Rackham, oblivious, nods as Iscarel imparts his wisdom.
An alchemist, huh? Well, I still feel confident. Twenty it is! he says to the middle-aged man.
He then leans in, whispering in a too-loud, drunken manner to his new Elven friend: Why do you suppose he's looking at us? I don't recognize the man...
Sure, a small wager among friends.
Quillin pauses. "Why waste time walking around aimlessly when we can put some eyes in the skies?"
"Hey Smudge, remember the red-headed bucklebeater from last night? Take a look-see and lemme know if you can spot him."
The gray parrot rockets skyward squawking, "One-two, looking for you! AWWK!"
Tipene nods appreciatively. "You have a good friend there."
Smudge soars back down after a bit. "Three-Four, maybe indoor!"
With none of the crew stepping forwards to partake of the spectacle, they instead settle in to start watching. A field of about twelve men end up in front of the clay cups when the Drunkard's priest comes through the door and gets things underway.
What follows is what initially looks like a standard drinking competition, but at each shot the priest gives a short explanation that grows in intensity each round...
"The Drunkard's brew, amber and sweet
Elvish wine, from Kyonin
Man's best whisky straight from Absalom
Dwarvish bourbon, beloved by the hairy
Ulfen sky-gift... vodka to numb the pain on the battlefield"
By five shots down, the field is still standing relatively strong, only a couple having excused themselves... Krathok himself is sitting pretty, joking with Bostarg beside him - while the alchemist is starting to struggle.
"Now we start to get a bit more interesting...
Port from Katapesh, sickly sweet and cloying
Refined bloodgrog, beyond most orcish constitution."
The port knocks out a couple of men on it's own... while the bloodgrog surprises you by drawing a huffing dry-heave from the alchemist. He steps back from the table, holding up a hand to excuse himself before he quaffs an effervescent vial from his side... which instantly banishes any sign of intoxication.
By now it's just three men still in the running, and Krathok is standing tall among them - swimmingly drunk, but goading all the same.
"Mushroom moonshine, smuggled from the dark beneath
Some 'tonic' water... to cleanse the palate" a smirk betraying that there is something beyond mere water there.
Two more fall away, puking onto the floor while Krathok yet stands proud, beaming a smile through his tusks. The crowd, now warming into tipsy drunkeness themselves, jeers cheers and whoops... even the Drunkard's man seems thoroughly surprised at the half-orc's sign of intestinal strength.
"Just one more left and you'll have run the gauntlet man... do you have the stomach for the Smoke's Echo?" a sloppy grinned nod comes from Krathok and a jot of blackened honey mead is steeped into his cup before being set alight. As the flame burns low, the half-orc gazes glassy-eyed at it... half entranced as a putrid scent assaults the nostrils of all in the inn. With pomp, the half-orc grabs his clay mug and skulls the drink in one gulp... crushing the mug in his hand when finished and screaming a primal bellow of triumph to the sky...
Ha ha! Easiest gold I ever made, Rackham says, helping himself to 5 coins before returning the bag to Iscarel.
He holds out a hand to the middle-aged man expectantly, raising an eyebrow.
With the resigned shrug of a practiced gambler rolling with luck's curves, he fishes out a wee leather pouch and tosses it to Rackham.
"I expected seawater and backwashed rum. That is... quite the selection." he says, notes of dissapointment on his voice as he watches the alchemist intently. A sparkle comes to Iscarel's eye at the mention of the elvish wine. "It's been so long..." he says, to noone in particular. Before shaking his head and returning to the competition, swinging his boots up onto the guardrail as he leans back in his seat, tutting as his man spills his guts onto the floor.
"Bravo." the elf smirks, snatching up his purse and inspecting what few silvers remain inside. "Even with that tincture of his he still hadn't the stomach. What is it the Abadarians say? Cheaters never prosper?" he lets out a resigned sigh. "I guess it's ships' biscuits and stale ale until we weigh anchor."
Leaping to his feet, the elf begins to limber up for the obstacle course, stretching his arms high above his head. As Rackham collects his coins, he seizes the opportunity to snatch up and down the rest of the sailor's drink, leaping over the bannister down to the trestles below.
"Namaarie, James! Wish me luck in the Mad Dash, eh?" he manages, barely able to be heard over the rowdy crowd, before moving past the trestles and extending the alchemist a friendly hand, eyes beaming with genuine goodwill but unable to help the wry smirk on his face. "Mae govannen, stranger. I'd offer you a drink, but considering the circumstances..."
Well met.
Not so fast! James says, taking the coins .
He does a cartwheel along the railing and jumps off backwards to the floor, landing beside Iscarel.
I'll wish you just enough luck to finish in a close second behind me, how's that sound?
The young man smiles and starts walking to the door.
Iscarel's eyes widen for a moment, and he answers back with a grin. "Well well, we shall see, won't we?"
The twin acrobatics of the elf and man draw a smattering of cheers and jeers from the patrons, though the focus of most is elsewhere upon the inebriate of the moment standing tall and proud with a drooly grin. Bostarg can't be seen for the press of the crowd - but the Drunkard's priest presents the half-orc with a trophy of sorts. A silver articulated gauntlet on a velvet cord to hang round his neck.
Iscarel is able to catch up with the alchemist relatively easily as the potions master has removed himself from the worst of the press to linger near the pub's front door. His words bring an arched eyebrow and an almost severe but not entirely look "If you were the sort to be drinking I would have thought to see you try the gauntlet? Another was bolder." gesturing with his chin towards the glassy-eyed and stumbly Krathok.
"Then try again!" Quillin sends the bird up again and this time the parrot strikes nutmeg.
"Five-Six! Running course tricks!"
"The Drunken Dash or whatever then," Q tells his companion. In moments he is scouring the length of the course for red fuzz.
Tipene nods and follows the gnome, looking around for any of the others and generally trying to get familiar with the area.
Smudge's parrotic instincts indicate that the sighting of the ginger man was just ahead... round the corner of a ramshackle wooden house and outside of sight lines from where the foot-traffic is travelling. Quillin's gnomish senses pick up some excitable sniffs and grunts and hushed conversation... but he'd need to get a bit closer to get a true kenning...
Quillin's ears twitch and he raises a long tapering blue eyebrow at Tipene then crouches down to peer around the corner.
"Ah, a drinker, yes, but I've no great talent for it, after all we elves are famous for our eyes, not for our stomachs. I had hoped to take this opportunity to size up the competition." the elf shrugs, withdrawing his outstretched hand. "I'd not expected to encounter one of my prospective employer's men amongst the trestles." he says, watching the man's expression in order to confirm his suspicions.
"As for our half-orc, colour us both impressed... but I've come to beg a question, mellonamin." the elf says, motioning to the pouch at the man's waist. "That tincture of yours. Why, none of the other drunken sots seemed to notice, but this drunken sot is very curious."
"Like I said." he chuckles, "More famous for our eyes than our stomachs."
The tall Tulita follows, moving with an unusually low level of noise.
Both Quillin and Tipene manage to sneak to a vantage where they get a good look at the figures around the corner... which turn out to be ginger and his three musketeers. Holding their breath for a span, they are relieved to find that their observance is not noted. The four men are handing around a small silver snuffbox, alternately taking a snort and then primally quashing the resultant rush that comes from partaking of whatever is within the snuff. Considering the flushed complexions, bloodshot eyes and aggressive posturing... it'd be a safe bet that whatever they're snuffling is of the 'performance enhancing' variety.
It looks as though they're getting finished though, and the snuffbox is discarded into the dirt. They lock wild eyes with each other and grunt/roar affirmations of solidarity before looking to head off to the Mad Dash's starting line.
-----
The alchemist's expression doesn't change at Iscarel's words, but he gets a strong hunch that his suspicion was correct - he's one of the Corvid Bride's crew. In a relatively emotionless drawl he responds "You're neither drunken, nor a sot... A reasonable man would conclude you're merely here to curry favor... but why would a teetotal impress a man who prefers to drink?" arching an eyebrow.
Quillin elbows Tipene and steps briefly around the corner, giving a whistle to attract their attention and tossing a pinch of colored sand at the nicely clustered and surprised marks.
"If this don't work, get ready to run..." he mutters to his mate.
"Oh ho. Teetotaler is it? Fine words from a chemist." the elf snaps, the bloodgrog rushing hot in his veins. Collecting himself, he continues. "I came to satisfy my curiosity about the captain. If you've another trick up your sleeves for the Mad Dash, I've no illusions you would cut me in."
Smiling at the rise he was able to elicit from Iscarel he shrugs "Dash isn't to my speed... be Handsome you'll be looking for there." and with a tip of his hatless forehead he makes to withdraw.
The Tulita murmurs, "You have a plan? I was thinking to wait until they leave, then pick up their little box."
Quillin squints at the savage. "What fun is that?" He whispers. Then shrugs. "I don't know if that would disqualify them. Is the Drunk God into snuff or is it Bloodgrog only jollies?"
"alright, we'll go with your plan."
"It is all I can think of to do; I have no magic or skill yet to stop so many. If you do, how can I help?"
"If you do, how can I help?"
"Was thinking of giving them a little light show. Hopefully, knock them out a moment so they miss the race. If any resist, smack them around some."
"A fine plan. I will distract them and get them to chase me past you."
Tipene stands up from his crouch and gasps loudly, then turns to flee.
When Tipene pops up in front of the group of four they take only a fragment of a moment before reacting. One of the others grunts "Look, he's alone... let's bury him" and the group look to lunge forward with clubs drawn.
The passage of the four men takes them past Quillin's lurk...
...but the men string out as they start the chase. He reckons as they pass he's likely to only catch a pair of the men in the burst of colour... but at least one of them is ginger beard...
and
Goon 2:
Quillin:
Tipene:
Quillin steps out from his lurk to catch a pair of pirates in a pretty peculiar prismatic projection... and is rewarded when one drops like a log to the dirt and ginger himself is brought to a shuddering and sudden halt. Ginger
However one of the drugged up goons reacts with impressive twitch action and is the first to break into the post spray void with a guttural "Rargh - get tha bastard". Lunging towards Quillin with a freshly drawn club he looks to get bloody...
Club: for
...the knobbly end of the bludgeon contacting with Quillin's shoulder heavily.
Action Tracker (Round 1): Goon 2, Tipene, Quillin, Goon 1
Iscarel continues on his way towards the starting line of the Mad Dash... wondering just where the gnome, the tulita and the ginger bunch have absconded to...
Quillin steps back touching a bit of thick leather, chants an arcane phrase and is covered by a sparkling force that fades after a moment.
As the club bites home and Quillin seeks to gird his form... he wonders if thoughts of the legality of open warfare and drugs might've been better queried prior to walking the plank... but answers did come to him.
He remembers what the priest said earlier combined with the presence of the orcish bouncers and figures that while they'd likely let a fistfight go until one man was down... anything with weapons or blades would be stamped down on quickly. (Incidentally he also figures that if a truthful telling of the assault was either given or allowed, his flagrant opening of hostilities wouldn't be viewed kindly... that is if a truthful account was given...).
As to drugs he reckons it would be similar to the Taldan navy's view on crossdressing... as in, Don't ask don't tell. During Bloodgrog specifically blind eyes look everywhere, and merely the taking of drugs isn't likely to be frowned upon enough on it's own to be worth excitement.
Lastly, he's already seen whatever there is of a watch today - which is the beefy orcish lads with cudgels. Enough noise is likely to bring either them or enough of a crowd of locals within a reasonably short period of time.
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"Use a light touch, Tippene. HELP!HELP! WE'RE BEING ASSAULTED BY DRUG FIENDS!"
... that is if a truthful account was given...
Smudge joins the cacophony. "RAPE, MURDER!"
-Posted with Wayfinder
Thinking that discretion might be the best way forward Tipene advances with withheld malicious intent.
His approach is met with narrowed eyes by the second of the goons, who growls with flared nostrils and wild bloodshot eyes "Keep out of this..." knuckles whitening as he grips his club wardingly...
The man of ginger beard blinks his eyes rapidly and groans as he seems to start coming around... though he's still too far gone to act cogently. There still isn't much foot traffic in the near area, leaving sightlines just to those presently engaged in the fray. As of yet there isn't any overt response to Quillin's boasting.
The thug that saw some success with his club leers as he stalks forward to repeat the dosage "No fecker here to help you little gnome..." swinging his bludgeon with drug enhanced force...
Club at Quillin: for
...this time catching him square in the chest with a breath expelling blow.
Action Tracker (Round 2): Goon 2, Tipene, Quillin, Goon 1