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

[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.