Swing drunkee drunkee swing!

[Drunkee]

Fabio walked into the Rosewood Tavern, a new bar in which opened for the first time a few hours earlier. oh this place seems nice. he thought to himself. He walked over to the bar, carved out of oak and glossed for a nice shine. Ah! Nothing is better than a new bar. he scanned the menu fir his favorite drink, moonshine. "Oh, no moonshine eh?" He said in disappointment. "Ya know, if there's anything not on the menu you'd like to have, all you have to do is drink a full mug of our specialty." The bartender said in reply to fabio's comment. "Oh is that so? Well then, I'll take one of your specialties." He then placed 10 gold coins in the bar "Right away." she said as she began mixing the ingredients.

A few seconds later the bartender returned holding a mug filled to the brim with the specialty. As the bartender placed it down in front of Fabio he asked, "so what so you call this stuff anyways?" The bartender replied with "we call this Red Dead Drunk. So far, anyone who's had a small sip of it has turned red, and either died or got drunk." Fabio took one look at her and said, "we'll in that case, lets do it!" He then tipped his head back, and chugged the whole mug.

Fabio stood up, extremely woozy from the drink he had just drank. He turned around and started screaming. "Boy, I know where you live!" He said pointing to the closest person to him. "And you will bow me some respect!" He shouted as he back handed the man across his face.

(OOC: anyone who wants to be the one I fight, be my guest)

[Otto]

The Rosewood Tavern was in a nice part of town, where alley walls didn't double as a drunk's urinal, and without the kind of clientele that warranted sawdust to be strewn over the floor. The roadside window frames cast patterned shadows amidst the auburn light which spilled out from the building, and these designs seemed to flow like water across the pedestrians who strode up and down the street. One particular figure, clad in basic cotton garb beneath a sturdy woolen overcoat, walked to the door, where a burly man in a decent, but practical suit stopped leaning against the door jamb, and blocked the entrance with his bulk. The newcomer took something from a chest pocket, which glimmered in the warm light. The bouncer took one look at it and stepped smartly to the side.

Inside, the place was beautiful. A large hearth kept the main room nice and warm, and a number of wall-fixed lamps gave off a remarkably clean light - prime tallow, or some high end oil, perhaps. The furniture had rich, red plush, and the floor was formed from oak slats arranged in chevron patterns... but the new arrival didn't seem all that impressed. He wandered up to the bar, where the publican took note of the other fellow's grey complexion, jutting brow and tusks. He fixed the orc with a waxen smile, but his gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to the bouncer by the door. The guard gave a curt nod, and then the bartender's eyes returned to his latest customer.

"What can I get for you, sir?" the man asked.

"Amarson's (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25197-The-Midnight-Visitor-%28solo%29&p=205441&viewfull=1#post205441), thank you", the orc replied, setting himself down on one of the stools which lined the bar.

The bartender filled a mug with a pint's worth of tipple and set it down on the burnished oak surface. The orc set a handful of coins next to the drink. The man took the coins. The orc drank the drink.

They did this several times.

By his fifth pint, the tavern had filled up with a few more people. One of them had taken up position next to the orc, and had just ordered 'moonshine', whatever the hells that was. The bartender, possibly incensed that someone had asked for a world finalist in Althanas' Boorish Beverage Championships, was now trying to kill the other man with a Red Dead Drunk. The stuff smelt like someone had managed to ferment bleach; unable to withstand the assault on his sinuses, the orc turned away, and focused instead upon a waitress - not a wench, not in a place like this - who was trying to mop up the first spill of the night. He watched because it gave him something to do, and if he had nothing to occupy his mind, then even the beer sizzling away in his gut would not be able to stop reality coming back in to focus.

Otto was having a bad day.

To begin with, about a week's worth of newly-forged arms - originally destined to travel to the outlying garrisons - had somehow made their way onto a merchant ship bound for Alerar. In all likelihood, this had made those responsible for the 'clerical error' somewhat richer, and the questionable recipients in Ettermire, a tad more dangerous. Then his chum, Carrin, had gone down to the docks to have a fossick around for any useful leads, and wound up getting shived for his trouble. Some more charitable wharfies had found the lad before he bled out, but at this point the doctors reckoned it was touch-and-go. When Otto had stopped by the hospital earlier, Carrin looked remarkably pale, and his breathing was too shallow for comfort. Otto felt lost, and angry, and kept thinking about those, of the scant few he could consider friends, who weren't around any more - and whether or not Carrin would soon be following Rurin and the others.

The last thing Otto needed was for someone to hit him in the face, so he was understandably upset when that was exactly what happened. The giant man next to him chugged the house special down in one go, and rather than fall back dead - as normal people were meant to do - he turned on the orc, pointed, and screamed something which, in Otto's state of inebriation, took him a few seconds to register. While he was busy trying to figure out what seemed off about the shouted threat, the green-eyed behemoth hit him across the cheek with a backhand like a sock full of concrete. Otto blinked in confusion, then slowly slid off his stool.

His brain, lagging behind, presented the results of its analysis.

"Bow you some respect?" he concluded at last, from somewhere around ground level.

Adrenaline hit, and returned him to the present. Unfortunately, pain came along for the ride, as well. Otto cursed, unfolded one long arm, gripped the edge of the oak bar with his right hand, and hauled himself up. As he rose, the other fist came around in a drunken haymaker towards his attacker's bottom rib.