like a crunch and a splat.

Her horns smashed him into unconciousness. Whether he was dead or not Philomel did not care to look. She gave a vague glance up and down the black-and-grey-clad body before twisting around to glance at their rescuer.

Just as bread splattered against the wall.

Of course it was Breaker. Nobody else called her Lyre-bearer. She doused the flame on her dagger, let a struggling Veridian down from under her arm as she vaguely was aware of a fist fight between that wretch Zack Blaze, who had bloody once framed her for his own murder.

She'd deal with him later. That had been a long time ago, after all, before the Gilded Lily.

"Breaker," she huffed, partly collapsing against the table. "Fancy seeing you here."

Veridian meanwhile began to crawl away, realsing they were not going to leave this pub that had become a hell hole. He figured the safest place to be away from the food would be behind the bar, where it had begun and where a large object of wood would protect him. Quietly he slunk around the people, seeing a short drow, a funny young human, a ... Metal thing with a box for a head and that small Fae child Fenn. He liked that kid. He would say hello later.

Meanwhile there was a minotaur to dodge.

Now he would get away from the food and the punches, and hide in the shadows.

Where hopefully none would find him.

The young man looked up just in time to see the bar stool coming down towards his face. The smile on his face grew wider as he tucked his face under his right arm in an attempt to shield his fine features from the blow while his left fist slammed into the chest of Nosdyn's demonic visage. The wood of the stool shattered and splintered into the arm of the street fighter, small ravines of crimson pooled over his flesh and dripped into his hair. He would make sure to shampoo the blood out later.

Nosdyn, meanwhile, was sent careened through the air until he finally slammed into what was left of the bar. The attack from Blaze had rendered the demon completely unconscious and prone to anyone easily taking advantage of the now weakened specimen. Zack walked over to his knocked out opponent, swinging his right arm back and forth to not only try to shake out the splinters, but to bring some feeling back into the numbed sensation his entire forearm surged with. "It's been a while since I really count to cut loose. Hope you liked that attack, I call it 'No, you'. Seems whenever I punch with my left hand, so long as someone's in the middle of attacking me, I can deal out some incredible damage. Not that any of this is registering in that thick head of yours..."

The street fighter kneeled down to mull over his latest conquest, and in doing so managed to evade a bottle of whiskey that was aimed straight for his blood drenched hair. The blue eyes of the warrior stopped upon the coin pouch of Nosdyn, a small satchel at the hip of the knight-like being tied with a single string. with an audible 'Yoink' sound from the brawler, the satchel quickly found a new home in the pocket of Zack Blaze. The amount did not feel significant, at least compared to Zack's own wealth, but it was a little more coin so the tussler did not have to waste his own.

"Fancy seeing you here," the words brought back a familiarity to the warrior as he stood and turned to the owner of the voice. Philomel van der Aart was a criminal not unlike Blaze, though the former was moreso wrongly accused of the murder of the latter during a tussle with a dragon. It seemed that like Zack himself, the faun he so detested managed to break out of whatever hell hole she found herself in. The boy did not know why he hated her kind so much, maybe it was the fact her people saw themselves as 'sexy' rather than 'animals', and that relations with them were 'sex' and not 'bestiality'. The boy punched his fist into his hand as he quickly kneeled down again and picked up some sawdust on the ground, a result of Nosdyn's breaking-and-entering- the bar area, and quickly disappeared once more.

His visage reappeared for a fraction of a second only to throw the sawdust at the faces of Philomel and the person she was chatting up, only to disappear once more before he materialized beside Leoric again.

"So, this can go down two ways, buddy," Zack said, his flimsy loyalty shining like a diamond in a coal mine, "we can either team up, and then handle one another when all is said or done, or kill each other now and let ourselves be free to the pickpockets and con men in this place. Whattaya say? For old times sake...."


((Permission to bunny Nosdyn given by Pavel. Pavel also agreed to allow me to have whatever money Nosdyn had until he returns, which I will then pay back))

Fenn watched in bubbly drunken glee as a red-haired girl slid past him on the thin sheen of ice he’d created, and some part of him was very pleased to be at the center of such calamity — to have contributed to it. What chaos this was! Delightful! More! Headed the opposite direction of redhead, streaking over the mess of tables (some rather battered) was a slight figure who Fenn recognized through the fuzzy haze of drink sloshing around his brain.

AH-HA! He thought he’d known those little urchin feet. Morus! And headed for- ahhh! Wait! What was this that he witnessed? He too wished to pillage the bar of all its goods!

On wobbly feet, the fae stood up and began to flit his way to the main of the bar, unbothered by the ice underfoot. Each step he took was stabilized by a coarse effusion of frost. A hefty bottle of something or other — cheap, from the way it shattered — sailed his way and smacked him upside the head. Ow? Droplets of brownish booze frost to his hair, skin, and cloak. Oh well, no loss; it was in need of a wash anyway. Belatedly, the fae looked up to see Morus already hippity-hopping across the tables towards the door. A dizzy wave was given. Darn. Bye friend.

About three feet from the tarnished and tempting counter of the bar — after skirting about some ludicrous fights and one terrifying instance of a blue demon being smashed into half the bar — Fenn was jerked to a halt, coughing as the collar of his cloak dug into his neck.

There was a meaty hand attached to his cloak. For a moment, the boy panickedly, assuming it a bartender seeking revenge for all the drinks that had gone (and likely would keep going) missing in his presence… then realized that it couldn’t be the bartender. The bartender hadn’t been green. The fae rubbed his smarting throat and glanced over his shoulder at the burly, orcish owner of the hand, eyes narrowed in cool annoyance. He was met with something similar in the orc’s gaze. “Krunck recognize wily elf boy,” the orc announced through a tusky lisp, “even if now boy is like moth. First, cheat in glorious wrestle of arms? Today, trip smart-friend Kuglor. Thinks bug boy wants to be squishy.”

Fenn took the threat with a bleary grimace and bared teeth. This was an invitation of… violence? Yes? Should he respond to it, with it? It wasn’t something he normally thought about, but being as riled-up and booze-saturated as he was did away with what little sense of inhibition he possessed. Something more wicked than he’d like to think he typically was took hold.

Puffing out his cheeks in annoyance, Fenn grabbed the unfamiliar orc’s hand and let out an effusion of wintry magics.

“This no tickle!” the orc exclaimed with a bellow of a yelp, yanking his frostbitten hand away from the fae. As he was released, Fenn reached for the bar, leapt the counter and stumbled onto the floor on the other si— oh boy, there sure was a lot of glass and spilled booze here. Seemed as if neither raiders nor brawlers had been very kind to the bar. Tipsily tip-toeing around the hazards (failing to not start freezing the spills in the wake of his stirred magics), Fenn grabbed what few drinks were left on the lower shelves and shoved them into his bag. He was — hic — maybe not feeling like climbing? Right now? Swaying of his feet, he backpedaled into the counter of the bar. Another hiccup jolted him as he half-lucidly tucked himself underneath the counter.

There was a bottle of something-or-other in his hand. He pressed his mouth to the lip of the bottle, before realizing that its contents were frozen. Oh. Whoops. That was fineee.

Yep. He was- he was just going to sleep heeeere for now, yes?

Giggling madly to himself — a sound that was comparable to the faint wheeze of a hiccoughing mouse — the boy threw the frozen bottle out into the crowd as hard as his weak arms could handle before finally passing out of his intoxication.