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

[Morus]

(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.

[FennWenn]

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!

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

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.

[Zack Blaze]

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!"

[Leoric]

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.

[Lilthis]

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.

[Philomel]

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.

[Nosdyn]

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.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

"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]

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.