KOBOLDS ... in a pub. Open tavern thread.

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This is an open tavern thread, based around the Kobold month. You can post when and where you want, however it will close on the 30th April, and be submitted for a No Judgement.

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They came like a horror in the terrible night. Fierce, sudden, objective and wielding wicked, serrated blades. Their bright eyes glinted in the darkness as they launched themselves from the undergrowth, hissing with fire in their bellies and a wicked intention. To obey their kings orders and create savagery, chaos and disorder in the surface world above their own. Swiftly and nastily they demanded their way through the world by slicing and cutting the air ... but very little blood.

None in fact.

And that was because the particular street that they were in, a long and wide cobbled alleyway called 'Naybady Street,' was a residential one. It was surrounded by houses on each side that leaned towards each other like embracing lovers. In the middle of the street, however, was one large building that stuck out into the road like an ignorant fool, and bright light shone from every window. Two stories high it was an aged, but steady establishment, with loud noises coming from the cracks in the cement. Shouts, roars, laughter - there was joy oozing from the very walls, roof and floor.

Joy, despite the invasion going on outside. The kobolds looked around as they realised that no one was there to see their invasion, frowned, before their eyes drew towards the loud building. One of them, a green-hued beast of tough stature and brilliant yellow eyes stepped forwards, swinging his cutlass up to rest on his shoulder. His name was General Gru'Hal and he swept his eyes right the way to look at the swinging sign.

'The Greyhound,' it presented. A pub.

Gru'Hal sighed, before walking over to the window. Through which he saw tens of people, crowded around small tables with tankards of beer in their hands. One of them, a large-bosomed faun, was cradling a goblet of wine and she had a smirk on her face as she seemed to be talking to ... a fox.

That made Gru'Hal blink.

"Who fancies a drink?" he grumbled to his other comrades.

It had been a long day, and his drink washed his throat with a splash of the nearly antiseptic alcohol, a triple-both ale that left a rich, bitter aftertaste. The kids liked this stuff, he understood, picturing the youth of Alerar, a transformative difference from the boys coming of age back in the time of stone and brass, when Storm Veritas was first getting his feet wet in these pubs.

Dickheads. Swishing through these overcooked beers, proud of their asshole beards with hair gel in them and peeking through the thick rimmed glasses with no prescription in them. They even pretend to like whiskey, even if these little boys are soft as puppy shit.

In truth, there weren't any of these young men in the bar right now; it was a fairly quiet night, and he leaned back in his oak chair, feeling the screws wobble a touch as he balanced his beer on his small belt buckle. Kicking his feet up on the table before him, the metal soles reflected some of the soft amber light in the bar, soft white noise buzzing around Philomel. Storm cared deeply for the faun, and knew the attention a hybrid type with staggering whoppers between her armpits would gather, even on an otherwise quiet night. Every man besides him in the bar encircled her, trying to curry favor with stories of bravery, fortune, and glory.

Can't hate the hustle. Ten years younger and five times dumber, I'd roll the same sort of dice.

He smiled as he looked over the top of his glass at the beauty, sipping gently at his bitter beer. She had completely charmed him already, but he suspected had he try to pick her up with smooth lines, compliments and braggadocio, things would have gone sideways plenty quick. Perhaps more interesting to him was the anonymity Philomel afforded him. He had been to every corner of Althanas, adventuring and cheating his way to incredible wealth.

If any of those rubes drinking pickled tomato wine knew who I was, I'd have to wager at least one or two would be dancing like a puppet for ME, trying to at the very least upgrade the thickness of their wallet. Then again, she's got cash AND those tits, so that pretty much seals it for me.

Amused by the dance of the foolish, poor callers, Storm was awakened from a bit of a haze as the door chimed, announcing the entrance of a handful of short, black and emerald monstrosities that strolled in unapologetically. His chair came slamming down as he sat up at the preposterous sight, turning his chair a tweak to gather what absurd encroachment had arrived.

There were few things in life she couldn't do for money. She could count them on one hand, lie, cheat, steal, fuck and murder. Under normal circumstances those five acts crossed a line in the minds of others, and it was the minds of others that were of concern to her. It wasn't that she wouldn't do them. She would. Any of them. All of them. It was the price she paid in turn, to appease her lust for coin that hindered her. Kept her in line. Reputation was critical. Tarnish your reputation and what did you have left? A handful of coins. Maybe an opportunity to start again. Maybe.

It's hard to be convincing when you're a known liar. It's hard to gamble when you're a known swindler. Your virtue is lost when you become a prostitute. Thieves and murderers who are discovered employing their skills are forced to run from the law, which cuts into their time spent thieving and murdering. Time is money. Money could often equate to power, or at least the illusion of power. With power comes influence. With influence comes change.

That's what it was all about, to Yvonne. Building a reputation and acquiring influence over these many minds which kept her in line, like a prisoner in a cell. As her black-skinned hands cleaned a mug with a questionable cloth she knew her goals would cost her too much time at this rate. Unless she took risks - made bolder moves - took shortcuts on the road to wealth, she'd be old and greyer than she already was before making her fortune. Seeking an opportunity at a supposedly popular pub, the name of which alone had allured her inside to offer her services - that's why she was waiting tables by night for the time being. If significant people didn't pass through a place like this they'd be too pompous or strait-laced for her taste anyway.

There were a few individuals about the room that garnered her attention in differing ways. One was a very fetching faun - the centre of male attention - and the other a well-groomed gentleman drinking alone. Deeper into his thoughts than his mug, the dwarven hybrid guessed, her elven eyes gazing at him while he eyed the faun. The rest of these people were common rabble, unworthy of her time, but she would serve them regardless for the sake of reputation. She was about to approach the gentleman, ask whether he'd like a refill or a meal when a group of reptilian monsters walked through the door. What have we got here? Remind me of tha Drakari in Dheathain, but...

Yvonne walked right up to them to invite them inside the establishment, having made eye contact with the host of the horde. She sensed a quiet menace in those yellow eyes of his, but how would she know for certain? Living underground most of her life hadn't afforded her the chance to meet one of these scaly humanoids.

"Welcome ta Tha Greyhound," the diminutive waitress began, "Sheathe yer swords and I'll be more than happy ta show ye a table. Me name's Yvonne. I'll be yer waitress this evening."

Philomel smiled over the rim of her own tankard, right back at Storm, her plump lips curving luciously. Eyebrows rose as she watched him staring at her, his eyes filled with desire and temptation.

Of course, he wanted more. Together, had they been once before. In another pub, in another time, but not so long ago that he had forgotten what she could give. Somehow again both of them had ended up in a strange city, in another strange street and another strange inn, sitting across from each other. Storm had some history in Alerar, she knew, but she did not. In fact, she had only been to the country once - in order to destroy a being messed around by science, which she deemed evil. Then she had met, and kidnapped, a man whose existence and powers had been defined by science, the same man who had changed her opinion to consider that indeed this industry could have its benefits despite what her entire life had taught her ...

But here she was again, in an alien world that was not fond of fauns, or priestesses of earth goddesses. Sitting across from a man who was as beautiful as her breasts were big. Slowly, not for the first time, she winked at him, words still not passing beyond her lips at this glorious happenstance of seeing him here. Watching in glee she saw how his body trembled with want for her smooth touch.

Somewhere else in the shadows a being lurked. Not of goat, or of human or dark elf, but of fox. He sniffed the air, raising his white snout high and tilted his head as he watched several small-bodied reptilian creatures lurk in. They bore (like most of the beings here) weaponry of some description, and some had it raised. The first, however, who was a rich emerald in colour and more a snout like a crocodile, lowered his cutlass as he walked in, eyes flashing a fiery gold.

"What do you serve?" the creature - a kobold - croaked. The fox, who himself was called Veridian and so happened to be Philomel's soul companion (quite literally) frowned a little before nudging his face forwards. A black nose pushing from under a bench.

The other lizard-like beasts queued into the bar, eyes flickering around and some tongues darting to taste the air. There was maybe five of them, but from the way they held themselves stiffly and seemed to stare around, Veridian considered they were part of a larger group. Plus one neared the emerald one and hissed, "Mister Gru'Hal, sir ... is this ... are we starting the invasion here?"

I wasn't sure quite what the fuck was going on, but I was certain that I had just seen a gathering of serpent like creatures mumble to each other in annoyed, warlike tones and then encroach upon the hallowed grounds of one of my favorite drinking spots. From the road, my eyes followed their bipedal forms filing through the door, one by one; an endless stream of reptilian ranks.

Surely, someone had to be taking the piss?

It wasn't the fact that they were lizards. Or armed. Or stomping around in large numbers. It was the fact that The Greyhound was, unlike the Silver Cup or the High Tap, a quiet place where I could be anonymous for a while and where the regular contingent consisted of a handful of old men with early onset memory issues. It was just the way I liked it, but now all of that had been spoiled.

I had half a mind to turn back down the road and find somewhere else; somewhere quiet. But options were few and far between. The Silver Cup was always rammed, and in any case I was staying there. Never shit where you eat. The High Tap still wanted to turn me over to the authorities after my last escapade there. Anywhere else was a substandard shithole that served poor quality ale and always ended up playing host to unscheduled bare knuckle boxing.

I sighed, flummoxed at my lack of choice. Pivoting, I frowned, and decided to bite the bullet. It would be noisy and surreal, but a pint was a pint and nothing was coming between me and a cold one today. As I reached the door, the noise level had already begun reaching irritating levels and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the drink would break down my already brittle filter.

Taking a deep, laboured breath, I pushed hard against the brass plate and strode in like I owned the place.

He wasn't taking the piss. He was taking a piss.

The pale yellowish stream spattered down in the clay urinal and dwindled around the drain. It was semi-plugged with hair and sawdust and whatever-the-fuck else you find in an Alerian bar's bathroom. Jake Narmolanya shook himself dry and re-buttoned his pants, turning toward the dwarf who did business there. The air smelled of shit and bodily fluids, and an aging brownish bloodstain decorated the drab wall over the sinks where a mirror might ordinarily hang.

"What can you tell me about the High Graf's death?" He asked the brown-bearded entrepreneur as he bent to wash his hands.

"What'cha talkin' about then?" The dwarf said through his thick mustache and thicker accent. "If yeh' no want to buy some coke, get the fuck out, half-breed."

Jake's slightly pointed ears reddened as he felt a flush rise in his face. He focused on the cooling water cleansing his hands. He had come to The Greyhound for a reason. A low-level government worker had informed him that the dwarf who sold cocaine in this particular bathroom had some information on the Graf's murder. Since Jake had been secretly tasked with discovering that murderer, and since no other leads had panned out, he found himself in the noisy pub's privy dealing with a racist wannabe thug.

"Alright, I'll take a hit. How much?" He fished in his pocket and doled out a gold crown of a particular weight, and then presented his palm. The dwarf screwed open a large vial and tapped a small quantity of fine white powder into his hand.

Jake had never touched cocaine before. Fortunately, he had seen others use it. He brought his hand up to his face, covered one nostril, and snorted.

His tired eyes shot open as if springloaded. Erratic energy flooded his body as pleasure cascaded through his mind. His heart raced, and his thoughts followed. He was alone in the bathroom of a noisy pub with an ugly bastard who had just called him a half-breed.

The dwarf grinned. "Good, ain't it-"

Jake was shorter than most men, and most elves, so when fighting he usually struck upwards with elbows and headbutts. The dwarf was too short for such things to be effective, which but his head at the ideal height for a different attack. Jake lifted his leg and rammed his knee into the Alerian's nose.

"You young fucker," the dwarf snarled as he staggered backwards, toward the urinals. "My beautiful hooter!" Blood spurted from beneath his hands as he cupped his damaged nose. One hand, dripping crimson, dropped and darted to the dagger on his belt.

Jake took a powerful step and kicked the dwarf as hard as he could in the belly. The stout fellow fell over sideways, one hand on his gut and the other over his face, vomiting in the urinal and then collapsing beside it. Jake knelt and grabbed him by the hair, dragging him to his feet and smashing him back into the piss-soaked clay.

"Alright," the dwarf gasped, struggling weakly, "I'll tell yeh."

Jake was drawing back his fist. "Tell me what?" He said, hand hovering in confusion.

"About the High Graf," the dwarf mumbled. "Just don't hit me again."

Right. The Graf. The whole bloody reason he'd come to this corner of this city. Jake nodded and released his captive, straightening up and dusting his hands.

"Good. Tell me everything you know."

"I don't know nothin'," the dwarf said, "only that one of the patrons in this pub tonight is carrying an invitation to a meeting where you might find what yeh're lookin' for."

"Who is it?" he demanded, still riding a wave of pleasure mixed with agitation.

"I dunno'," the dwarf said, struggling to his feet. "Yeh'll have to use yeh'r charms and ask 'em sweetly." He took the small canister of cocaine out of his pocket and began to unscrew it.

Jake dropped his shoulder and leaned forward and hit the shorter being with a hard left hook to the jaw. The dwarf's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor. Jake caught the canister before it could follow him, and pocketed the treasure. He stepped over the dwarf's twitching legs and made his way back to the common room.

Someone here has what I'm looking for, he reminded himself as his wide eyes roved madly. It's just a matter of determining who.

When the little impling creatures sauntered their collective way to the bar, the wizard quietly approached to their flank, as more than one of them eyeballed the tall, rangy traveler. His hands were now empty and open, and as far as they know entirely harmless. They wielded short swords, hammers, all sorts of devastating weapons which in their short limbs looked positively adorable. Of course, given his own travels and the map of scars across his own flesh, Veritas had learned long ago not to judge a book by its cover so brazenly. When the spunky dwarf barkeep matter-of-factly commanded them to sheathe their swords, a couple of them began to, and a couple more pulled the hilts tighter to their hips.

Bad f*cking sign. Getting ready to get cute.

He could sense Philomel knew of the changing tides in the room as well. The seductive faun was no shrinking violet in combat, and the surge of adrenaline began to reverberate like a low thunder from those in the room to those that knew what to look for. Quickening heartbeats, popping knuckles, and tapping toes - all twitches very normal in the foreplay of battle.

"We are the ones who will rule Alerar soon enough, I answer to none!" The growling leader looked surly and discontent with the very reasonable request of the barkeep. Storm's jawbones pulsed as he clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to send a bolt of lightning that would flash fry the contentious walking stink-bug. His eyes caught Phi's once more, and her frustrated glare emboldened him to take some reserved action. With a wink and a smile, he silently took to action.

You're getting a lesson today, you little dickhole.

Gently waving his fingers, Storm used an electromagnetic field to control the position of the leader's sword. The black skinned frogman's eyes opened with disbelief at the barkeep, as though she were generating the sorcery that manipulated him. Against his pulling force, the electromancer managed to position the sword just right to force the tip through the sheath, and down into it's place.

"Easy, little fella. You're in the wrong pub to start getting lippy. Let's start that up again, get yourself a beer, and flip the nice lady a healthy tip."

With a thunderous boom Shinsou Vaan Osiris managed to boot his way in the door. The normally smooth swordsman shared quite the fantastically checkered past with Storm, and instantly caught his attention (and likely everyone else's) with his preposterous entrance. The wizard was not surprised by such a lackadaisical read of the room from the champion fighter, who likely triggered the tiny lizard people to presume they were being ambushed.

With his focus off the rambunctious leader and turned towards the stumbling fool of an entrant, Storm's enchantment over the leader's sword was lifted. The sound, now behind him, of a sword again being unsheathed was unmistakable.

Perfect timing, Shin. Hope you're well rested.

Their fiendish tongue was challenging for Yvonne to make sense of, with the accent - such emphassiss on their Ss's. She concealed her interpreting difficulties with ease, smiling warmly and listening intently. They spoke words that were unmistakable nonetheless, words like 'starting invasion', 'rule Alerar' and a testy statement of 'I answer to none!'. Her mind rapid-fired filling in the blanks. Message received. This serpentine posse wasn't to be trusted, but beside the threat was a measure of confusion. They weren't hacking and stabbing, only talking about wanting to and waving their blades about.

What be keeping them? Fear? Inexperience? Usually when ye won't sheathe yer sword but ye don't use it yer compensating for something...

Her silver eyes descended reflexively to her line of thought, checked for the size of his extremity, and - to her surprise - he was deciding to put it away after all. He held the weapon with an awkward grip but surely enough it slid cleanly into its resting place. That settled the silent tempo of the room down substantially, the chief of the inhuman horde seemingly willing to calm down. The dwarven hybrid sighed in relief.

Inexperience. Definitely inexperience. If this one be their leader and he can barely handle a blade, this pack be in for a world o' hurt.

The last person Yvonne expected to intervene was the cavalier drinking alone at his own table - she supposed he preferred his distance - but here he was, stepping up. She eyed him with a smirking appreciation she'd not felt for him a moment ago, when he'd set his boots upon the table she was definitely going to have to wipe down later. Men will be men though and that's what we like about them.

"Well, now we've decided we're playing nice, come, come - the bar stools be free if yer most interested in drinks, or a table here will accommodate many of ye." The ebony-skinned bartender ushered them inside, inwardly crossing her mental fingers that they could mingle with the rest of her patrons, or at least keep to theirs. Deciding it would be best to keep them more or less under her watchful eye, the bar seemed appropriate. She managed to guide some of them to bar stools, but literally had to steer the last kobold onto his stool while he ogled that gorgeous faun. With a nimble step Yvonne returned to her station behind the bar, ready to serve.

"I've ale on tap of course or perhaps tha honey-sweetness of mead be yer flavour. I've cider and perry, wine and spirits. Perhaps dwarven firewater or an Aleran alky-bomb would tickle yer fancy. I also make a mean cocktail ye'll not soon forget!"

Yvonne whirled clear glasses in her hands like spinning revolvers, eager to begin pouring drinks and getting this monstrous lot knee-deep in booze. That way if they still wanted to put up a fight later they could do it dizzy and inebriated. Alcohol might set a few of their tempers off, true, but it might make them all very happy instead and we could all enjoy a good time, laughing and merry.

The door slammed open and the dwarven waitress nearly dropped a glass, setting them down softly in front of her. Yvonne flicked a dangerous look at the newcomer, squinting. What tha hell be with these boys and putting their boots ta things?!

I had been expecting to open the door to see a fairly busy public house. I had predicted there would be a few familiar faces scattered around the circular oak tables that littered the Greyhound's main lounge, supping their usual poison of choice. I had anticipated the reptilian presence, and a longer wait at the bar to get served.

What I was not expecting was an atmosphere so thick you could cut it with a katana. I was not expecting to see my friend Philomel van der Aart nestled at a table being oogled by random occupants of the inn. Though his presence in a drinking establishment was not, by any means, a surprise in itself, I was not expecting Storm Veritas to have specifically chosen this one to hole himself up in for the night. If I had bothered to take the time to put two and two together, I could have tied Philomel's presence to Storm's, but I had other things on my mind.

My less-than-elaborate entrance had come to a grinding halt and now I found myself statue-still in the gangway. Previously, my plan had been to simply walk up to the bar, order a nice cold drink and let myself slide into nice, drunk obscurity for the rest of the evening. Now, though...

Now there were a troupe of heavily armored, bipedal reptiles standing between me and service. I don't quite know for sure what the hell had happened; whether they had come in spoiling for a fight or whether, in the thirty or so seconds they had been there before me, Storm had said something to rile them, but claret seemed imminent.

Honestly, they looked pissed.

My first instinct, being who I am and carefully reading the mood around the room, was to survey their arsenal. They carried all of the niceties of war; gleaming steel swords, warhammers, axes and the armor to go with them. Lots of metal. That was good, seeing as the number one proponent of magnetism-related fatalaties happened to be sat ten feet away and, judging from the look on his face, seemed to be contemplating his next masterpiece in metallic origami.

I hadn't actually said anything yet to anybody, but despite the best efforts of the dwarven waitress to seat the unruly mob, the closest reptile to me had read my facial expression and made an assumption about my frame of mind. He snarled to his comrades, wrapped a clawed hand around the pommel of his sheathed short sword, and paced to me until he was about three feet away. He was a tall, golden eyed beast, with razor sharp looking teeth, scaly skin that was cracked from various scars and breath that could have dropped a donkey.

"Do you have a problem? Another meatbag. I can smell the fear!" The giant iguana spat through his enormous fangs. I had been in plenty of bar fights and I could tell from the spread of his entourage that they were positioning themselves in attack formation, keeping their distance tight between each other, ensuring their flanks were covered. This one, though, seemed intent on riling me.

I smiled.

"If you want to keep your hand attached to your arm, I suggest you back up a few steps, embrace an attitude adjustment, and give the path to the bar a wide berth."

I already knew that my words had fallen on deaf ears, but that was fine. As I spoke, veins of ice crackled and snaked beneath my heels, creeping out from underneath my boots and snaking their way to the armored boots of the lizard in front of me. He was too caught up in his bravado and swagger to notice that his feet were welded to the floor with dehlar strength ice. As he tried to step further forward to get in my face, his body jerked and he swayed to and fro from the momentum of being rooted. An enraged snarl preceded a storm of spittle, and there was a green flash as the thin, scaly hand tried to unsheath the blade at his side.

Five seconds later, the lizard was howling in agony, watching his hand spasm on the floor in front of him as Enpera's blade dripped with green blood.

"I warned you. Now," I said, calm as a coma, to the gathered Kobolds, "Does anyone else want me to make them famous, or can I just get a god damned drink?"

Philomel raised her eyebrows, on sight of seeing one of her favourite men in the whole of this Hell-damned universe stride into the tavern with nothing but his smile to bear him. She watched as he beat the kobold to an unsavoury mess on the floor within a few, brief knocks. Brow furrowing she leaned forwards, her eyes moving from the group of reptilians, who were now hastily trying to gather their commander back together, to the two men who had made them into such a state. Lips curling into a frown she calmly set her tankard down upon the table and stood, her long plait of violet hair swaying as she did. Out from the shadows Veridian crept also, silent upon his pitch black paws as he shifted to her side.

"You could be kinder, vaan Osiris, and Veritas, dear friends," she looked from one man to the other - one lover to the other - with a rather upset expression. "Violence, is never the answer. Now I believe they actually came for a drink?"

Her eyes fell expectantly onto the commander, who was unsteadily being drawn upright by his fellows, and clutching at the wound which was his handless arm. Gru'Hal, the general who had been so hurt, glared at her with a note of hatred, before he spat.

"We did come for a drink, but also to conquer."

The small, beady eyed one who had originally whispered hastily set up his hands. "Well we did ..."

Philomel pursed her lips, her eyes skimming back over to the barmaid, who had been kind enough to offer them a stool. Then they sped back to Shinsou, his beloved sword still dripping with the sickly blood that had been eked from the commander. Storm ... well she did not bother with him for now. He, after all, had gotten up when she did not, mistaking her apparent look of annoyance for a plea for action against these men of lizard relevance.

"Yes, we did," Gru'Hal hissed, dragged back a step as his men hurried around him, desperate to stem the wound. "But apparently that is not on the agenda."

"Well, I think today is not a good day for you to begin," the faun smiled a dazzling smile, cupping her hands in front of her as she met eyes with the emerald being. "Maybe violence ... well though you did start it. Really, all of you," she tutted as she looked from one kobold who was attempting to pull his sword out again.

"You included!" she jabbed a finger at Shinsou and Storm. "And if any of you so as dare to pull out a sword, why I will get Delath to come and eat the hand you wield with." She paused, turning to the kobolds. "He is a dragon. I have a dragon."

Gru'Hal growled, but his wound was apparently deep enough. Hurriedly the companions who had followed him into this hole began to set to work, dealing with what healing provisions they had brought with them, all the way from the depths of the sewer world. Needle, thread - these things were apparently not beyond their ken as they chose to bide by the faun's words and vaan Osiris' blade. Slowly, Philomel nodded, satisfied as peace began to fall again.

Her smile returned. "So, Shinsou darling," she said, leaning down to pick up Veridian, "What exactly have you been doing?"

The sense of satisfaction I got from clearing out the "blockage" at the bar was short lived. As the other Kobolds gathered around their wounded leader, tending to him with hurried precision and occasionally stopping to throw me an acidic glare, I was faced with something far worse than an enraged Kobold.

Philomel's finger, jabbing at me. Scolding me, of all things. Had I ever been told off by her? I couldn't remember a single occasion. Coming from my best friend, it felt like a hammer blow. On the other hand...

"I warned him." I shrugged, picking up my order from the bar and casually meandering through the mixed gathering of Kobolds, humans, elves and gods knows what. As I passed Storm's table, I made sure to drop him a tumbler of his favorite whiskey; a double short of that honey tinted stuff he drank in the High Tap. I didn't need to say anything to him right now; throughout our colourful relationship, we had said more to each other through the medium of donated beverages than any spoken language could have achieved. It had become a sort of unspoken code. A quick exchange of knowing glances was enough to convey the appropriate respects before I swivelled my hips through a human blockage to reach the faun's table.

Veridian sat perfectly in the cradle of Philomel's arms, keeping warm in the gap between her breasts and forearms. He regarded me with those illuminating eyes, before resting his head. With one hand I placed my ale on the table, and with the other placed a cup in front of my friend.

"Been waiting for an opportunity to use this," I said as I pulled a flask from the inner section of my navy drakescale coat, "I did my research. Headbutt is hard to get hold of, but I know you love the stuff. I'd been saving it."

After a moment, I realised that I hadn't answered my lover's question. What had I been doing?

"Well, I resigned my commission at the Brotherhood," I started. That would have come as a shock to her, doubtless, but with Storm within earshot it was best to let dogs lie, "So mostly I've been looking for a permanent place to live. Whitevale doesn't really cater for non-enlisted folk. At the moment, i'm training with Joshua Cronen, learning what I can from him."

Her beautiful eyes followed my hand gestures and own gaze everywhere, never once swaying. She was probably one of only two people in this place genuinely interested in my well being, and the only one who knew me well enough to know that right now I was probably at my lowest point. The story about training with Breaker was true but there was no way she'd be convinced that I was happy with loitering around Corone, popping out occasionally to do a few rounds with Cronen.

She knew I needed more. But more was circumstantial, and in short supply.

As I finished my rambling, I supped at my ale and tapped my fingers on the wooden table.

"What about you? How are things at the Gilded Lily?"

Yvonne reacted on instinct so much more than thought. The kobold leader's hand had been dismembered at the wrist - he was bleeding profusely and screeching in pain, such a terrible sound to hear. The grey dwarf could almost feel his pain, his screech shook her to the core. His kobold cohorts collected him from the floor and seemed to know how to stitch together his stub, but they were going to have an astounding amount of fun trying to poke a needle and thread through a freshly exposed wound.

The black-skinned hybrid had found her mortar and pestle and was busy mashing a redcap into a fine paste. Her practiced hand had ground the toadstool to slime in a matter of seconds, fifteen or so and she set the mortar on the bar, clinking the pestle against it busily to free the last globs from the tool. Taking a cutlery knife in one hand, and stretching out the side of her skirt with the other, she sliced free a large enough piece of material to make a poultice. She placed the cotton on the bar beside the mortar and pestle, added some flour to thicken the paste and applied the paste to the cotton.

The hybrid herbalist rushed around in front of the bar again, taking up the moist, slimy material and brought it quickly to the critically injured monster. His cohorts barred the way at first - no trust for any race other than kobold, and this one was twice as untrustworthy - but Yvonne's enough-of-this-nonsense look caused them to cower and step slightly aside. They watched her with bated breath, hands on their hilts, crossbows at the ready, very protective of their general.

Yvonne came close to Gru'Hal, stopping between the needler-kobold and the threader-kobold to get a better look at the wound.

"Allow me," she whispered only to them. "I'll need a bandage, ye have one don't ye? Something ta secure it?" They set their needles and threads down, rummaging through their disorganized medical supplies, obeying her directions. Meanwhile Yvonne took hold of Gru'Hal by the arm and applied the poultice directly to the open wound.

"ARGH! THAT HURTSS!" The kobold leader hissed, still infuriated. Many of the other kobolds flinched, half-drew swords from their scabbards, jumped and squealed in panic.

"Oh, don't be a big baby. Ye need ta be strong! Yer minions be watching," Yvonne smiled as she let go his arm and took the bandage from threader-kobold, setting to wrapping over the wound poultice and all, around and around. It was rather firm and she was satisfied with the bound stub, fixing it with a pin to hold it together. "I've applied medicine that will help with yer pain and should stop tha blood. It'll make ye feel much better. Ye might start seeing things which aren't there, but don't worry. Ye'll feel very relaxed by then."

"Blessingss to you, black-skin," Gru'Hal hissed in thanks. He was a much more subdued creature than when he was about to conquer the pub, breathing heavily, his expression defeated.

Yvonne looked into his pained yellow eyes and touched his shoulder comfortingly. "It's going ta be alright. I'll look after ye," she assured, chuckling happily. She turned to needler-kobold and threader-kobold and gave further instructions. "Ye might try stitching him up while he's asleep tonight. Should go better." They nodded their agreement and she walked away, out of the crowded circle of metal-baring reptilians.

"Now, drinks!"

Things settled in much more quickly than Storm had anticipated, as adults began acting like adults in spite of themselves. The little barkeep was reasonable and charming, settling the froglike little abominations into seats and feeding them drinks with panache. Shinsou had silently offered him the honey-mead blend of whiskey that never failed to produce a smile. Philomel had also welcomed Shinsou in with the call of a siren, breaking the hearts of the would-be suitors who had abandoned ship in their attempts to win her hand. Her fondness for Storm’s former brother-at-arms cut the wizard some, however pragmatism stole any significant swell of jealousy.

For all her charms, she came as advertised. Never was a one-man type of woman, and you never exactly focused your efforts on domesticating her. Plus, Shin was there first, and when he did bother to show up, he is decent enough.

Storm shifted the tumbler beneath his nose, breathing in the sweet, almost saccharine scent of the honey blend. It hadn’t been heavily turned, and would be a candy-like treat to push him further down the rabbit hole. The first swallow was warm and coated his throat like cough medicine. His cheeks instantly flushed a touch with the alcohol’s gentle hug, holding him together and dulling his sharpened edge.

Will these little walking geckos make nice? Maybe they’d work for me; I could use a flock of footmen that follow orders blindly.

Sidling over to the bar, Storm fixed his hair back firmly against his head, repositioning the dress shirt into its perfect compartments and smiled once more at the little barkeep.

“My friend brought a honey whiskey in, the first one went down like rain. Do you have any more? I’d pop a cask for these new guests to bury the hatchet if it serves you.”

As though through sheer happenstance, Storm flipped his hand from nowhere and produced a handful of golden crowns, which he proudly flipped on the smooth bartop in front of the large crowd of small individuals. By magnetically pulling them from his pocket, he had managed to create quite the alchemist’s dream.

“Allow me to start fresh here – I may have enchanted this intimidating fellow’s sword because I don’t want anyone getting hurt in here. I think, like me, you folks are probably not from town. My name is Storm Veritas; I hail from Corone but it seems those assholes don’t much care for me these days. Some find me famous, others just look to find me.”

He had been far too wordy for the simple little monsters, who turned to him with wide, bugged eyes and a litany of shining colors from their reptilian skins. They were a fine blend of something between annoyed, confused, and angered with him.

Take Two.

“I bought you drinks.”

Jake strode into the common room to a strange sight. Green ichor painted the ground, pooling around a disembodied arm that could only have belonged to the one kobold who seemed like the leader. The lizard was receiving medical attention from the barkeep, and every one else seemed reasonably calm. The reptilians moved around in a writhing, arguing mass, but for some reason but their aggression was mostly internal. Something was preventing them from becoming violent. Jake could only guess it had to do with their chieftain being so easily disarmed.

The half elf went to the bar and ordered a pint of ale, and then carried the foamy mug on a tour of the room. He caught a look at his reflection in the window as he rounded the front of the pub. The silken eyepatch that covered his empty left socket made him stand out from the crowd. In a place like Alerar, so did his unruly, sand-colored hair. He had a decent tan and his clothes were of fine local fashion though, made from high quality sifan. The patterned green longsleeve shirt matched his eyes, and the earth-toned trousers went well with the mottled green-and-brown of his leather boots and jacket. He hoped that no one would notice the type of leather he wore.

His jacket and boots were made of expertly tanned Haidian demon hide. Jake had skinned the fire demon alive, and foolishly allowed him to escape. It was the hunt for that same demon that had brought him to Alerar, but the trail he'd been following had dwindled from sight. He'd needed something else to occupy his mind, and the extra coin didn't hurt, so he'd accepted the task of discovering who was killing all those snooty dark elves. He tousled his hair and took a sip of ale, and then continued on past the windows.

Someone here has an invitation to a meeting I need to attend. He had to mentally restrain himself from grabbing people at random and shaking them until answers spilled out. The drug flooding his brain was a river of pleasure, and he had never ridden such rapids before.

"Joshua Cronen..." He heard someone speak his instructor's name as he drifted away from the clamoring group of kobolds. It had spilled from the lips of a human who was almost definitely Coronian, who sat with a bosomy faun who could only be Philomel van der Aart. Based on his tall, rangy frame and current company, Jake guessed the man beside her was Shinsou Vaan Osiris. What was such a notorious pair doing in a tavern in Alerar?

One of them must be carrying the invitation, Jake thought, sniffing and wiping his nose. Hell, they might both have one!

"Pardon me," Jake said, stepping up to their table and setting down his ale. "I don't mean to intrude... but any friend of the Breaker is a friend of mine. Pleased t'meetcha, I'm Jake Narmolanya."

Yvonne's attention resumed with the well dressed gentleman while he eased his way toward the bar, neatening his hair and sorting his shirt. She approved of a man which knew how to take care of themselves. The human's smile was catching and she caught it, smiling herself. He explained that his friend - crippler of kobolds - had brought his own beverage into the bar, and was wondering whether she could provide more of the same. These two men seemed to be well acquainted, their knowing glances had not escaped the perceptive barkeep's notice.

The black-haired gentleman's connection with his friend would not work in his favour, not from Yvonne's point of view, not while she held a grudge for that loose cannon.

"There be a keg about round tha back, certainly," she replied, looking him up and d-- well let's face it, she only looked up. "How generous of ye ta buy these lizard-lads a round." She leaned closer to him over the bar, revealing cleavage as her voice lowered to a whisper. "Between ye and me, I doubt these reptiles have two coins ta clink together. Yer a dear ta try ta settle differences." Yvonne's voice rose again as she included the bar's inhabitants in the conversation. "Tell ye lot what, I could make honey whisky from scratch given a few minutes. It be dead easy and tasty home-made!"

The barkeep whirled around, ponytail swinging as she waddled over to the cooking station, collecting a large pan and placing it on an Aleraran stove-burner. She set it to a medium-heat, poured an entire jar of honey into the pan and added water, to make honey syrup. With that on the simmer she came back to the bar, lining up thirty five glasses in a close, clinking row, to fit them all on the counter-top.

"Aye, let me see if I can't find that keg." The ebony-skinned dwarf made a quick trip to a side-room for storage, giving a few kobolds a glance that stated behave as she left them to their own devices. She reentered the room rolling a keg but didn't get far, the way to the bar was very crowded indeed. Instead she stood it upright and abandoned it where it was, trusting that one of these boys knew how to crack a keg open and someone was willing to pay for it. Quickly, quickly she weaved through the legs and hips of kobolds, returning to the simmering stove.

Turning the heat off and letting the honey syrup cool, the bartender located an empty bottle, poured in a nip over half a bottle of whiskey and trickled the syrup in afterward. Stoppering it, giving the bottle an incredible shake the likes of which you'd not have expected a wee dwarf capable, and reopened the brew. She casually walked parallel with the bar, filling the thirty five glasses with a constant flow, unconcerned of a little spillage here and there. Bottle empty, she focused on shaking up some more.

"Drinks be on Storm Veritas here, lads. Bottoms up!"

Satisfied that her work had not been for naught, Philomel felt her lips curled into a smile as she watched kobold and human - at least to some degree - begin to form friends. If she and her other drinkers at this tavern could greet the supposed invaders with good tidings, which is what they had initially come in for, then they could halt them in their intended purpose. Perhaps for all time. Ply the kobolds with drink, as they wished, enable Storm to pay for it all, and cause them to forget whatever issues they had with Alerar.

Of course, Philomel had every intention of seeking out the truth of the matter - why the kobolds had come here. Right now though, she had some other matter to concentrate on. And that was the introduction of the one male who could champion Storm.

Oh yes, the young human had been right to leave her and take time to greet the strangely short drow barmaid, and the Kobolds. It meant that Philomel's attention could turn to the one she was most upset with currently - first for taking the hand off the kobold leader, and then coming back into her life as he always did. With no regard for her emotions.

"You are an asshole, Shinsou vaan Osiris," her voice growled finally when he finished his confession.

Her eyes glowered at the flask in his hands as she calculated what it was. Shifting Veridian to one shoulder she held out a hand for the drink. With no idea how he had obtained it. With no desire but to continue to berate him.

For always leaving her.
For always going missing.
For always spoiling these moments.
For toying with her.

"Cronen," she continued to speak as she reached for that holiest of drinks - Headbutt. That which was meant to be only accessible to the highest of priests and priestesses under Drys. "Yes the one who ... Him."

Another brief lover of hers. She fixed her hand tight around the flask, waiting for him to surrender it to her - where she would never let it out of her sight again.

"How the hell did you get a hold of this?"

Because only the holy order were given the methodology. Did know how to brew it. Ones like her ...

Her. The only priestess outside of the faun homeland. Did this mean then that her greatest horror had come to pass? That those in Paradisia, once blessed by Drys were truly lost? Were now, as Drys herself suspected ... Lost?

What the fuck is going on?

The faun's words, with their barbed tone, and the background noise of the tavern melted away into incomprehensible waves of white noise as I started to take stock of the mood in the room. When I came in here, the atmosphere was filled with that familiar tension that preceded just about every mass brawl I had ever witnessed. The Kobold leader had approached me, his aggression towards me not only brazen but arrogant in both its application and intent.

Naturally, the only course of action was a warning. When the warning wasn't heeded, I had to make my point physically. I thought I had been doing the place a favour, but the corrosive glares from the dwarven barmaid, Philomel and the Kobolds and then the conciliatory moves from Storm served to isolate me. Now, I felt like the only one in here who had done anything wrong.

Next time I'll let them beat the shit out of you all, then.

"An asshole?" I imagine my expression was somewhere between surprised and unimpressed, "I call it self defence. Firstly, this rabble turn up fully armed and that isn't a red flag? Secondly, I gave the chief a warning, and it wasn't heeded. That's on him, not me; I simply used the only language that aggressors like that can understand. When I came in here it looked as if it was going to kick off and I wanted them to think twice about it. Instead, I'm suddenly public enemy number one? Fuck that. I'm not apologising for not allowing this place to be walked all over."

It was then Philomel mentioned the Headbutt. I hadn't realised the implication of my little white lie - it wasn't actually Headbutt, just a "close representation" meant to impress her. But then it dawned on me that I might have accidentally laid the groundwork for all sorts of reaching questions.

I thought it best to explain before she thought I was treading on proud faun tradition.

"It's not pure headbutt - it's a "close representation" of it" I offered weakly, "There was no way I could have ever gotten hold of the real thing."

It was then that I did something I had never done before - I got up to leave. I felt with everything going on I had caused my fair share of offence for the night. But, just before I could scrape my chair back and get out of dodge, a familiar face parked himself at our table. He introduced himself as Jake Narmolanya, almost as if this were the first time we had ever met. Perhaps it was because the elf hadn't had direct contact with me during the gathering of the Crystal Swords, and I had been ejected from that god forsaken melee early by the power of the void, but he didn't seem to remember fighting alongside me that night.

I remembered him, though I didn't remember him owning such high quality clothes. Beautiful hide boots and jacket, with sifan trimmings for the rest of his outfit. A high roller, indeed. But from what I remember, his skills in battle were as fearsome as his attire was upmarket.

"Jake, huh?" I started, offering my hand, "My name is Shinsou Vaan Osiris. Joshua Cronen is a man I owe much to, and yet who asks so little of me in return. He is the true Thayneslayer."

I don't know why I tacked that on to the end. Perhaps it was guilt - to this day, Cronen would insist that I slayed Draconus, somehow believing that I would make a better arbiter than he. But that was a load of horseshit. I'd helped, but Cronen had struck the final blow. I deserved no such plaudits and felt admitting it to those who knew him would be penance for the lie that Cronen had, with the best of intent, perpetuated.

"He is the true Thayneslayer." Jake repeated, almost religiously. He knew the story of the night Breaker had jumped so high, it could only be called flying. He shook Shinsou's hand, meeting the man's slightly confused golden eyes. "Pleased t'meetcha Shinsou." As he spoke that name, memories stirred. He had heard that name screamed, heard it echo in the vast cavern of the Crystal Swords. Amari's face swam in his memory, the former friend turned pure evil. She had cried out that name. Shinsou. Suddenly Jake remembered communicating with the man, working with him before the warrior had fallen. So death in the crystal chamber had not been permanent. How interesting.

"My apologies," Jake said, his face flushing. The head injuries he sustained had made his memories of that great battle foggy, and fleeting. "I did not recognize you. You wielded one of the crystal swords. So did you." He added suddenly, twisting his head toward Philomel. His eyes wandered to the bar, where a familiar well dressed gentleman was interacting with the dwarven barkeep. He was there to. Jake realized, recognizing Storm Veritas.

"So, what do you reckon is going on?" He asked in a quiet voice. "Are the swords calling us back together?"

What a stupid thing to say. Jake wasn't even carrying his sword. Instead, he had a long liviol tonfa strapped to his back. The half elf boasted enough skill to best most swordsmen with the single fighting stick. But if he was going to get in a fight with thirty-odd kobolds, he would certainly miss the crystal blade.

Jake bit his lip and rocked on the balls of his feet. The coke was making him paranoid, that was all. His eyes roamed the room as he resisted the urge to pull out the metal canister and have another snort. He blinked rapidly and glanced from Shinsou to Philomel. Perhaps if he stayed silent, they would forget his foolish question.

He tried not to think of the possibility of his being right. If the sword-wielders were called together, Amari would be among them. Amari, who lived to kill. Amari, who would set fire to the world just to watch it burn.

The worst of it was... a part of him still missed her.

Philomel's free hand flew to the hilt of the Rabbit, the Crystal sword she had bared - and still did. Her other was still clutched around the flask of apparently fake headbutt and her lips were open already to speak to Shinsou ...

But here was a new man.

One who she was dimly familiar with. Short, messy blonde hair hung around his gently pointed ears and youthful face. Not too tall he was the picture perfect image of a fine human and elf blend, speaking in a calm and solid tone. His politeness took Philomel back a little, who had found herself so upset by the violence - and then stunned by Shinsou getting up. Her lips closed as she fingered sword hilt and flask cover before she slowly nodded, a degree of guilt settling in.

Around her shoulders her fox soul-mate Veridian slunk free, tail swishing idly. Taking her hand off the Rabbit sword she drew her hand to her chest before answering.

"The sword and I are bonded. The creature who guarded it also fathered a young rabbit prince who lived with me and mine for a while. It has never summoned me beyond that day, however. I do not know it's magic much. I ..."

She inclined her head. "Philomel, some call me. I am ... A friend of Breaker's."

Swapping her flask into her now free hand she reached out as subtly as she could to grab at Shinsou's clothes, knowing he had been close on leaving. Oh yes, she had been mad - but mostly because of the sudden violence and then, that horrible feeling that Headbutt had finally been proven to be used for less holy purpose than allowing priests and priestesses to lead a good Eucharist. It had been bad this timing, but worse than any of these things was the potential for Shinsou to leave so suddenly when she had only just found him again.

Her fingers dug into the fabric of his clothes as quietly and secretly as she could, determined to not see him go. "How are you here ..." She trailed off, forgetting the young man's name.

The rabble coming from Shinsou, Philomel, and the scruffy blonde that had begun sauntering about the bar was quite distracting from Storm's efforts at diplomacy. He looked as the three of them bragged about their Crystal Swords, while he had found the Rat he owned to be generally little more useful than a sturdy crow-bar in a pinch where a stone door might be jammed shut. Of course, the hilt was metal-trimmed, which made it a fine projectile in a pinch. Overall, the usefulness of the alleged mystical item could be synopsized by its position; still tied snugly to his loyal steed out front of the bar.

"Much obliged, m'dear." The wizard's focus was now directed at the sharp little barkeep that had produced more honey whiskey for Storm and the diminutive lizard people that his favorite faun had for some reason convinced him to play nice with. With a bright, white smile, Veritas raised his glass and poured it down his throat, proving to the small creatures that he had not just poisoned them. They reluctantly bobbed about, sipping and sneering at the sweetness of his drink, all the while greedily devouring anything free.

"Changes nothing! Ettermire still belongs to the Kobold!" one of the little scaly things offered, a gurgle in his voice from the fire water that hadn't fully passed his gullet.

Of course, but you poor bastards are still trying to conquer for SOMETHING, right? Nothing enough coin can't chase.

Leaning in to the barkeep, he smiled again as he spoke in hushed tones, while the kobolds about him paid him no attention.

"I know they don't have two crowns to rub together, but I'm sort of counting on that. I've got to balance flashing enough money to get their interest as a venture capitalist without convincing them to try to jump me. After all, our foxy friend over there wants to play nice, and I'd bet their insides would do a number on your hardwoods."

Tapping the floor with his metal soled shoes, the -tamming- strum of the thing amused yet another grin from him. He was half hoping for a fight to break out from the whole damned ordeal anyway, but in the interim offered his best efforts at mirth. Again, a handful of crowns seemed to appear from the ether, this time as double the stack jingled on the bar.

"Let's try another round for the house; keep the tip sweetheart! I want to see if any of our little guests have livers as big as their balls!"

The liquor would flow freely, although as a third drink passed his lips, it occurred to Storm that the little creatures may be completely unaffected by the wonderful ride that alcohol so frequently took him for.

I felt like my mind had been split into fragments and put into small bags, which people then repeatedly stamped on.

As I had gotten up to leave, I felt a subtle pinch of resistance at the edge of my coat. The faun who had just called me an asshole for levelling the playing field with the Kobolds suddenly reacted to my getting up, reaching out under the table to clamp on to the drakescale plated fabric. Her serious eyes betrayed her firm body language, and without saying a word I could see her telling me not to go. There couldn't have been more than a thumb and a forefinger holding that corner, but I was anchored to the spot, such was the power of her hold over my feelings. My golden eyes swung to her and I took a moment to consider my position. I could have made a point by sulking like a child and storming off, but all that would have done was put distance between me and my best friend whilst utterly degrading my own character.

Quietly, I sat down again, pulling the chair back in. I went to great lengths to ensure that it only looked to Jake as if I were adjusting my seat for comfort; the last thing I needed was everyone to see Shinsou Vaan Osiris and Philomel van der Aart having a public tiff shortly after the rucus.

Turning my attention back to the elf, Jake, I took a sip of my ale and indulged the possibility of the crystal swords having called us together. At first it seemed plausible, with four of the sword's owners present and accounted for in once place, but after a while I dismissed it as a co-incidence. I didn't even carry The Goat with me anymore, such was its obseletion, and in any case what possible reason would their collective higher power have for "getting the gang back together?".

"I doubt it," I eventually piped up, "But you look like a man with something on your mind. If you want to share, then by all means..."

I gestured to one of the chairs that Philomel's man hoard had vacated earlier.

Yvonne happily took Storm's crowns with black-fingered finesse, firstly smacking the grabby hands of the nearest kobold. "Hey! These be paying for that drink ye got. Ye trying ta buy yer next drink with what I already earned? Hands off greedy," she chastised. With basic sleight of hand she appeared to scratch an itch, instead tucking coins down her corset with each scratch. The remaining payment she swept into a drawer below the counter, before any other kobolds decided they liked shiny things and made their move too.

The runty drow penciled a few sentences on a piece of paper, swiftly scrawling her message, folding the note in half and handing it to Storm as though it was his receipt. Message delivered she switched her attention to refilling glasses, the row of glass far more bendy and curving than earlier as the kobolds couldn't for the life of them set their empties down in a straight line. She walked along the bar once more, draining another bottle-worth of honey mead so they could all have another go at inebriation.

"Pour drinkss fasster... black-skin sslave!" Gru'Hal commanded, losing his patience. Yvonne could tell that the red cap mushroom was doing its work - the kobold general seemed to be floating in and out of awareness - but he wasn't as relaxed as she had expected him to be by now. The apothecary was beginning to think it wasn't going to be enough to put the lizard down for the night. Gru'Hal was a tougher, more muscular kobold than his cohorts.

"Gru'Hal drink more than any kobold! Need bigger glasss! Thiss one not big enough!" He tossed his glass over his shoulder with his one good hand dismissively. It shattered loudly on the floorboards a few seconds later. It wasn't clear to Yvonne whether kobolds were capable of regeneration, but as the minutes ticked by Gru'Hal was definitely regaining his strength - if not his hand. They would need to do more to keep the situation in check.

Yvonne wasn't entirely certain of the kind of man Storm Veritas was, but she'd gleaned a reasonable idea this evening already. She was taking a risk on him because he was obviously more subtle than his friend. The dwarf hybrid mentally crossed her fingers while she entertained the guests, hoping he was as underhanded as she was - that he wouldn't just rat her out.

The message: Nice be no fun. Distract them for me and I'll drug that overgrown skink again before he makes another scene.

Distractions? Hell, distractions are easy!

Storm stood tall before the angry, drinking Kobolds, again fixing his hair and rolling his sleeves into tight knots around his sinewy forearms. Opening his palms, long fingers danced in the air before the annoyed little lizard men, who seemed offput regardless of how many rounds he had bought them. Another toothy grin was forced upon them as he stifled a honey-whiskey hiccup.

"Time for a challenge, my diminutive friends! Here in Ettermire, it's customary to treat your guests with a trick or challenge. I will submit to you that I am the most skillful drinker in all of Alerar! Barkeep, fill my stein with your most popular beer, and let's liven things up a notch!" With a grin, he pointed to the iron-rimmed glasses hanging from a series of hooks aside the bar.

The clever little bartender followed him implicitly, filling a cup to the brim with the frothy golden liquid. The pour was smooth and easy, with a series of small and surly soldiers gazing at her as though they'd never seen fluid flow in any form before. Raising the glass, Storm immediately caught a sense for the balance of weight within the glass, sensing the iron ring at the top being the point of balance and manipulation. Taking a quick sip, he got a sense for the flavor - it was fortunately mild, and would serve his trick well. To begin the display, Storm raised the stein over the bar, addressing the on-looking soldiers.

"Welcome to Ettermire, warriors! A toast - to our wives and our girlfriends - may they never meet!"

Ugh, SO old. Brutal.

Maintaining his smile through the laughter of little serpentine simpletons who lacked any presence of humor, Storm feigned dropping the stein. His eyes wide, he moved quick to catch it with his left hand, and again dropped it to catch the thick glass between two fingers on his right hand. This was of course obfuscation; the weight of the glass was entirely suspended by the wizard manipulating an electromagnetic field about the iron stein. A third drop, and he caught the stein upon the tip of his left index finger, the stein wobbling as he controlled it completely. The illusion of danger filled the room with a blanket of silence, broken only by small gasps. The electromancer had them at his call as he stared at the stein, feigning concern that he could possibly drop the thing.

"Quiet please; everything is under control. From a fingertip to deep liver, I am the conqueror of hops!"

Without further explanation, Storm lifted the stein, wiggling a finger to allow it to "fall" into his mouth. There was a deluge of liquid that he had prepared for, opening his throat and allowing the beer to pour down his throat, a trick years of borderline alcoholism had afforded him. A great cheer erupted as not a drip poured upon his face or neck, and the mage pinched the bottom of the empty stein between two fingers to display the empty cup to the awestruck fools before him. Twisting his fingers, he made the impression he was spinning the cup with incredible dexterity, erstwhile the field produced effortlessly spun the cup before them with the speed of a top. With a flick of the wrist, the stein was suddenly tumbling through the air, high in the bar and back towards Veritas, who dropped his eye level to the Kobolds, who looked at him with horror. He didn't look, but reached behind him with his left hand, his witchcraft correcting the difference and pulling the cup back into his hand.

The bar erupted in croaks and laughs at the display as the wizard smashed the stein down upon the bar, winking at the barkeep who had quite clearly finished her efforts.

Yvonne smiled upon her handiwork in afterthought, a hint of smugness to her expression. She'd swiftly concocted another drink specifically for him, with the biggest glass she could find (a punch bowl). It was everything the kobold commander had demanded. Well, truth be told there might have been an ingredient or two he wasn't expecting, but - in her defence - Gru'Hal hadn't asked for a specific kind of drink. That meant the half-dwarven bartender was allowed complete creative licence over what passed down his scaly croaker. Let's face it, he'd put anything in his mouth she wanted at this point, especially with heady froth at the surface ever so inviting.

A sleeping potion potent enough ta bed an ogre, laced with honey whiskey. Lavender, passionflower, crushed valerian sprigs and powdered verdant root, tha herbs masked with whiskey, tha whiskey softened with honey.

"Here ye be, Gru'Hal honey! I've made ye a drink worthy of yer impending conquest! Only tha most mighty of kobolds could handle this drink, but I bet ye'll chug this one down like it was lolly water! Go ahead! Impress yer friends." Yvonne gently placed the punch-bowl in front of him, grinning up to him encouragingly. "Impress me," she challenged him provocatively, batting her eyelashes.

"Gru'Hal show you what it means to be the mightiest kobold of all," he bragged, grabbing the punch bowl with both hands and lifting the drink high over his head. His minions roared their shrieking excitement in unison, proud of their commander. When he looked to her one last time to make certain she was watching, Yvonne nodded her approval, her expression wide-eyed enthusiasm, plain as day.

Gru'Hal took a deep breath and guzzled down the entire bowl, taking copious gulps one after another. His thirty kobold minions cheered him on, squealing drink, drink, drink in time, like a heartbeat. He had the attention of the whole room. The world was his oyster.

Yvonne turned away, concealing the fact that she was rolling her eyes and snickering to herself. They'd done very well. Storm Veritas had distracted the little beasts admirably while she concentrated her full efforts on creating the knockout potion. They'd each played their unscrupulous part and would reap the rewards. A comatose general and a wasted army was no threat at all. They'd bought Ettermire some time, at least from this regiment.

A sip of that would put me ta sleep. A punch bowl? I'd probably never wake up again! Should knock tha brute into tha land of forty winks for tha night and those minions of his won't know what ta do next. One thing I do know about war - ye cut off tha head of tha snake, tha rest of tha problem will die right off.

Gru'Hal was snoring before he hit the floor, still in his chair it clattered to the floorboards with him. The punch bowl bounced and rolled away, remaining in tact. Maybe a bruised noggin in the morning but he'd be fine. He was sleeping soundly, his snoring rather loud.

"What happen to General?" a kobold questioned, looking down at him.

"Don't know," another kobold replied, sipping his honey whiskey contently.

"What we do now?!" a third kobold cried out, starting to freak out.

"Have more drinkss from nice lady," a fourth kobold decided for him, calm and collected.

"That'ss good idea," the third kobold agreed, settling down.

This thread is now CLOSED and being submitted for judgement, as stated in the terms at the beginning of this thread and in the post for recruitment.

For those who want to continue ... Part two will be continued HERE.

No Judgement: Monthly Event 1.5x added.

Philomel receives:
1216 EXP
83 GP

Storm Veritas receives:
1437 EXP
83 GP

Yvonne receives:
726 EXP
99 GP

Shinsou Vaan Osiris receives:
1216 EXP
83 GP

Jake Narmolanya receives:
561 EXP
50 GP

Rewards to be added soon.

Rewards added!