This 'Ish is Nuts

Having a bar in the Citadel was a terrible and wonderful idea. Many adventurers, leery of the mystical healing ability of the monks, required the liquid courage afforded them by a healthy dose of the drink. It allowed them to gin up their gumption, and brought a lovely revenue stream into the place, to compliment the healthy rake the house took from gambling splits. Conversely, the tight, well lit darkwood bar was often too crowded for it's agitated contestants. Fights were common, and brawls that broke out here weren't wagered upon.

As such, weapons were confiscated at the door, to hedge the risk associated with the establishment. Light snacks were free, but the drinks were priced aggressively to justify the place.

"Another mead please sir. Yes, the honey tinge - that's the one." Storm Veritas cheerfully swirled the residual last sip of his drink about the bottom of his clear glass mug. The golden drink was largely nondescript, but on his sixth pint he had forgotten that the bartender knew damned well what he was drinking, and ran quickly to keep the glass tall for the generous tipping mass murderer.

These gods-damned things... Send me home!

Storm was feasting on the bowl of mixed nuts, or more specifically the macadamias. A firm crunch yielded to a smooth, buttery flavor that left no residue in your mouth. The round magical little marbles seemed sent from a higher power, and they were the only thing filling his stomach with enough nutrition to keep him quasi-lucid.

Staring at the back of his hand, he saw the age that time had delivered. Emerging from his tightly pressed cuffs and suit coat were hands that looked more vascular than ever, with long, haggard fingers riddled with scars that told a thousand stories. He rolled his fingertips on the brightly polished surface, enjoying the thud-tud-tud-thrum that echoed back from it. His cheeks, thin and dimpled, were more flush and warm than he was accustomed to; it had been a long while since he drank so aggressively.

His eyes sharpened just a touch to catch the gaze of a few others about the bar. One was a friend; the other his long run partner in crime.

"Gods; they let you two cheap bastards in here? I hope they called the bank to check your credits before they served up those beers!" He caught the eye of the bartender, whose name he at last remembered. "Douglas; cash in advance for these two, right? They throw around bronze crowns like sewer caps!"

Old Mugu's jungle leather tan sagged from his bitter bones. As did his broad scowl. Saggy and sullen, his thin lips paralleled his thin eyes. "I will pay with bronze or bone," he answered. Gum's weathered baritone faded with the din, showing his mood was unmoved by Storm's brewing brouhaha. Crosslegged, teetering atop a steady stool, the painted shaman leaned towards Douglas. Do Mugu was attempting to pay, pushing his "currency" with the tip of his index finger. A half of a jawbone—teeth and dried gum flesh remaining—caught the uneven grain of the worn hardwood bartop as it was pushed. "And for my companions," he continued, adding a rattle of clean rat ribs to the bovine jawbone to round out the payment. Together, Gum thought, the few bones were more than enough.

Douglas, a little nonplussed and a lot impatient, pinched the skin of his temple. "Is this a joke?" he asked, making eye contact with the others. Did he think they were the shaman's minders? Understanding he was out of his element, Gum gleaned what he could from Storm's actions—and so he chose some nuts to chew. Growing angry, Douglas billowed and grabbed Gum's hand looking for coins. "Do you have anything to pay with?!" He found no cash, only cashews.

The Citadel was a place where one could cheat the reaper itself, or suffer at the hands of its patrons over and over in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Rarely, other than to train or to sate some perverted urge to kill, would any man, woman or child set foot in the place without good reason.

Shinsou's reason today were the pistachios.

Ale glistened in a polished stone tankard handed to him by the Ai’Brone attending to him as the Telgradian peeled away shell after shell, and allowed the salted nut passage past his lips. The taste was divine; the final proof that there was indeed a higher power, and that deity knew that the pistachio nut was the undisputed heavyweight king of all nuts.

A cohort of orange robed monks washed empty glasses with cloths as Shinsou turned to Storm.

"Who are you calling cheap, old timer? There's enough left over in the Brotherhood treasury to keep you and your shit nuts in touch for the rest of your life. Though why you'd spend it on Macadamia nuts is anyone's fucking guess."

Shinsou was a man who constantly needed to learn; about himself and the extraordinary people who lived here. People who might become allies. People who might become threats to him.

There was a man he recognised quite clearly as Gum do Mugu next to him, attempting to pay with cashew nuts with pieces of bone.

"And THAT is just psychotic. Everyone knows Cashews aren't worth a damn."

Seeing the bizarre voodoo magic man try to pay with pig's teeth was funny enough to break Storm's composure; he pitifully slid a couple of golden crowns down the bar at Douglas, who was desperately trying to pull coins from the hands of the leathery old man. Both the warlock and the barkeep were drawn to the sliding shinies.

"Keep your pants on Douglas, at least he's not trying to pay with a blood tithe." The final word slid from his lips like theeth, which made the wizard question his sobriety in the midst of this whole debacle. Smiling, he added some more sardonic wit. "Getting coins from a shaman is blood from a stone, anyway."

This drew his eyes to his old friend, Shinsou. Now, Shinsou was a ball-breaker and a dear old friend, but within the confines of the Citadel, both knew the ultimate consequences were pretty light. It was a good place for hashing little squabbles.

"Speaking of stone... did the Telgradian bring his own mug, or did you give me the cut-rate glass to pinch pennies?" Pennieth. I've drunken myself into a lisp! His eyes formed into a squint upon the bartender, who rapidly hemmed and hawed over different drinks getting different cups, and wanting the clear glass to keep his cup full.

Frustrated with his own level of inebriation and inability to gather special attention in a room full of other specials, the renowned conflict resolution skills of Storm Veritas were put on full display. He rifled a cashew from the Shaman's bowl, and held it in a pinch of his right hand. Like a skilled athlete, he lobbed the nut in a seemingly slow, deliberate arc across the bar. It splashed triumphantly in Van Osiris's ale, and Storm threw his hands in the air in victory.

"Now none of you are so gods-damned special!"

It was nuts. It wash nuts. The shituation wash nutsh. What kind of maniac would lose their cool over nuts? Gum do Mugu, a well-centred holyman, burdened as the sole representative of a distant nation, would not be so rash. The nauseating soup of psychospheric pressure and warm, moist air—sucked into too many lungs, too many times—would not soften his resolution.

A calculated move, on the other hand, came under reflection. After all, Gum do Mugu, the Xangu shaman, was in the company of two forceful souls, each stacked with corporeal importance (political and military). Those two characters, they held the kind of influence Gum had sought out for years. Though, unfortunately for the Castigars, Gum's cashewed hand was haunted by Shin and Storm's counterbalance, i.e. what was left of the Imperials.

But, condemning a soul to the Underworld seemed impossible. At least, that was, while the Ai’Brone rewove flesh, bone, and spirit with the utmost of ease. So, the murdering of murderers was useless. The currying of favour was impossible. Unless, perhaps, the brawl could be dragged outside the bounds of the Citadel. In the absence of goody-goody monks, the death gods could take their grim toll.

Intending to scorch the egos of his companions, the shaman spoke. "It would be foolish," he suggested, etching his words into the growing hush, "to allow your drink to be spoiled by a supposed friend." Do Mugu dipped his fingers into Osiris's ale, dragging the creamy nut to lip of the vessel before flicking it at old Douglas, the barkeep. Of course, Douglas snarled. Douglas huffed. And Douglas smashed his fat hand on the bar. Everybody's drink bounced, then toppled sideways. Vital alcohol cascaded down onto the tiled floor and settled where the grout had worn thin.

The drunken racket ceased, and silence sharpened the tension.

In the delicate quiet, the pious one continued with his manipulative intent. "The Brotherhood is well-known all over the world. Its leaders, of course, respected," he said, hoping to build on their twin towers of vanity. Then, it was time to knock one tower down. "It seems as though now, only one is worthy of respect."

All of a sudden, cashews, macadamias and pistachios were the last thing to worry about.

Pissed off that Storm had landed a perfect nut-shot into his ale, Shinsou shot a quiet middle finger to his friend as he listened to the shaman's philosophies and ponderings. They had met before, he and the wise man, and the Telgradian knew well that words were weapons in the possession of the holy one. However, that Gum had suggested that only one of the Brotherhood's leaders demanded respect, and that somehow the two could be divided, did not settle well with the spellsword.

"Listen, shaman," Shinsou started, somewhat slurring his words as he twirled a pistachio nut between his fingers and flicked it into Storm Veritas's face, "Don't you worry about me and sparky over there. We're too long in the teeth for the whole 'divide and conquer' routine, OK? Why don't you worry about conjuring yourself a decent snack, and then some decent clothes, a'ight? Let the grown ups talk for a bit."

Shinsou scrambled to finish his ale. He was cognizant of the electromancer, who looked like he was ready to throw another one of his sub-standard nut varieties at him. A cold air sank across the bar as the pious and relatively well balanced Gum do Mugu considered his retort.

"Actually, I've got a better idea. Let's fight for it." Scanning their faces, Shinsou eyed for weaknesses; a final admission of the inferiority of their chosen bar snack. It was wholly ridiculous for there to even be a suggestion of the three gathered superpowers abusing the largest, most sacred battleground on Althanas for something so trivial, but the Telgradian figured that any place where death was as curable as a papercut was a ridiculous place anyway.

“Whoever wins has the best nuts.” He kept his gaze fixed on the half naked Shaman's tackle.

It was absurd. It was nuts. It was the product of nothing more than ego and boredom. If ever the Citadel needed a policy against having a bar, then Storm, Gum and Shinsou had provided the very case study for it.

While the shaman seemed wise enough for someone trying to buy a drink with pigs' teeth, he lacked the wherewithal to read the room effectively. He infuriated Douglas, who lost his place very quickly. The barkeep's admonition was met with returned ire from both Shinsou and Storm, both gentlemen who had grown tired being lectured to about what the fabled Brotherhood should or should-not be up to. It didn't surprise the wizard for a second when Shinsou started popping off at the mouth, frothing with a booze induced fury about the best laid plans.

The notion of a battle here and now in this absurd little chamber positively delighted the electromancer. Glancing about the place he made note of the mostly wooden architecture, which offered littler metal for him to leverage to his advantage. Irrespective of this, lightning was reasonably agnostic from this range.

Showtime, baby. Probably steer around of the lightning to avoid vaporizing these plebeians. The monks have mighty magic, but I doubt they could bring back friends from being char and dust.

Storm quickly popped back from the bar in a nimble hop, sucking the last few drops of ale from his hand while smiling and straightening his waistcoat. Douglas saw this nimble maneuver as his eyes widened, watching with terror as a buzz of blue-white energy began to bleed from Storm's right hand in a humming haze. The wizard's hand appeared to grow larger by the effect as the aura sizzled and snapped to life.

"You'll want to go now." Veritas wickedly cackled as he counted backwards from three, giving the overstepped bartender a few moments to dash. The rapid waddle of the terrified Citadel employee was incredibly amusing, his doughy frame bustling with a fat fury for the door. He was given only a moment.

...but an example must be made, rube.

With a casual extension of his hand, Storm fired a thundering crack of electric mania from his outstretched palm. It was a reasonably gentle effort, but enough to either kill or seriously maim the bartender if it hit him just right. The mortal was rocketed forward into the door by the modest burst, an audible groan resonated as the kitchen door broke at the hinges and pulled down at an odd angle. Douglas was out, but likely alive, a scent of burned hair beginning to waft from his back, where his shirt and vest had been incinerated.

Storm couldn't help but smile, considering the notion of reaching back to the bar to refill his stein.

In executing his shocking manoeuvre, the electromancer had inadvertently nudged Gum's seat into a critical wobble. The barstool was a-rocking, meanwhile doughy Douglas was a-rolling. In spite of it all, the Xanguan maintained his tranquil pose: sitting—cross-legged, lotus style—atop the lurching wood. He watched, from his undulating perspective, as the tubby barman shot (and surely shit) for an exit. Gum found the wizard's ostentatious display of drunken force to be far more concerning than the other one's troglodytic retort.

Though, said retort, regardless of Do Mugu's assessment of its elegance, made it clear: brokering a broken bromance had been a monumental miscalculation. Nevertheless, as the seconds passed, Gum do Mugu actually did conjure something. Not a superior snack, as Osiris had kindly suggested, but rather, a (conceivably) superior strategy. The shaman would attempt yet more deception. After all, the trickster gods would be his only saviours in the coming battle—truth be told, he was certainly much weaker than his infamous adversaries.

So, embodying the trickster spirit, it was time to feign appeasement. Gum would pretend to dip his very dry toe in the Brotherhood's bottomless barrel of merriness. "I admire your loyalty," his humble concession began. "But," he continued, meekly holding a would-be drink while his seat finally ran out of momentum, "I admire this concoction much more." He raised his receptacle with respect, tipping it to each co-leader in turn. It goes without saying, but he tipped to Veritas before Osiris. "For this stuff," he murmured, punctuating his lies with a warm chuckle, "I would fight." With a sigh, he then begged for relief, "But, fighting over nuts and drinks is truly ill-advised." From one face to the other, he offered a mournful expression. "Instead, let's keep drinking!"

It was odd, though. How did the sober shaman have a fresh drink when old boy Douglas had knocked his last one down just moments ago? In fact, the floor was still dangerously slick with undrunk drink. No matter. The Xangu shaman's perpetually pain-stricken knuckles tightened and brought the glass vessel to his conspicuously closed mouth.

But, wait, there's something else!

That's not even a glass... it's a closed jar!

Without warning, the archshaman smashed the toxic jar on the bartop's edge directly in front of Shinsou Vaan Osiris. The thick glass burst into shards. The jagged fragments shot in all directions.

The broken glass was dangerous. But, it didn't compare to the threat of the pathogen that the jar had formerly contained.

Gum do Mugu had unleashed the dreaded big belly bloat of the Xangu Basin upon his elusive bounty. Let's find out how powerful the Telgradian's Dakuatsu really is. Those in possession of a strong constitution might resist, but most would succumb to the tropical sickness and its worst symptoms within minutes. Soon, Do Mugu hoped, Shinsou would be suffering a grotesquely swollen belly and excruciating stomach cramps.