Quick! Weapon me!

Horrified and outraged at the thought of breaking a nail, the Lady recoiled back and began to sing, her eyes seeking a suitably stout table to hide beneath.

Writers have pondered this unusual Dras behavior with some speculating that while perhaps 'rather optimistic' as a strategy, there must be balance in all things. So the more pacifistic she becomes the more violent and courageous her Waerd bodyguard could become is oddly not without basis.

He leaned over without leaving his seat, grabbing a table leg that had broken off as the hefty Hrothi tumbled across the table. A classic night at the Free Mann Tavern, he knew he was going to get involved one way or another. With the table leg held above the shoulder ready to strike he jumped up and raised the opposite fist to his face to protect from wild blows that were surely to come his way. His eyes darted frantically across the floor. Peering between legs and under tables. In the chaos he had lost his Kypiq comrade, one that had been sitting with him at the moment the brawl had broken out. Somehow, through the noise of grunting Brudvir, smashing glass and braking tables he made out a small wimper... his eyes widened as he realized it wasn't the tables leg that he had grabbed.

Another Friday Night At The Free Mann...

As the unknown Hrothi flies across the table upending my companions beverages, I pause slightly...

Then, with one strong, swift, deft motion, I bring the heavy tankard down from my lips...

And slam it directly across the bridge of the nose of the offender.

Turning to the barkeep, I call for another round of drinks for the table...

And return the bloodied glass back down between his now glazed over eyes for a second time.

As he begins to lose consciousness, I bring it back down again a third time...

Just in case I hadn't made my point clear yet.

Rolling the now limp body off the table, I see the new drinks have already arrived...

Is this a new barmaid?

"Hey...How You Doin' ?"

As the fight broke free, a Janoa on a table on a corner of the tavern watched unamused. Sipping from his mug.and thinking to himself how primitive the other tribes were.

That is when a flying tankard hit the nearest wall, exploding into pieces and splashing all its content on the Janoa.

On a surge of rage he flip the table in front of him roaring in fury, grabbing the closest thing he can find and throwing it on a Hrothi in front of him.

"was it a Kypiq I just throw there?" For a split of a second a smirk shown on the ferocious Janoa face. He leaps on a distracted Neran launching a fury of blows that knocks the poor thing prone to the ground.

Letting out another roar he looks around for the next challenger

Startled at first by the body unexpectedly flying across his table, he quickly swallowed what was left of his ale and tossed the mug aside.

Feeling a rush of liquid courage, he reached for the back of his chair and swung it, hard as he could, at the person nearest him to his left. Surely, he was the one responsible. As the chair shattered on contact, he held onto the arched wooden frame of the backrest and swung it wildly to his right, at whoever just bumped into him with a sloshing bottle of wine. Yanking the bottle from the hands of his staggered foe, he leaned back and drank victoriously, then threw the bottle at the first face he saw through the haze of drunkenness.

Finally pausing for a breather, he surveyed the scene before him. The place had gone utterly mad. What the he.. He ducked beneath the punch before he could finish the thought, and heard the smack of bone on bone as the fist smashed against someone else's face.

Unarmed and needing some advantage, he jumped up onto the nearest table with a short hop. That got him a few feet above the fray and into what felt like a more defensive position. The first person to get near was going to get his boot hard across the nose. And that's when he heard the crazy Janoan in the corner roaring like an enraged ape.

"Maybe nobody will notice me up here," he thought.

Maybe.

But it was probably just the alcohol talking.

[More Cloak, Less Dagger]

Hmm... strong notes of plum and apricot on the front, a subtle amount of spice, with a dash of stone fruit and the finish, iron?

he'd been enjoying a great reserve of a ruby elixir in a corner, attempting to enjoy a moment of respite away from paperwork and drudgery of his employ. It was a ritual of sorts, and he was quite fond of his usual haunt, even if others found him quite unusual.

He'd brought in two bottles, As often he liked to procure his own supply, he generously left a sum for his usage of the space. But a great offence was afoot! He was able to consumed nay but half their content, when a hulking mass landed square atop his table causing glass and liquid to abdicate each other.

It was all quite too much. But, he didn't exactly have a moment to reflect; as the entire room was in a state of conflict. It wasn't long before fists followed the body that previously flung towards him. After quickly stepping out of the man's punch, He swirled his cloak around, a fine ruby material stitched with dark silks, and swiftly gained a position from which the brute could brought to a smashing reunion with a nearby tabletop. Cloak wrapped around the aggressors head, he pulled it down with an immense force, resulting in a satisfying crack, then removed the mantle from its casualty.

"I hope one of you plans on reimbursing me for my loss, it was a particularly good varietal of Neran after all" questioning eyes of the nearest man turned to look perplexed, but it wasn't long before a cloak too covered those eyes and they found only darkness.

I do not worry, I am not scared of a brawl; but it does seem that this has gone too far! I pull out my rapier and scurry to the bar! I use the tip of my blade to pierce the cork, while dodging the punches is a lot of work. balancing the ale on the tip of my blade, I twirl about and I am out, Good Day!

Whenever I'm out and about, I always carry my trusty walking stick. Waist height, made of ironwood swirling up to a star ruby, each gnarl of the wood having it's own line of engravings. It serves a double purpose. on one hand, it doesn't look like a weapon, and on the other, it makes me look weaker than I am. I'm confident enough in my skills that I could evade and trip my way past enough people to escape the brawl and the tavern quickly, so as to avoid legal action.

Sweet had been warned of the dangers and troubles of taverns..She didnt care much to frequent one, entering only when necessary. Today it was absolutly necessary.

She waited outside, the opportunity would present itself, it was just a matter of time.

There!!! time and chance had aligned, the target was confirmed to be inside, her companions waited patiently from their visual vantage points, watching her as she ducked into the tavern behind a small group of miners....She took a seat and tried to look normal, she gave her order, a moment later the bar maid delivered a tankard of Cactus Jack. She took a quick sip, licking her lips after as she looked down at the green specs of cacti floating around in her drink. The more sips she took the less green specs there were.

As uncomfortable as she felt she reminded herself what this was all for...The Two-Fold Queen! Balance must be maintained. This man has to....

She slowly moved her hand up to her face wiping away the green specs...There were green specs everywhere, on her, on the table, the floor... She lets out a sigh of disappointment and calmly stands up. Looking over at the flying Hrothi with pity as she readies her darts, which were nothing special as far as Sweet was concerned, Standard Waerd Assassin Gear (SWAG), but outsiders would pay top price for the Waerd craftmanship. She turns to the offender, tips her head to the left, winks and with out one word she lets loose one, followed by a second and quickly a third dart, with no mercy they find their mark.

A contender makes his approach. He motions toward her, she extends her arm as if she would take his hand from a distance, but no. Their eyes meet as she blows him a kiss, his eyes missed the smoke bomb that rolled off her finger tips, a round of darts make his day and thats the last face he sees as the room fills with smoke.

She makes her way out of the bar, avoiding any further scuffles, dodges a few more flying bar patrons and meets up with her compainions. While explaining what actually happened in the tavern...She tells everything, explaining how it all happened so fast, how she never even set eyes on the target... However, she omits the part about Cactus Jack....

They inform her that while she was enjoying her drink...The target slipped out the back and was quickly dispatched as he tried to escape his inevitable demise.

The love letter and the war donkey

Everybody at Kern’s gate have heard this story at least one time. The day where a cousin of the ruling family, Dal Akern, drew his sorrow in the legendary tavern of the Free mann. Dal was a small and stocky To’Resk. People said he was rather made to cut down trees than serve as a scribe of the temple.

Nobody knows how he got there, but he was sitting alone at a table, drunk, and on the verge of tears. With his broken heart, he was trying to write a poem for his lost love, the fiery Nuya Ni, who had left him for the third-time, making it clear that there would be for her no turning back. The paper was filled with splashes and scribbles, but he was putting in his words all the love and passion a man like him was able to express.

Then suddenly a flying dwarf fell over the table, and the poem was on the ground, splashed by the rest of his own beer. Dal jumped to his feet and stretched his arm toward the letter, screaming his despair. The Hrothi was already up, ready to fight his new opponent. But when he saw the face of the small man, he held back his move, touched by his sadness. The rage was nonetheless already burning within Dal Akern. This stupid man had ruined the poem. There was no way to fix this. The beer had melted the words, and he would never be able to find his inspiration again! It was all their fault, all these stupid drunk people. And he would take revenge for that!

His glassy eyes promptly became as sharp of those of a lynx. He methodically checked every object available on the ground: the pen, the ink, a half-empty mug, the flask of the aphrodisiac with which he gently sprinkled the letter, and the letter itself. Not a small thin piece of vulgar parchment, but a thick block of high-quality papers glued together with many expensive chemicals in order to make a heavy, indestructible, and precious piece of armor. Or a precious love letter. It was the perfect idea! What support could have been more romantic than that?

But again. Now it was lost. Ruined. No turning back. So first step: getting rid of the immediate threat. Dal grabbed the poem and firmly rolled it up, turning it into an improvised club. One kick in the balls and two strikes in the head. The Hrothi fell, but this time at his right place, on the dirty ground.

Second step: there is only one way to win a brawl like that. Fighting side by side with the strongest, the tallest, the heaviest and the most loyal of all the possibles allies: Capriot, his war donkey! In his thoughtful family of tamers, Dal had learned a few tricks, like to never tie his mount while travelling, with something else than a magic knot. The To’Resk whistled for his beast, and the donkey immediately broke out of the stable, running to his rescue. She ruthlessly entered in the middle of the fight, knocking people out of her way.

Dal quickly gave a her a sip of the beer, in which he had poured the rest of the aphrodisiac. Armed with his club and a very responsive donkey, the scribe set up basic defences in a corner of the bar and firmly held his ground, knocking his opponents out of the building.

It is said that this day, Dal Akern honored his family by the martial prowess he demonstrated during this bar fight. But carried by his passion, he lost the ink and the paper. And was never able to win his love back.

The Hrothi impacted his table with a dull thud, and Ivarr stopped drinking. Chaos. Chaos was coming. He'd had a long day at the forge, creating mastercrafts of steel for these same ungrateful, unappreciative, unlearned, and too-often unwashed warriors. They paid little heed to his craftsmanship, instead preferring to use and abuse his creations until they broke. "Swords can be replaced," they said. "Blades break." His blades only broke or needed replacing when they were left in the rain for days on end, used to chop at trees, and the gods only knew what else.

Ivarr's expression grew hard. It was not enough that these people spurned his art. No, they had to ruin his nice, quiet drink in the corner of the tavern, too, bringing their chaos with them. Well, if they wanted chaos, then chaos they would receive. Opening a pouch, he smiled darkly, and cast its contents to the ground before his table. Dozens of small steel balls rolled onto the floor. He sat back, and watched the chaos.

The Drass was sitting, quietly enjoying the spoiled bread and skunked mead he had acquired from the barkeep for a discounted price. Suddenly a body is flung onto his table flinging his meal into a heap on the floor.

The Dras stood quickly, startled by the suddenness of the event. He became suddenly aware of the brawl that had started. For a moment he seemed sad, looking at his spoiled meal on the floor. After a short moment he turned to the brute. "I do believe this is undercooked for my taste" he said motioning to the body with a small smirk.

The brute seemed confused, obviously in a drunken rage. "You stay out of this you damned grey skin, or you'll be joining him."

The Drass Male slinked back slowly, suddenly aware he was backed into a corner. The entire establishment was engaging in what appeared to be a mindless brawl. As stealthily as he could, he reached down to his robe pulling a small vial into his palm.

"Keep your hands where I can see'em" The drunkard slurred. "Fuck it, it's about time someone made it clear your type isn't welcome here." He moved forward, fists raised to attack. The Drass quickly peered around the room noticing the other patrons who were not engaged in the brawl leering with joy, it was clear no one was going to intervene. With as quick a motion as he could muster he uncorked the vial with his thumb and slung the blackish liquid onto the face of the drunkard.

Blood curdling creams echoed from the man throughout the tavern bringing the brawl to a sudden stop. The Drass pulled up his cowl to cover his face and shoved by the drunkard pushing him to the floor. There the patrons witnessed the mans bubbling face, sliding off in in chunks almost like wax from a burning candle pooling into a puddle. The sizzling flesh laid bare the bones and muscle of his face. Slowly the screams became gurgling coughs as the man began choking on the melted flesh which had been his lips as it slid down his throat.

The patrons were shocked by the horror, screaming and panicking at the sight. Before anyone had time to react the Drass had already exited the building, disapearing into the night. He silently hoped that the next town would be more accommodating to foreigners.

This was supposed to be an easy job...

Singing a few songs... Having a few drinks... Getting paid.

But no. A bard's life isn't an easy one.

Luckily, playing for a bunch of mercenaries prepared her for this situation. Maybe she will thank Báthory when she gets back home. But first, She has to get out of this tavern brawl.

Easily she jumps off the barrel they put there as a stage for her and slips between the legs of the fighters, straight to the counter and jumps behind it. While the barkeeper stops yelling at the crowd for a moment, to look puzzled at the kypiq next to him, she carefully puts her instruments aside. Realising the barkeeper is keep staring, she points at the instruments simply saying "They were expensive." Seemingly satisfied with the explanation, he nods and begins again to bring order into the mosh pit, what once was his tavern.

Mugs, chairs and even a few people are flying across the hall while the kypiq bard calmly gets her sling out, also a pouch with the words 'For Emergencies' stitched on it. She smiles at the memory of her alchemist friend giving her the pouch before a mug shatters loudly on the counter right over her head.

Taking out a few coloured pellets she gets up and looks around in the tavern room. It's absolute chaos. Yelling and screeching everywhere, a few poor people already lying on the floor but there are still a lot of them fighting. It's hard for the kypiq to find the main culprit. Many packs are easily chased away when you knock out the leader, her grandfather always said. Suddenly the pack leader of this tavern brawl shows himself with a loud victory cry.

The massive Brudvir just threw an opponent on the table smashing it with the poor man's body. "There he is!" the bard smirks and jumps on the counter, swinging her little weapon and with a little prayer on her lips she shoots a little blue pellet at the brute's head.

A blue pellet of powder clouds around the head of the brudvir, yelling in anger and confusion. He steps forward out of the cloud, snarling at the little kypiq on the counter. He steps towards her raising his fist but suddenly he starts trembling, tripping over his own feet until he goes limb and falls flat on the floor. A loud snoring sound confirms that the sleeping powder did his work.

At first the brawling goes on but slowly the people stop and look confused at each other and the sleeping brudvir in the middle of the room. One after another the people leave to tend their bruises while others are grabbed by the barkeeper to pay their tabs and the damage. The kypiq bard approaches him after packing her bags. The Barkeeper snaps at her. "Payment?! You little ones have a strange sense of humor! You scared away all the patrons, how about you get them back by playing tomorrow - For free!"

She sighs. This was supposed to be an easy job....

((Keep the grammar mistakes, I have plently of them))

After a long day at work, a man wants for nothing but a pint and some music.

The music stopped 4 minutes ago, no matter.. the pint was served and a man only needs drink it to ease his tired body, and his long day.

Suddenly that pint he reached for was replaced with a Hrothi face... frowning, the man looks up and sees the scene infront of him is one of chaos. Kypiqs on the ceiling and Hrothi on the floor.

All he knows is a man needs his pint, and the bar still has a tap. Kicking over the table in front of him, he hardly notices the Hrothi as he screams like a To'resk at the dentist, eyes fixed on the bar nothing will deter him.

Ducking a Kypiq acrobat, sidestepping a Brudvir brawler, and upercutting a Janoan snake charmer, he finally has a clear path to the bartender cowering in the corner.

Uprighting a stool to sit upon, the man orders a Thornish Stout from the bar keep.

No response.

"Oy! Barkeep! Get me a..."

Suddenly one hits the end of the bar. Sliding and spilling on it's way it stops in front of him, barely half full.

Reaching out for it he firmly grasps it's handle and chugs. Thank the TfQ he got his stout! Now... what is with all the commotion?

Looking at the scene in front of him, with Hrothi on the floor, Neran in the corner, Janoa missing teeth, and Kypiq on the chandelier, he decided it's best to focus on his beer. Why let the moment ruin the day?

I fight two demons with a giant pickaxe forged from the bones of my enemies. I call the pickaxe Jingleworth after the butler I first impaled with it.

The demons attack me, but they have no idea that I'm actually King Henry, a Warlock of grand stature in society. Once I reveal this to them, they apologize and offer me a pact with Myrgroluck, their demon goddess succubus.

I say "f u" and slay the demons, sparing no room for mercy. (I don't curse, because I am a gracious King.) They are vanquished from existence and I drink a large barrel of gin.

The end.