(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.