Fenn watched in bubbly drunken glee as a red-haired girl slid past him on the thin sheen of ice he’d created, and some part of him was very pleased to be at the center of such calamity — to have contributed to it. What chaos this was! Delightful! More! Headed the opposite direction of redhead, streaking over the mess of tables (some rather battered) was a slight figure who Fenn recognized through the fuzzy haze of drink sloshing around his brain.

AH-HA! He thought he’d known those little urchin feet. Morus! And headed for- ahhh! Wait! What was this that he witnessed? He too wished to pillage the bar of all its goods!

On wobbly feet, the fae stood up and began to flit his way to the main of the bar, unbothered by the ice underfoot. Each step he took was stabilized by a coarse effusion of frost. A hefty bottle of something or other — cheap, from the way it shattered — sailed his way and smacked him upside the head. Ow? Droplets of brownish booze frost to his hair, skin, and cloak. Oh well, no loss; it was in need of a wash anyway. Belatedly, the fae looked up to see Morus already hippity-hopping across the tables towards the door. A dizzy wave was given. Darn. Bye friend.

About three feet from the tarnished and tempting counter of the bar — after skirting about some ludicrous fights and one terrifying instance of a blue demon being smashed into half the bar — Fenn was jerked to a halt, coughing as the collar of his cloak dug into his neck.

There was a meaty hand attached to his cloak. For a moment, the boy panickedly, assuming it a bartender seeking revenge for all the drinks that had gone (and likely would keep going) missing in his presence… then realized that it couldn’t be the bartender. The bartender hadn’t been green. The fae rubbed his smarting throat and glanced over his shoulder at the burly, orcish owner of the hand, eyes narrowed in cool annoyance. He was met with something similar in the orc’s gaze. “Krunck recognize wily elf boy,” the orc announced through a tusky lisp, “even if now boy is like moth. First, cheat in glorious wrestle of arms? Today, trip smart-friend Kuglor. Thinks bug boy wants to be squishy.”

Fenn took the threat with a bleary grimace and bared teeth. This was an invitation of… violence? Yes? Should he respond to it, with it? It wasn’t something he normally thought about, but being as riled-up and booze-saturated as he was did away with what little sense of inhibition he possessed. Something more wicked than he’d like to think he typically was took hold.

Puffing out his cheeks in annoyance, Fenn grabbed the unfamiliar orc’s hand and let out an effusion of wintry magics.

“This no tickle!” the orc exclaimed with a bellow of a yelp, yanking his frostbitten hand away from the fae. As he was released, Fenn reached for the bar, leapt the counter and stumbled onto the floor on the other si— oh boy, there sure was a lot of glass and spilled booze here. Seemed as if neither raiders nor brawlers had been very kind to the bar. Tipsily tip-toeing around the hazards (failing to not start freezing the spills in the wake of his stirred magics), Fenn grabbed what few drinks were left on the lower shelves and shoved them into his bag. He was — hic — maybe not feeling like climbing? Right now? Swaying of his feet, he backpedaled into the counter of the bar. Another hiccup jolted him as he half-lucidly tucked himself underneath the counter.

There was a bottle of something-or-other in his hand. He pressed his mouth to the lip of the bottle, before realizing that its contents were frozen. Oh. Whoops. That was fineee.

Yep. He was- he was just going to sleep heeeere for now, yes?

Giggling madly to himself — a sound that was comparable to the faint wheeze of a hiccoughing mouse — the boy threw the frozen bottle out into the crowd as hard as his weak arms could handle before finally passing out of his intoxication.