The third place bout will begin Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!
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The third place bout will begin Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!
”Sir… ahem… Mr. Veritas… they’ve made the third call for the carriage to Coliseum. We’ve been asked to retrieve you for battle.”
The mousy messenger from the Lornius Corporation waited by his stool patiently, a furrowed brow under an enormous forehead. The petty, balding, middle aged clown of a man was clearly aggravated, but he also treated Storm with kid gloves, as though he were handling a lion. Perhaps it was wise, but the ornery mage was still infuriated that his repeated inferences that he was going nowhere were ignored.
Don’t you know who I am, little man?
“shutupSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!” he exclaimed, hopping up from his stool and cocking his hand back as though to discipline the forty-something messenger like a child.
Startled, the tiny man shuffled back, tripping as he retreated and falling to the ground. He bumped a stereotypically airheaded (and buxom) waitress as he fell, several glasses of mead crashing and splashing liquid gold upon the floor. The crowd burst out in laughter as Storm helped up the squirrely runt of a man. He had to treat the Lornius crew with some modicum of respect, for they had certainly saved his ass.
…and all the king’s horses
…and all the king’s men
…somehow put Storm together again!
He handed a thick stein to the little man as he smiled, swinging his finger to the bartender in a knowing circle as he smiled. Another round of beers for the house. The match with Thoracis Rakarth and Max Dirks was for blood, and had nearly cost him his life. He wasn’t sure why they had bothered to piecemeal his fractured body whole again, but was quite thankful to see the morning sun and taste the philosopher’s drink. Some had rumored that a few of the Ai’brone had been brought in to salvage him – apparently he had generated some clout in his time here.
“Steve, another round of beers for the house. Anyone tries to get anything fancy, send them here for me to cut their nuts off!” A raucous cheer from the patrons of the bustling bar, a few pats on the back and thanks.
This was no dark and dirty bar, there were no terrible dingy corners. Candles painted the room with flicker-licks of amber and orange all about, the mahogany wood shining like the decks of the Majesty’s fleet. The bar itself shined brighter still with a thin layer of liquid coating it in a glazed sheen. The mood was exceptional, and the wiry ne’er-dowell buying beers for the house certainly had some major buy in.
“Sorry bout that, friend, but I’m not going anywhere.” His words to the little Lorniate were stomached, and the middle aged accountant-type nervously sipped from the glass of liquid courage like a fifteen year old stealing dad’s vodka. It was strong, and the stuffed shirt was not ready for it. That would change. “But today is a good day. I’m alive, for starters, and well on my way to getting skunk as a drunk.”
His error didn’t cross his mind. He had forgotten it before his ramble continued. “Now, with apologies to Zephyriah, I AM NOT going out to get my head kicked in for a third place finish, consolation trophy and a photo op – pretty as I am!”
He swung back around the stool, facing the bar and standing up. He had drawn some great attention to himself. In Radasanth – a town that seemed planets away now – he would never gather such attention. He’d be stabbed in the back by a scorned lover, relative to a victim, or even cheated prostitute. Here, in Lornius, he was one of the gladiators, and enjoyed being heralded as such.
“Hoy!” he shouted, hoisting his glass and twisting his wrist, the thick, dark brew sliding down his throat and leaving the close edge of the bottom coated with foam. Re-raising the glass, he shouted again, spinning his glass like a gunslinger before slamming it to the holster – the bar itself, ready to be refilled.
thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip – THUNK!
“Fill ‘er up again! Once it hits your lips…. It’s soooo good!”
Damon was surprised by how few people wanted to hear his stories now. Ever since he had lost to an elephant, it seemed that Lornius’ interest in him had waned. The boy hadn’t seen his partner anywhere in the last round, and now Damon didn’t know what he would say should he see the ice demon again. The boy had found the tournament particularly embarrassing for him. He had been partnered with one of the greatest legends of his time, and had still ended up losing. It was a shame. Circus had advanced, Blank had not. It was the order of the world, it seemed, but Damon wondered what would happen to all of the grand plans that he and Ashiakin had in store for Lornius.
“Maybe Chumley will take care of them,” Damon thought. The elephant had been particularly honorable, so Damon supposed that the long nosed fighter would be a good candidate for Duke. However, Chumley seemed to have other priorities, such as ridding Althanas of the blight of the Irish. Equally noteworthy, but it left the people of Lornius without a hero.
Now, as Damon sat despondently at the bar, he wondered just how much he could drink. The boy had never really had more than a single ale, never enough than to get a simple short buzz. Now, he wanted to imbibe voraciously, get enough ale so that he would be able to spend the rest of the night thinking about something else other than his failures in the LCC. There was a lot of history that was left to be written, somehow, despite not having Ashiakin’s guidance, Damon had made it into the finals of the Cell. It would not be the victory that he craved for, but at this point, Damon was willing to take history where he could get it.
“I just have to get this LCC out of my mind,” he thought to himself.
“Bartender, another glass!” he called out.
The bartender looked on gruffly. “Losers pay their own tab,” the man said, spitting crudely into an empty class to clean it out.
Damon sighed. This had been the first time in Lornius he had been charged for drinks. He didn’t actually have any money on him, for he hadn’t expected that his love affair with the city would have ended so abruptly. Fame seemed to be a fickle friend. “Come on…” the boy begged. “Cut me some kind of deal here…”
The bartender shook his head. “Aint’ the orphanage kid… I don’t do charity round here..,”
Deflated but not completely defeated, Damon just sighed again. However, a new idea soon came on him. He would challenge someone to a drinking contest, at the end, the loser would buy all the drinks for the winner. Damon was fairly certain that he’d win. He had more motivation to drink than most. Even if he lost though, there would have been no way that he could have paid. Should he be arrested for that, Damon was certain that the Cell authorities would get him out in time for their tournament anyways. The plan seemed foolproof enough, at least given how much Damon really wanted to drink.
“I challenge anyone here to a drinking contest!” the boy declared. He looked around for anyone willing to take the challenge.
When Damon spouted out an open challenge to the drinkers, Storm's ears perked and entire face erupted in smile. His cheeks were blushing a bit now, the early formation of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. Bright white teeth flashed in his smile, knowing that the opportunity at hand would be both fun to undertake and all that would be necessary to accomplish the mission.
Time to trump the wonderboy. I’ll be damned if this isn’t the golden ticket.
His feet were fast, and useful in combat, but he used them here to approach the boy with more speed than the rest. In the raucous bar, many were willing to go shot-for-shot with the famous Damon Kaosi, as rounded bellies and hardened livers were far more experienced in this sort of combat. Fighting his stomach the next morning would be no joy, but for now he could take part in the festivities, besting the lad and teaching him a thing or two.
“Well, well, lookie here! It’s Damon F*cking Kaosi! Come to drink us all under the table at the tender age of 14. Who checks the ID’s in this f*cking place, anyway?”
A big laugh thundered, Veritas knowing full well that the elfin boy was probably some preposterous age. Not that it mattered. In the outskirts of Lornius, so long as you saw over the table you could drink. Liability and lawsuits are words vastly foreign to Althanians, Storm Veritas included.
“Boy, you’ve come to the right place…” he began, a knowing wink as he smiled. Another hand gesture, one that not even he fully understood, and the bartender walked two small glasses of dark brown liquid to them. Shooters, probably whiskey. Hopefully whiskey.
Raising his glass, he turned to face the crowd, not sure what to expect. He was lauded and praised, the resonating cheer of “Up! Up! Up!” coming from the elated field of alcohol induced giddy.
His wrist turned and mouth opened, the firewater sliding down smooth as silk. Must have been brandy, whiskey hit with a harder kick. Perhaps he’d just had too much already. Either way, round one was underway, and he slammed his glass down to the polished benchtop.
“DOWN!” he spoke with another cheer. He pushed the second glass to Damon, hoping the boy was ready to take the challenge he had issued.
“Your haul, son. Let’s see how magical you can really be.”
Damon grinned. Not arrogantly, but with the pride of a boy who had suddenly found a far flung plan come together. The elation at his success precluded Damon of making any response to any of his newfound competitor’s less than flattering remarks. Ultimately, Damon was going to get drinks now. It mattered little that this overly confrontational stranger was going to be insulting when it seemed that the man more than willing to pay ale if it came in the sake of competition. “I’ll go first!” Damon said cheerily. He put the glass up to his lips and downed a greedy gulp. Almost immediately, the boy’s face turned sour. His eyes watered a bit, and people around him started to chuckle.
“Better hold it down boy,” a rough man taunted. “You wouldn’t want to end the contest this quick now would you?”
Unable to say anything initially, Damon had to wait for the initial shock of the foul taste to wear of before he could say anything. “This ISN’T good ale!” he insisted angrily to the bartender. “You bring out something better now.”
Irritated by this initial bad surprise, Damon turned towards his opponent. “And by the way, I’m not even fourteen… unless maybe you mean fourteen months. I haven’t really counted so I can’t be sure.”
The bartender merely laughed. “That ain’t ale sonny… its whiskey… a REAL man’s drink.”
Damon bit his lip. To the best of his knowledge, he was the only one in the place who had been an LCC semifinalist. Just because he had lost to a formidable opponent didn’t mean that he wasn’t a real man. He had fought honorably and had obtained victories worth noting. It was only a few weeks ago when the entire town of Lornius was abuzz with admiration for the way that he had handily dismissed of a boy called Banda Utako.
“Well then, I’ll drink it,” Damon said, his voice a combination of determination and confrontation. With that, the boy held his nose and polished the rest of the drink down. It burned deeply, but Damon managed to finish it all. He struggled to hold some semblance of a smile on his face.
After a less than elegant burp, Damon turned towards his strange competitor. “I’m Damon,” he said. “And I believe it’s your turn now…”
Storm didn’t know Damon Kaosi very well, but knew enough of him. The spirit he saw was promising. The youth was coincidentally bold, brazen, and not opposed to tempting the dark side a bit. Although the battle hardened mage had absolutely no idea what the boy meant when he implicated he was less than two years old, he liked what he saw in the youth. Something in him was less than innocent, less than lily white. Perhaps he was corruptible. Perhaps he could be a fine ally. His legend certainly carried the gravitas to warrant consideration.
Not bad. I remember my first whiskey. Wore it on my chest like a brown badge of courage. Of course, I made it four shots before recycling, so we’ll see what you’ve got in you.
He turned to the youth, who wiped his face with bright eyes and a zeal Storm hadn’t expected. A little trash talk ensued. Cute. The boy had balls, even if he didn’t appear to have a clue as to the actual intricacies of alcohol.
“Very well done, boy. Don’t worry aboutsh the burn. It getsh better before it gets worse.”
He smiled, and slapped his palm on the counter again, popping another handful of gold coins in a short stack on the tabletop. The slur slipped right past him as he spoke, no longer cognizant of it. The heard start on drinks he had over the Kaosi lad shouldn’t matter, but perhaps it would play a role. Whatever. The drinks weren’t free, but a thick tip to the tender gave him strong rounds, and the rate per glass seemed to be dropping precipitously.
This glass was looking smaller, the alcohol altogether even less imposing. A smile to the lad, a wink to the crowd. They were clapping now, a detail he would remember in a haze the next day. They were happy. He was the entertainer, the friend to the masses. And while the free drinks played a heavy role in this existence, he was rarely this genuinely nice. It was actually fun, when it was convenient, to be liked by people.
“Try this one, boy. I think you’ll like it…”
He raised the glass to the audience, another broad smile and ever-reddening cheeks. He spoke loudly, his voice laughably poetic and yet quite awkwardly off-key.
“To our wives and to our girlfriendssh…
…May they never meet!!
For whens they do…
…my ballsh turn blue,
…and mine own prick I beat!”
A loud whoop and laugh came from the crowd as he finished his cheer, claps from the men and nervous glances from the women. With another kick back of his head, the amber burned his throat, and he plinked the glass hard on the counter.
Empty. Done. Your turn. I am the king.
As if to further sass the boy, he stepped back and did the impossible. Storm Veritas – the ever proud scoundrel, spun about with a hand on his head, stamping his feet as he circled tightly, a swift jig followed by a loud finish, extending an upturned palm to the youth as he smiled like the men the put in padded rooms. Another laugh, but he would regret this one for a while.
”Hoy, boy, and get on down!”
There was no doubt in Damon’s mind that he could have performed a feat to rival that of his new drinking buddy’s if he had been completely sober. However, the effects of the first drink of whiskey were beginning to take their toll. It was a sudden rush of alcohol that made its way into his head. Damon’s appendages began to tingle slightly, and a sudden rush of dizziness shot straight into his head. The whiskey was considerably more potent than anything that Damon had drank before, and the boy was reluctant to step down off his stool for fear that he might find out just how clumsy the drink had made him now.
“Time to drink another then…” the boy declared. There was a bit of resentment in his voice, but Damon tried to mask it behind a bit of bravado. Only now had Damon realized how hard it would be to win. He had never drank ale in large enough quantities before, and while he was aware that alcohol had effects that let someone forget their troubles and have a good time, he didn’t know of any of these other side effects. Now, Damon figured that he couldn’t afford to seem like a dilettante, if he did, the contest would probably end because the man paying for the drinks wouldn’t be particularly interested in competing against such a rookie.
Whether Damon’s declaration had any effect on his crowd was highly unlikely. Though a few people cheered for him as he lifted up his glass, most people were still paying attention to the dancing. “Better strike while the iron’s hot, Damon figured. If he were to drink quickly while no one was noticing, the boy figured there would be less people who would notice if his poker face failed. Once again, Damon pinched his nose and took the drink in as few gulps as possible.
His face puckered immediately after it was done. This drink wasn’t bad as the first, but it was still pretty bad. A bit of a shudder fell down Damon’s spine, as the alcohol rushed into the boy’s uninitiated bloodstream. Damon burped again, but this time he could smell the way that his breath had changed.
Unfortunately for the boy, he had belched just as the bartender was passing by him. The less than pleasant odor ended up right in the man’s face, and Damon could do nothing more than to look on sheepishly as the bartender gave him a dirty look.
With that, the bartender offered a single veiled threat. “Careful kid… there are people here that don’t take too kindly to your breath…”
“Thanks for the warning,” Damon replied nervously. “Uhh… are you one of the people who don’t take to kindly?”
“Yes…” the bartender replied. With that, the man went back towards the used glasses and began sharpening the knives.
Damon gulped. For a moment, the boy wondered that if it were to become necessary, would he be able to defend himself. However, the boy soon dismissed that kind of thoughts as a bit of drunken paranoia. After all, even if he had failed in the LCC Semifinals, it still meant that he was talented enough of a competitor to dismiss a bartender. Everyone in the tavern likely knew it as well.
With that, Damon decided it was time for the next drink. Not because he was particularly eager, but because he didn’t want the crowd to get restless. Once his opponent drank again, Damon knew their attention would be centered upon him. However, before the boy could have asked for anything else, a gruff dwarf approached the bar and laid down enough for drinks for two.
“Give ‘em the Ceagrass fireballs…” the dwarf said. “Make ‘em drink a dwarven drink…”
The bartender grinned. “I’ll make it so,” he said.
The boy was trying, he had to give him that much. Storm smiled as young Kaosi winced, remembering a thing or two about struggling to work down a drink.
Damn, kid, you make it look like that stuff tastes like a bag of assholes.
He contemplated allowing the young general in on the secret of drinking easily. It was simple to Storm, by now a professional. Simply open wide, and relax the palate. Allow the booze to scorch the back of your throat, not the tongue. Suck it down and man up. It isn’t that bad.
Yet as he opened his mouth to stammer forth the recipe for disaster, he was interrupted rudely by a fat, little one. Dwarf. Storm had hated these awful things since he had killed them by the dozen on Alerar, their persistent pudge sickening to him, their arrogance detestable amidst their inherent slow, fat asses. If there was ever a race less deserving of such haughty pride, Veritas had yet to meet it. When the bearded bubble of lard plopped down a drink, Storm heard the little one mention a “Ceagrass fireball”.
Stay out of it, tubby. This is between the warriors in the house. Go shine my goddamned shoes.
His thoughts were swallowed for the moment. He wanted to have fun, not start some fracas, and insulting the butterball would serve no productive purpose. A tiny bit of swallowed pride would stem the tide. At least for now, until he could get the boy’s belly to pop, win the battle, and then deal with the falsely empowered fatso.
The Ceagrass Fireball was a terrible looking thing. The bartender plopped down two identical steins, both thick and full of some devilish orange liquid. A thick head bubbled disgustingly, and Storm could see some thick particles floating up and down in the glass. Horrible. To make matters worse, the glass was warm to the touch, and the liquid was almost hot.
“Ugh, you dwarves should stay to yours own gamesh! Lookit that fat belly, of coursh you can drink any of thish pish-water! No more favorsh, slim!”
Another laugh, although this one with some pause. The dwarf was mad. Very upset, in fact. He rolled his fat-balled hands into fists, but the glare of Storm flickered with power and determination. Drunk or not, this was not the dwarf’s fight. Knowing it, he stepped back, if only a touch.
Storm hoisted the thick glass, no singing voice this time. Several beers, a few shots, and the whiskey were taking their toll. This could very well be the knockout punch. He offered a small sip, the warm nectar hitting him like a punch to the kidney.
Ugh, f*ck…
To label it “piss water” would be kind. It was an awful thing, stinging with spice and fire. There was nothing like this in Corone, and he couldn’t fathom finishing it. Pride then took a big bite from him, forcing him to reconsider.
It won’t kill you, but it will beat the boy. Stomach it already, end this.
And with that, he did. One mighty heft, and the brew bubbled down, painfully slow and awful on its way. It was nothing short of horrendous, burning and boiling and curdling in his throat. Swill spilled onto his chin and neck and chest like cascading death, and Veritas finished the glass at last. He gasped loudly, groaning in relief at the end of the line of the beer. It was truly a grand victory to finish such a thing.
“Your turn… urgh…”
An eruption down under. His stomach was shifting, pivoting, turning fast. Would he hold it down for long enough to see Damon fail? It was a race against time!
“Argh! I can’t believe that’s it!” Raizo squeezed a bag of coins that he’d had in his hands, releasing intense heat that ended up melting it completely. He’d just watched his supposedly prized fighter Zephyriah lose the semi-final round against the Sons of Terrinore; opponents who were indeed formidable, but not strong enough to handle the might that Storm and Zephyriah comprised. However, the cards weren’t in Raizo’s favor for once, even though he was so sure that Zephyriah and Storm would advance to the final round and be victorious, thus fattening his own pockets by the money he would’ve made off of the event. Instead though, money would now have to be shelled out to those that Raizo betted with. “Milban, cut the cord.” The black suited henchman looked at his boss with puzzlement upon hearing his commands.
“Are you sure? Zephyriah and Storm could still take third place. I’m mean it isn’t all ov……”
“Do I look I’ll be satisfied with third place!!” Raizo approached his lowly crony and grabbed him by the throat. They were on the top floor of a luxurious hotel just outside of the Lornius registration center, where they could get all of the information and feedback on the tournament. The aged boss then maneuvered Milban to an open window and stuck his head out of it. “I’m a very powerful man as you know! I’m on the Serenti committee and have a plethora of wealth at my finger tips! But everything is about power! POWER MILBAN!!” The grip around the frightened henchman’s throat tightened. He pleaded for his life, apologizing while telling the Serenti corporate elitist that he would never err in that manner ever again. Moments later, Raizo’s indignation subsided.
“This is the last favor I pay you Milban,” Running his fingers through his white, wild, and long hair, he took a seat on a nearby black leather couch and sighed. “Now leave my presence. Zephyriah’ mother is to die by way of the sword. Show her no mercy.”
The crony nodded obediently and rushed off to perform the gruesome task. Raizo once again got up and looked out of one of the many windows of his room, over looking a vast portion of Lornius. Pulling a strange mechanism from the inner pocket of his mink coat, he pressed the center button on it. “Lubright, it’s time to inform our puppet of the tragic news. Hit Zephyriah where it hurts!”
“Of course sir. It shall be done right away sir.”
*--* / / / *--*
When the results of the round came in and I found out that Storm and I lost, I didn’t care in the least bit. I’d been coerced into participating in this tournament, and now that I was out of it, thoughts of mother were invading my mind. Her safety was my greatest concern, and every moment that passed unaware of her present condition, I grew increasingly anxious. “Raizo knew how to find me when I didn’t want him to, but now that I’m looking for him, he’s nowhere in sight!?” I hollered, uncaring as to who might’ve deemed me insane due to a seemingly random outburst. Mother could’ve been anywhere. In the many warehouses that blemished the streets of Lyridia, I began wondering if Raizo had hidden her somewhere in them. I was almost prompted to search everyone of them, but wild goose chases never ended positively. Therefore, I opted to embark on an excursion to the registry office since that would be the best place to command attention and draw the malicious Serenti businessman out of his lair. However, upon running down a desolate side street, one of the black suites slowly entered my field of vision, making sure that I saw him. Instinctively I clutched my blade, but before I could do anything, he drew a pistol, similar to the one that Max Dirks possessed.
“You stay right where you are. The time for you to act has passed, and the time for you to listen has arrived,” He motioned for me to throw my blade on the ground. Once that was done, he continued speaking. “I’ll get straight to the point, as I’m not one to sugar-coat things. You did not perform as well as Raizo would’ve liked you to perform in this tournament, so as punishment we murdered your mother. But we will be respectful and ship her body back to your hometown Rune, Corone in one piece.”
Pulling several smoke bombs out of his pocket, the black suit cast it to the ground, making the entire street impossible to see down. The news he’d delivered was so shocking though, that the present circumstance didn’t matter. Various emotions were running through me at this point. Sadness, despair, anger, and hate. I wanted to kill them, the spectators, and anyone else involved with this ridiculous tournament. “Blood will….be…spilled!!!”
Wandering aimlessly through the smoke filled streets, I came upon an area that hadn’t been engulfed by the smoke. It wasn’t in the best area of town, as many of the buildings were run down, but it would only be all the more convenient when I hacked and slashed through the dregs of society, since local authorities were probably planning on doing it themselves at some point in time.
There was a bar that first caught my eye. Such places were filled with fools that throw their lives away by drowning themselves in alcohol as a way to forget their problems. “Today is a lucky day,” I uttered, maniacally grinning. “I’ll provide a permanent way for them to forget their problems and everything else!!!” Kicking open the door, no time was wasted in shedding blood, for I’d hastily and adeptly protracted “Nothing”, and commenced in my slaughter fest. People that were witnessing this carnage screamed and hollered trying their hardest to get as far away from me as possible. Some though, being possessed by the foolish spirit of bravery attempted to thwart my plans, but met tragic ends by the tip of my blade.
“That’s right you idiots! Scream, shriek, shrill!!! You all will know the pain that I suffer!!!!!”
I was feeling generous today, as opposed to other days when I would selfishly hold back violence even though it needed to be spread. But the reigns of selfishness had been severed. Nothing save for death was left.
((Guys, sorry for the late entrance. Zeph’s basically on a rampage after finding out what’s happened to his mother. He’s entered the bar you both are in, although he hasn’t spotted Storm, and doesn’t recognize Damon. Feel free to respond in anyway from here.))
Damon looked at the older man as he took the drink. The boy had decided that he would have to observe his competitor carefully, for if he knew anything, it was that the stranger was a better drinker than him. However, as he watched his competitor down the drink, Damon couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy. It was a bit surprising how much the older man had struggled with it, and Damon didn’t know what that meant for his own prospects.
“I lose if I throw up… right? Damon thought to himself. “Perhaps if I wait a bit, then I’ll let this guy here pass out. I’ll be okay and not have to drink it.”
It was a bit underhanded of a strategy, the kind of thing that Damon would have normally eschewed. None the less, the alcohol had loosened the boy’s resolve and it made it a bit easier for him to ignore the most honorable route. Thus, the boy sat with his drink nervously, alternatively eyeing the drink as if it was a loaded gun, and his opponent like the man was his only reprieve.
Damon had been lost in these thoughts when the bartender snapped him out of it. A large meaty fist banged down on the table. “C’mon drink!” the bartender demanded. “We aint’ got all day here… next round after this’s on the house…”
With that Damon offered the bartender a dirty look. The boy couldn’t help but wonder if the only reason that he was getting this offer now was because he would be seconds away from throwing up once he drank the Ceagrass Fireball. Carefully, Damon stuck his tongue in the drink to get a taste of it first. It was particularly noxious. The boy shuddered, and wondered how he could ever down the whole glass, even if he was holding his nose.
Also, Damon was beginning to realize just how drunk he felt. Before, he had been afraid to get up out of fear that it would reveal how truly drunk he was. Now, Damon wasn’t even sure that he could have found his feet even if he had wanted to. As he looked around the bar, all the boy saw was anxious eyes cheering him on, and that left the boy feeling particularly self conscious. As he mulled his situation for a few seconds, Damon traced his finger along the grain of the wooden bar, as if applying the logic that if he was entertaining himself, everyone else would be entertained.
“Hurry up… we don’t have all day…” the bartender said. “Drink your fill.”
Damon bit his lip. He looked around the bar one last time and realized that he had no choice. Everyone in the tavern was paying rapt attention to him. Everyone, that was, except for a red dark elf that had burst into the tavern. Without a single word of explanation, the fiend began what seemed like a rampage. It was brutal. A portly man in the corner had barely the time to turn around and see his attacker before his life he had fallen victim to a particularly swift kill.
It was as the dark elf spoke that Damon vomited all over the bar. The sudden carnage was too much of a shock for his system.