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

[Philomel]

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.

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.

[Storm Veritas]

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.

[Yvonne]

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]

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?"

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

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.

[Jake Narmolanya]

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.

[Storm Veritas]

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.

[Yvonne]

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?!

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

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]

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?"