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.