The Old Bar Joke (Open)

[Striker]

One day, Striker mused, he would walk into a bar and everyone would be immediately silent. If there were any musicians at work, they would all come to a screeching halt. Maybe someone would have to get out of his favorite chair. Only after he sat down to a drink, the waves of murmuring voices would roll back up to their normal din of a crowded drinking establishment.

Today, however, was not that day. The bar was crowded, with tendrils of smoke lazily rolling across the ceiling like clouds. All manner of people were yelling to be heard over one another. The days work was over, and it seemed like nobody wanted to go home just yet. Striker practically waded into the place, the collective body heat making it almost a steam box.

While the bard went into extra innings with his mandolin and belted out an encore of his chorus about the daring deeds of men long gone, Striker reached out a claw to grab the flagon of ale he had coming to him. The barkeep barely had time to look at him before going on to the next order or elven wine. The ale tasted all right, the atmosphere seemed perfect, but something about the whole scene was missing.

"Where did my wallet go? Those filthy Gypsies keep coming in droves to ruin our fair city and I'm tired of it!"

Ah, yes. Striker remembered now. That is what the night needed. He slid off the stool, downing the rest of his drink and weaving his way to a stocky man drunkenly explaining to the barkeep why he could not pay for his one-man party.

"What was that about Gypsies?"

When making a metal flagon intended for use in a bar as... scenic as the establishment Striker had chosen for his evening's drinking, the maker cannot have any misconceptions about its intended use. Yes, of course, it is intended to carry alcohol from the bar to the customer. However, any given flagon can and likely will have an auxiliary use as a negotiation tool for settling any and all minor disputes. For this reason, when the flagon Striker propelled with his fist clay faced the drunken lout (propelling him off the floor into a surprised and rather uglier mess on the floor), it received no structural damage. Indeed, the integrity of the whole remained intact.

Striker set the small wonder of dwarven engineering down and put up his fists, roaring at his still-stunned foe to get up and fight if he wanted to do something about his wallet. In this perfect moment, hardly even a quarter of a second, the whole bar stared at him, the music had stopped, and dozens of folks who decided now was as good a time as any to head home shuffled out the door. Maybe tonight was the night he would be recognized.

On the other hand, maybe, one of the drunk's friends would pick up a barstool. And from there, maybe the patronage would erupt into a brawl of considerable magnitude.

Maybe that is why the bartender was making his way up the stairs.

[Emblem]

Oran Tellios had been drinking. It always happened when he was drinking. He was a tall young man, sharp handsome good looks, sleek clean silver hair, but when he drank things got ugly. He was in a bad mood, snapped at minor irritants, and went off on anyone that got in his way or that looked at him wrong.

In the small logging town of Underwood, he was an explosion waiting to go off. The bar was called the “The Peaceful Promenade” but it would need a new name soon enough. Packed with people, some of them drunker than Oran and the others well on their way, congested with smoke and sound from the crowds and tavern entertainment, business was going well. So far the night had been pleasant, easy going crowd and lively conversations, but wherever there were good drunks there were bad drunks.

One man seemed to be trying to skip out on his bill, but he was going about it all wrong. You never argued with the man, Oran knew that as he was a veteran of this himself, you always made like you had more than enough to pay and when he was distracted, an event or something would push you out the door and so long. This man was adamant that he had gotten his wallet “stolen” by gypsies, gypsies of all things. The excuse was beyond flimsy, it was completely unbelievable, like how a child says the dog stole the cookie from the jar.

Just when it seemed the bar owner could take no more a man-animal smashed the drunkard in the face with his drink. It was a crude attack but it did its job well, the man falling to the ground with blood spurting through his newly formed dental gaps and down his crooked nose. A fate deserving of any dumb drunkard, something that Oran could one day give to many.

As he walked forward to view the tavern’s drink beater it was clear to his slightly blurred eyes what was about to happen. The walletless drunk had drunk friends, and groups never got bitten without biting back. Three of them rose out their chairs, easily sticking apart from the townsfolk that cleared out, due to their hating glares as they burned holes into the back of the fist wielding man. It was fast becoming time for Oran to act, to give them the special “Tellios Treatment” which involved beatings so bad they didn’t even bruise, entire body parts fell off from sheer pain. At least that’s what Oran had thought about his brother and dad’s “Tellios Treatment” often thinking amputation wouldn’t have hurt as much.

Perhaps it was fortunate that he didn’t have the strength of his father or brother, or more likely it was worse as his methods were a lot more permanent. The first thug took went to take a huge cheap shot at the man’s back and was met with a slap to the face from Oran, a palm that held in it a small fiery ball that clung to his melting skin as it burned out. As cool as the magic was, it didn’t hold nearly the satisfaction that some of his abilities did.

Thinking unconsciously to himself that he’d rather not get hit at all than experience yet another bar bashing, he left himself a silver haired fighter, lighting shooting from his hands at anything near him, excitement robbing his sense of control or aim. Hopefully it would scare off any more opponents, but if it didn’t than they had to deal with a ice-hard fist fighter, frostbite all around.

[Striker]

Striker looked down, as the young drunk clutched his face, his stool clattering to the floor. This was not a pretty sight, the fire stuck to his face no matter how the poor man wiped, beat, or scratched at it. Hell, at this rate the idiot is going to beat himself up! The belly laugh that rumbled out of this was cut short by further attention to detail. The silver haired man, as tall as Striker but a little more slight, was making an impressive display of meteorological significance out of his monochromatic gloved hands. The bar had almost emptied by this point except a few jaded souls interested enough to see how this turned out.

There were two men left, on the other side of the circle that was forming, and somewhere between the liquid courage and the knives they were holding, it was obvious that they were not going to run. Here were two men who looked like they made a business with those knives. To striker’s left was a gentleman with one eye and an auspicious scar running across his face, a hunched over disposition, and beady eyes. His partner, on the other hand, was as short as he was stocky, with a head like a brick factory and twice as ugly.

However, Striker considered, they just had one knife each. I have ten. Now, Striker did not pay much attention in school, and the mythical art of arithmetic was one that eluded him, but he decided to risk that he had the advantage. He burst forward, clearing the few feet between them in the bat of an eye, and pounded the side of his head into the bar.

This was effective. From a tactical standpoint, Striker had used what he had to undo a single opponent. However, there were two things he neglected to take into consideration. One was the stocky man, who did not have to think particularly hard about his position to know to plant a knife firmly in the beasts back, and he most certainly knew enough about his trade to twist it. The other was the man with the burning face, who had slowly reached out his hand over the course of the fight and let fly his own magical influence. The effects of this spell could be likened to a cannonball – a black orb flew out and struck Striker on the back, knocking him, and his recently acquired knife, off the concussed man, over the bar, and into a wall of bottles, which erupted in a nova of glass and alcohol. The good news is that any minor lacerations caused by said glass was immediately sterilized by the hooch, but it also burned, and it burned hard.

Striker picked himself up off the floor, his fur matted down with the most expensive long island iced tea in Underwood history, and roared. A knife still in his back, he elected to grab the two closest half broken bottles and leap on top of the bar. Burning man was still down, but he was getting back up. Tall man was starting to wake up from his improvised nap. Stocky man was… running. In a rage, Striker leapt from the bar to a table and then pounced upon his adversary, driving the bottles into his side.

“Didn’t you forget something?” Striker bellowed, ripping the knife from his back and returning it to the man in the least gracious way possible.

Oh dear. Skinny man and Burning man were both up. The raw amounts of alcohol in Striker’s blood stream, combined with the raw amount of blood outside of his veins, made Striker stagger a little. The guard would be coming, and soon. Best to end this quickly and get moving.

Of all bars to leave his Halberd out of…

[Emblem]

The man who had struck first and with all the finesse the elegant and sturdy weapon known as a cup could provide was quite a fighter. The two thugs that hadn’t been set alight had drawn weapons, small knives and they seemed to know their way around them as well. The man-beast Oran had come to the aide of was a flurry of action right from the beginning and gave the bar a proud dent, a battle scar all its own. The method it acquired the dent was something awe inspiring that any warm-blooded man could appreciate. He was an animal in so many aspects and he took as well as he gave it out. Not even a vicious knife in the back would stop him. It was at this point the man who had been hand-branded by Oran let loose his own magic, launching the beast and man flying into the precious alcohol. What a severe waste of fine drink, the man would surely die for it, else the world would stop spinning and evil would conquer good and time would stop.

In the excitement of it all a silver haired human seemed to have forgotten that he was a participant and not a simple observant, his love for blood sports was great and it was common for him to leave his fellows out to dry while standing around soaking in the spectacle that was the fight. But his lack of action was short-lived, spying the man that by many cattle-ranching laws belonged to him that was getting to his feet and knowing it was time to act, his hair flipped to a jet black with a royal shake of his head, and he leapt onto the nearest table.

The plan had been to swing from the chandelier and deliver a powerful two footed kick to his man-property but his interest in others caught him once again. His fighting partner had recovered from his blast into the bar and leapt on top of it bearing deadly and twisted glass, leaping after the chubby fleeing man and ramming them into his sides. If the man lived he’d be pissing red for the rest of his life, but the beast hadn’t finished with him yet. Drawing the knife from his back and plunging it back into its owner, the beast had his way with the man. “It was the beast in the bar with the kitchen knife!” Oran had solved one of life’s great mysteries from first hand account, which brought him back to the fact that he was there, first hand.

Normally when one was in a fight they would think up the best tactical move that had the least and this was always true. Unfortunately the Tellios were a family of light weights, and Oran was full on drunk. Without any real plan other than to get in on some of that action he dove from the table top, spread eagle onto the two remaining thugs. As a painful heap of flesh, mostly unwashed and rank flesh, the three fell to the floor in a great mess, throwing fist every which way and not caring who they hit.

In the back of his mind it dully registered that guards were running towards the bar, he’d caught a glimpse through the door during his flight from the table and he wasn’t too concerned. What was the worse they could do, put him in jail? He could barely hear himself think over the grunts and groans of the fighting men entangled with himself and as they pounded at each other, at one point Oran punched his own kneecap much to his chagrin. The beast man seemed to have things under control, no doubt he could take care of the authorities but just in case, Oran had to say something. Shouting out in muffled gasps as he took a hard right to the jaw, “Table!” “Door!” “Gurgh!”

[Striker]

Striker did not have to be told twice. To his left was a sturdy oak table, long enough to seat at least eight people. He heaved, dragging the table closer and closer to the door. It was agonizing. The watch would be here any moment, and something had to fill the gap. Just… a few… more… feet…

“What the hell are you doing?” Said a crossbow. The watchman was aiming at Striker, but he was focused on the table. The cat looked up, and did exactly the right thing. He panicked. Supported by abject terror at the prospect of receiving a crossbow bolt to the dome, he swung the table the remaining distance. In a lazy arc, the furniture crashed into the watchman like a moving wall, knocking him through the open door. Moments later, the same crossbow peered over the gap at the top of the door.

“You are all under arrest!” The bolt lodged itself in the floor of the bar with a heavy twang. Striker paused to consider the likelihood of a backdoor exit. However, there was business to attend to first. Striker stormed over to the small three-man brawl. He remembered two of the participants from before but who was this black haired… oh. Wait. What? How did he… never mind.

What a mess. Forensic men would be able to follow Striker’s actions from the trail of blood back and forth across the bar. He shook his head to keep his vision from blurring. Had to hold out just a little longer. He reached into the fray and pulled on the first chunk of flesh he could grab. Halfway before head butting the man, he realized it was the previously silver haired gentleman. Their two opponents were hastily getting to their feet. Saving apologies for later, Striker leapt forward, tackling the ashen-faced magician back over the bar before he could do any more harm.

This was, however, a little too late. The ugly spell caster planted his fist in Striker’s gut, using the same kinetic spell to blow Striker strait upward, and crash into the ceiling. He laughed, lying behind the bar as the spell began to dissipate, but for all his power there was something he had no control over. What comes up must come down. Still coughing to get his breath back, broken ribs and all, Striker could feel the spell loosening its grip on him. He fell, elbow out, back onto the laughing man, and the laughing stopped abruptly.

Striker rose behind the bar, slowly.

“Anybody—“He had to stop to cough a bit longer, “You want something to drink?”

The laughter that followed hurt his ribs far more than anything that had happened today, but it was worth it. He grabbed a bottle and leapt onto the bar, to see how his compatriot was faring.

[Emblem]

Being entangled with another man was never a pleasant thing no matter the circumstances and this was no different. The three men had been on the ground beating away at each other relentlessly, no sign of stopping anytime soon despite the occasional tooth that made its escape from the tussle. Luckily a man who Oran had attempted to help managed to tear one of them off and flip him over the bar, leaving only Oran and scarred man wrestling on the ground.

Finally getting a good grip on the man’s head and allowing it to meet the ground in an expedient fashion, Oran was victor by knockout. Not quite oriented enough to stand he raised his arms victoriously from a kneeling position and belted out a strange gurgle of noises. It was intended to be a shout of victory or something boastful about how much better of a fighter he was and how he had more where that came from for any friends they might have had, but at his current stage of drunkenness with a head full of incoherent thoughts enough for a man and a half, it came out as a yawn, a hiccup, and what happens when you do both while swallowing your ale at the same time. Had he been drinking ale, his victory shot would have come out his nose.

Observing where the crossbow bolt had landed dangerously close to where he had been on the ground and the angry shouts from outside the door, Oran knew when it was time to run. He’d had some fun, but it was more important not to get caught, like his father always said. “I ain’t never gonna bail you out, if you’re stup’d nuff to get caught than ya gonna rot.” He used to believe his father always made it up, but the older Tellios sibling spent half a year in prison till he mysteriously disappeared.

Jumping off the ground, Oran ran over to the bar were his newfound friend awaited him. Seeing his friends conditions, all three of them, Oran knew they wouldn’t be able to make it way alright without a distraction. Slipping slightly on the booze that had saturated the floor, Oran’s better self took over and switched him back to the magic using self that could get done what it needed to.

“Get out of here, go the back way and make it fast, guards be coming.” Alcohol was inherently flammable and it would most likely be in their interest to save the local tavern over catching a couple of bar fighters and so he conjured a magical fireball yet again, taking aim and hurling it precisely at the spilt drink. Unfortunately he missed, forgetting to let go of the fireball and nearly set his own foot alight. Trying again, and then finally hitting something on the third try, the bar was set alight. Knowing that fire was bad, and that he should have gotten farther away before doing it, Oran managed to stumble out of where he hoped his companion had gone, tripping forward just enough for a crossbow bolt to miss him by mere inches as guards cleared the table from the doorway.

Behind him he could here glasses of precious liquids bursting in small explosions that would threaten to rip the room apart, it was an even better distraction than he originally though it would be. He had managed to get them away from the room and out of trouble, or at least he thought he had, and this was definitely going to be a great story for him to exaggerate and tell to everyone he knew, probably more than once whether they liked it or not.

[Striker]

As mentioned previously, when operating a bar there are certain situations you need to take into account. Sturdy cups of all kinds are one obvious situation, but the same applies for every element of the establishment. Chairs and Tables, for instance, must take the other route. It is easier to simply replace cheap, easily broken merchandise and let the brawlers have their fun than watching them try all night to break nice woodcraft until they finally succeed. It is said that in every bar you will see hundreds of fights involving only your fists, dozens involving knives, at least ten involving full-blown swords or other weaponry, a handful involving firearms, and only one involving fire.

You only see one involving fire, because that is all it takes.

These were not the thoughts trickling through Striker’s brain. The cuts racing up and down his body were depriving him of blood, and the bog he found himself in behind the counter ensured that the blood that did choose to reach his dome was, in fact, more alcohol than anything else. As he slowly staggered to his full height, knocking over bottles and glasses as he slid over the bar, it was all he could do but laugh, even as the fires began to grow, and bottles began to explode.

However, he was somehow aware that he was in immediate danger, as the combined elements of a crossbow bolt planting itself in the wall near his head and the additional, and quite uncalled for, shower of glass rained down upon him. The bar, turning a rosy color with the fire, would simply not stay put as Striker staggered towards the stairs.

The bartender went up here, right? That meant there had to be an escape, right? Up the stairs, ‘round the back, you know, cuz… cuz… it’d be dumb to not have… one of those… yeah. Striker pushed his way past his new arsonist friend. “I shaw da barrrrendter go up dissaway…” he slurred, rounding a corner up the stairs.

Drunken eyes followed along the tip of the sword, down to the handle. Up hairy arms to the body and face of a reasonably upset bartender. Striker considered his options for perhaps a little too long. Diplomacy, he decided, was the best option at this juncture. Now, what do we have to work with? There were a few paintings along the walls of the staircase, which probably wouldn’t be much help. His hair-changing compatriot in arms was behind him, which provided a good contingency plan. However, he did still have that bottle he was joking around with earlier. Time to make do with what one has.

Smashing the still-full bottle against the wall, he held up the broken glass.

“Geddouta mah way a’ fore... a’ fore I guts you!”

Now, if only he could decide which bartender to attack… best to lean against the wall and let the world sort itself out…

[Emblem]

Following his hopefully less drunken friend away from the ignited inferno behind him, Oran practically knew that they were safe. Chasing the furred tail that lead him he began to charge up the stairs as fast as he could, winding himself from the abnormal exertion and from missed steps more than once. He nearly smacked into the man’s back as he came to an abrupt halt halfway up the stairs and waited the long moments until he slumped against the wall.

Looking up past his fallen comrade he could see the cause, an old man holding a knife pointed downward directly at himself. In a drunken rage he screamed at the old man, “How dare you! You killed him!” His anger manifest itself in a light blue glow, a fizzle in the air as electricity shot from his hand and traveled up the sword singeing the bar owner’s arm hairs and making him drop the weapon.

Feeling the heat of the fire on his back, Oran didn’t have time to dole out the justice deserving of the old man, nor did he have time to grab his fellow’s body and take it with him for proper burial as deserving any decent being. Charging to the top of the stairs and giving the man a good hard kick in the shins, Oran burst into a room that was bare-boned, just a mattress and a door that he broke.

Falling prey to overwhelming panic, Oran lost focus even more and had he been a woman, he would have screamed but he was too drunk to do that now. Turning back to run down the stairs, he spotted something that he shouldn’t have missed on his glance through. There was a window just to the side of where the door opened, a window that went out onto the roof of the one story part of the bar. Sure there may have been smoke coming off, but it wasn’t on fire yet and he was going to make it out of the building one way or another.

Trying to dive through the window head first, not remembering in time to put his hands out and break it, Oran crashed into the solid glass quite painfully, falling to the floor in a bent heap with blood trickling down his forehead. As his vision blurred and began to fade to black, he knew it was more than just the alcohol, something had gone wrong, horribly wrong. At least I’m drunk.

[Striker]

Bloodied and torn, Striker leaned against the wall of the bar stairs considering his situation. He knew he was forgetting something, but it can’t have been terribly important. There were more important things to do. Sleep, for instance. He’d been clawing at the walls of consciousness for too long today, and eventually you just have to let go and let sweet precious sleep take you in her arms. In spite of the stinging cuts and fractured ribs heaving in his chest, the world was suddenly a soft feather bed. The world pressed down, and Striker was drowning. Slowly, his eyes closed.

I am on fire. My tail is on fire. The whole staircase is on fire, and I am in it, and I am on fire. Striker convulsed as if electrified and roared in pain. Fire! His eyes shot open, and he burst from sweet sleep’s grasp. How long had he been out? The only thing down the stairs was a blazing inferno! Oh God! I’m on fire! Clutching his own tail, Striker stumbled up the stairs. Everything was a Halloween orange inferno, and the individual planks of the upstairs bar were starting to give way.

How did I even get here? What am I doing? And who the hell is this?

No time to think. Gotta get out. Dragging an overweight and hairy bartender into the next room, he saw an equally grim scene. Cracked glass above a bloodied heap. How do I know that guy? Still no time. How the hell am I getting out of here?

“Ghphlath…” The bartender offered, helpfully.

Okay, I am smart enough to do this. Let’s see. Room. Just a bed. Window. Gotta break the window. Striker wrapped the sheet around his fist, and hoped it was thick enough. Pulling back, he punched the slate of glass as hard as he could.

Okay, window’s open but that sheet sure was not thick enough. Nursing his bloodied left hand, he tried to clear away remaining shards of glass. Gotta get these guys through. No time to think. Striker grabbed the bartender, and lifted him over his head.

“Whu… what the hell are you doing?”

No time to think. Heave ho! And through the window went the bartender, onto a smoking first story roof. Not much time. The other man was an easier burden, and it wasn’t long before Striker was in the open air. You really do not miss oxygen until it’s gone. Coughing up a lung, he considered his next move. Gotta get off this roof. No time to think. What do I have? A bartender who tried to kill me and a guy who backed me up in a fight. How to get into the alley below, and make an escape.

Oh.
Wait.

The fat guy tried to kill me!

As the bartender slowly got to his feet, Striker realized a plan. The first step was to slowly walk forward, and push. This created an improvised cushion for Striker and his as-of-yet unnamed comrade. Slinging the lad over his shoulders, he leapt down into the alley.

The plan, essentially, failed. Striker missed. He did, however, manage to roll, sparing his legs anything more severe than a nasty rattling. No time to cry over spilt milk now, gotta run, gotta run. Dashing through cobbled backstreets, Striker carried the young man in a firefighter’s grip while the town gathered a bucket brigade. There would be time to stop and rest later, time now to put as much distance between this bar and these fighters.

[Emblem]

Thoughts were moving slowly, far too slowly for Oran’s preference. He couldn’t feel his arms, or his body, his head felt like a balloon that was about to pop, and he didn’t like it, any of it. Opening his eyes lazily, the world was a blurred place, spinning on multiple axis and seemed to be jumping up and down in rhythmic fashion, something that he’d never seen the ground do before. Fighting the swirl in his stomach, he saw a building smoking tremendously with flames shooting out of openings every which way, causing a swift flashback.

The drink, the fight, the man he helped, the guards coming, the fire, the desperate flight up the stairs, the botched attempt to make good his escape. Looking down he spotted the source of the jumping planet, a golden tail attached to a body, a body that was carrying him. Behind him he could see the bar they destroyed retreating into the distance, the entire town retreating into the distance, they were running through trees and soon they would be far enough that they wouldn’t be able to see it all.

Regaining feeling to his body and scraping dried blood off his face, it seemed to be half covering his eye, Oran was ready to move on his own. “Put me down. Over there, ‘gainst that tree.” Getting dropped to the ground roughly, he was still thankful for the comfortable reprieve of solid ground and resting his back against the thick moss covered trunk. “The name’s Oran Tellios. That was a close call back there wasn’t it? You really saved my ass man.” Extending his hand upward to his new friend, Oran tried to put on his most winning grin but his entire face felt squished and immobile. He’d felt like that only once before, he’d had a giant bruise for nearly a month and it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to repeat.

Giving his friend a close look over, Oran thought he was definitely someone he could travel with for a while. Due to his strange appearance, Oran’s hair changing wouldn’t even be noticed and nobody would be the wiser. Sure he wasn’t quite human but it didn’t bother Oran, he wasn’t entirely human himself.

Taking the first opportunity, Oran took the initiative. “I’m heading over to southern Corone next. I hear there’s some kind of portal there, I have no idea where it takes you but it’s gotta be worth checkin out. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

Raising himself off the ground, checking himself to make sure he didn’t drop anything, Oran departed from the area heading in what he thought was a southerly direction, but making sure he didn’t go near the town again. He had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be very welcomed there.

Note to self. You drink and wake up with bruises. Don’t drink.

[Striker]

Striker might as well have been asleep at a full sprint. The complains of his cargo roused him to the fact that he was, in fact, well outside of the city limits. Buildings had been replaced by old wood forest. Still a little dazed by the realization, he dropped the man against a tree, and listened.

“Oran, huh? They call me Striker, and if I remember right, you stepped in to bail me out in the first place! But never mind, those blackguards got a thumping I doubt they’ll forget any time soon… If the bucket brigade is fast enough…” His riotous belly laugh was cut short by the acute pain in his side, and he coughed the rest of it out.

Reaching out to help him up, Striker considered his offer. “I’d join you, but as you can see I don’t even have the clothes on my back! Much less, my weapon and I’ve been through too much with that thing to just leave it behind. Sorry fella, but I got to do a quick trip back into town. I’ll be but a few hours behind you, though, so maybe I’ll catch up. But I owe you a favor, Oran, stepping in for me like that. Now, I ain’t much for the great warrior type, but I know my way around my weapon and lately I’ve been doin’ a lot of body guarding work. So if you get into trouble, and decide your body needs a little more guarding than you can handle yourself, remember – I owe you a favor, and I always pay respects.”

Turning back to town Striker called called over his shoulder, “And Oran! Next time we meet in a bar, let’s just have a drink, huh? Hard to kick back and relax when the whole place is aflame!” Laughing the painful laugh again, Striker dashed back to town.

Epilogue.

The dwarven innkeeper was going over his books again when Striker stumbled through the door. “My word, you look like hell!” he cried, running eyes over the dried blood that ran rivers down countless tiny cuts along his body.

“I’m skippin town. Now.”

The dwarf laughed. “Not without payin’, you’re not. Nobody skips out on my rent. My son is in the watch! You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

Walking up the stairs, Striker was chuckling. Minutes went by, while the keep waited for that damned cat thing to come down the stairs and bloody well pay him. The bell on the door tinkled as the keep’s son wandered in, badge shining in the air.

“Afternoon, pop. I’m wondering if you’ve seen anything suspicious today. Any of your clientele come back lookin real bloodied, maybe had one of my crossbow bolts stickin’ out of ‘em? There’s been a fight and an arson two blocks over at the peaceful promenade, and most of the folks barely got out with any skin. Especially a cat man. That son of a bitch slapped me in the face with a table and—“

The young dwarf stopped talking as his father grabbed his axe from behind the front desk. He followed his father up the stairs to the cat’s room, and booted in the door.

Nothing. Nothing in the room but the bed frame. The mattress was gone! The curtains were gone! The bed stand was gone! The window was… broken? The elder dwarf stuck his head out the window, almost catching his beard on the broken glass. There were the curtains, snaking down the wall. And there was the mattress and bed stand, both in the alley. He must have broken the window with the stand and used the mattress to brace his fall!

“Son number one? Go and tell your work buddies that the cat is out of the bag. That alleyway is a dead-end one, and the only opening heads north, so you’d best start there before he gets too far.”

Wordlessly, the younger dwarf bounded down the stairs, while the elder slowly followed him, axe in hand. Time to take a lunch break, and spend it hunting. Nobody sneaks out of paying from The Rusty Nail Inn. Nobody.

The worst part for Striker was having to wait under that bed for another five minutes until he was sure it was safe for him to snake out from under it. Maybe he’d pay next time, but this whole bait and switch went too well. Many people value good service in an Inn, but Striker preferred dumb service every time. Striker ran through the door and headed south, a happy warrior with his bow, his halberd, his arrows, and the most of his blood.

[Storm Veritas]

JUDGMENT TIME!

Wow, excellent debut for both of you!! I was really impressed in the writing skill displayed by both of you. Some brilliant analogies, a good balance of thought and narrative, and a relatively well paced flow. There were some easily fixable flaws in the writing (including a few inevitable typos, such as "strait" instead of "straight"), but overall this was a very solid performance in a relatively straightforward thread.

Introduction - 5 Very well written, although it seemed to be without much explanation. I suppose that is one of the problems with creating an open thread.

Setting - 4 Probably the only point I'd consider "weak", although it certainly isn't poor, merely not accounted for. When you did describe the surroundings, both of you were very capable of putting forth a nice, solid visual. It just didn't happen enough for my liking.

Character - 7 Already well above average. Simple, human thoughts and feelings and emotions. Strengths and weaknesses. I thought the link between you two was a bit shallow and maybe too easily formed, but that's admittedly nitpicking. Very strong here on both accounts.

Dialogue -7 Another very strong element for both of you. I was very happy with dialogue on the whole - I thought you were both effective without being overly wordy, and were very "human" with your dialogue. One thing that could have improved my experience as a reader would be separating internal dialogue from narrative. I personally use italics to parse the stuff my character is thinking, but just separating it from the paragraph would ease your flow.

Writing Style - 7 See above. I'm thinking both of you have future Althanas star potential.

Strategy - 3 Let's not pull punches. You've proved to be very good writers, and this was a throw-together quest to get some writing in and shake off the rust. Nothing wrong with that, but compared to some of the epic efforts given here, I'd be amiss if I gave you high marks in this category. Again, a function of your quest type rather than personal skill levels.

Rising Action - 5 You transition well from post to post, and both keep me wanting more, which is EXCELLENT. Don't make longer posts just to build drama. The quest itself was simple, so it isn't really eligible for a high rising action score, but don't beat yourselves up.

Climax - 5 A well scripted yet simple showdown with the bartender and the resultant pass-outs. Funny, entertaining, and once again simple. I liked it, even though it felt watered down from what you two will undoubtedly do.

Conclusion - 7 Very satisfactory friendship build. I think you two were fast friends perhaps a bit too quickly, but that's not a big deal. Good wrapup. Nicely done.

Wild Card - 5 Welcome to Althanas! I'm sure both of you will be bringing a lot to the table if you decide to stay and write some more. Can't wait to see future offerings from you both.

Total Score - 55

Very good!

Striker and Emblem both receive 565 EXP and 100 gold, provided that Striker gets his/her character approved.

[Thoracis]

Rewards added.