"Boy, I don't think they'd let you into the place we're going, but do you know what kind of patrons are frequenting The Boar and Beetle today at this hour? Depending on the kind, we might have a job for you after all..."
Themp recognizes the look of appraisal when he sees it: this “messenger boy” is a pickpocket. If his guess is right, the boy is lying to divert suspicions about his intentions, and used your fame to protect himself from the guards in case the gruff Urlghain was belligerent. Whether or not he intends to go through with the theft later is unclear.
The messenger boy smirks, “At this hour? Same as any hour, anybody who needs a fix. I think Merry Molly is playing there til tomorrow, too.” He starts walking down the road, indicating the two should follow. “I’ll walk you there. Further from the castle you go, better chance someone will make a grab for your coin. You can trust me though. I’ll keep a look out.”
After glancing back at the guards, who are now about fifty feet away, the boy raises an eyebrow to Themp, and asks with a low voice. “So, what kind of job were you thinking? I know this city, frontwards and back.”
Hah. The nerve of the kid! I like him. I better keep an eye on him though. And keep him away from the barbarian's pocket.
"Trust me, boy, I'm quite aware of that." Themp briefly flashes a grin.
Let's give him something fun for him to do
"Boy, walk with us. How would like for me to show you how to never fear the guards again? Ah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Let's make a deal. If I don't catch you palming either mine or my friend's belongings (shush, let me talk), I'll find you a way to help us, pay you a ten silver pieces and show some tricks of mine. What say you?"
Meanwhile…
Arriving back at their quarters, Beorae and Shark bid goodnight to their half-elf companion, “See you bright and early, Nme'an! And thanks again for helping with the training, it was fun.” Tired after the long day and satisfied with Shark's training, the druid pushes through the wooden door, looking forward to a warm bath. It's likely the last one I'll have for a while….
Beorae smiles at the neatly-stacked rations and small sack of apples sitting on the table along with the assorted armaments and potions she had ordered. I could get used to the efficiency of this castle. The Darkwood shield is conspicuously missing, but she didn't expect it to arrive until the morning anyway.
Ringing the service bell, the druid requests a small supper and asks for some hot water and extra towels to be delivered in an hour. After a few minutes, a sharp rap on the door signifies the arrival of dinner, and Shark lifts his head but doesn't bother moving as Beorae opens the door. The servant delivers the meal to the table, being careful to keep as far away from the big cat as possible while still maintaining propriety. She thanks the servant and sits down to enjoy her meal as he makes his exit. She's not overly hungry thanks to the large meal from earlier, so she offers a few bits of meat to Shark who seems more than happy to have a bit more after his workout.
The water and towels arrive right on schedule. Once the lamps are lit and a hot bath is drawn, she locks the door before disrobing and settling into the bath, enjoying every blissful minute. Her mind races with questions and thoughts about their quest, but does her best to quiet her mind for the remainder of the evening. Shark decides its bath time as well and spends the next half hour splayed out on the floor, cleaning himself from head to toe.
Once the water is cooled, the druid towels off and dresses for bed before going about arranging her pack for the days ahead. She keeps the potions and extra weapons easily-accessible while making sure the trail rations are secure. I hope we'll be able to live off the land along the river, but these should come in handy just in case. The candles are beginning to dim, so the druid picks up one of the candlesticks and mutters a quick incantation. As she finishes speaking, the entire candlestick blazes forth, throwing fresh bright light around the room. Heh, that's always fun.
Pulling the chair over to the window, the druid sits with her feet up, arms wrapped around her knees, and looks out at the last night of Autumn's First Moon. The stars are shining clearly, although the nearly-full moon is so bright that it casts distinct shadows throughout the city. The daytime sounds of Thaleniel have mostly subsided, and it's a quiet night apart from the random dog bark or brief tune of music or uproar floating in from a nearby pub.
After a little while, she feels her eyelids getting heavy and decides it's time for bed. The fair druid extinguishes the magical candlestick before tucking in for the night with the tiger lying on the floor next to the bed.
Nme'an returns to his room after the training session. So far, his own connection to Shark wasn't showing through, but then his one failed command didn't tell the whole story. Nme'an, along with plentiful help from Beorae, was able to give the cat a good workout. From chasing the tiger around, to helping draw its attention to the target dummies, to even making himself something of a live target while holding Shark off with his shield, Nme'an felt he was at least useful.
Retiring for the evening, Nme'an spends the next hour unpacking and reordering his supplies. It's not so much that he is concerned that something might be missing, but rather the act of of organizing his things helps him relax and feel more assured about the day to come. With one last snap Nme'an secures his pack and sets it aside. He then kneels down beside his bed and begins his evening prayers. The sky shifts from the blues of day to the reds, oranges, and blacks of dusk by the time he is finished.
Finally, Nme'an climbs into the surprisingly comfortable bed, says one last prayer for the safety of the group's two wayward companions then drifts off to a peaceful sleep.
The messenger boy begins a hollow protest at Themp’s insightful assessment, but stops short as he listens to the thief’s offer. When Themp is quiet, the boy makes a distrustful squint.
“What’s the catch? Does ‘me helping you’ mean I’ll be the fall guy for whatever you two are scheming?’
Despite his hesitation, the boy absently gestures to turn right at the approaching intersection.
Beorae knows that traveling ahorse will quickly accelerate their travel time, and where they set up camp on the third day is unclear to her. However, so long as the group travels through the western edge of the Greysight Vale, along the Emestar River, the mornings will begin with a thick chilly fog that will subside somewhat as the sun reaches its peak. After then, the days will likely be overcast and tame. If in three days time, her party skirts the edge of Armaag’s Plains along the river, the day will bring a nippy northbound headwind, and likely stormy clouds with it.
"I haven't actually considered having a catch, yet. Would you want me to? What would you suggest?" asks Themp in a half-serious, half-mocking tone. Meanwhile, he continues to pay attention to his surroundings.
Maybe the boy has a catch. Better keep an eye over my shoulder.
As he absentmindedly scraps his shoulder with Mot's, he remembers the hulking giant still hasn't uttered a word since the boy's gambit. I wonder what he's thinking of all this.
The two small people begin talking and for a time Mot ignores them. But as their tone grows more serious and he starts hearing words he doesn't recognize he looks down on the pair, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
As the walk he begins to wonder why they have yet to stop at any tavern. The night was wearing away before them! "Och! Why haven wea stooped at anea of theese bars? Tha nigh is slippin thin beefoor us!"
“No,” he replies with the over-seriousness often seen among the young.
The boy’s frown at Themp’s words melt into a smile from the highland berserker’s question. He is missing a tooth. “You want to go to these posh ale houses? They’ll rob you blind, charging double for ‘finer’ swill, just cause the rich don’t know any better. And that’s if their private guard thinks your clothes say you have enough money.” He snickers at Mot’s garb, or lack thereof.
“I could probably get in, but only as a messenger. They’d throw me out if I even thought about trying to get a drink there.”
Surely as the boy states, a muscular-looking man forced into fine, uncomfortable clothes crosses his arms beside the doorway of a nearby alehouse, frowning at all who pass. By the lack of noise from inside, it does not sound like much of a lively place.
The boy shrugs, “You’re getting ahead of the horse, outlander. The Boar an’ Beetle is only a few blocks away.”
"Ah, good boy, you're in for a treat. Just you wait. Come in with us, will you?"
The walking trio can hear The Boar and Beetle before they see it, a tone-deaf crowd nearly drowning out the strains of a fiddle. Their roars follow a melody, but the lyrics are inaudible from this distance. It is early evening.
The noise grows as they round the corner and see the hanging wooden sign over the door -the painted image of a tusked boar and a large black beetle toasting with beer steins with overflowing head: The Boar and Beetle. The wooden walls pulse with the sloppy semblance of music inside, and as Themp, Mot, and the boy draw nearer, they can see movement in the windows; dancing and lively tempo-keeping. Pushing the door open, a nearly full tavern raises their cups in a single cheer, and rip into another chorus, led by a beautiful young woman with a fiddle and clicking a beat with her boots on the small stage. A flurry of men and women spin across the dance floor. Those around the tables partake in the favorite shanty, bellowing with ale-thickened tongues.
“Now everybody’s died
So until our tears are dried
We’ll drink and drink and drink and drink
and then we’ll drink some more!
We’ll dance and sing and fight
until the early morning light
Then we’ll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again!”
One particularly large man sits at a table, wearing a red, jolly face and a smithy’s apron. His right elbow rests on the table, as another man sitting across from him unsuccessfully struggles against him in an arm-wrestle. After finishing a long pull from his tankard, the muscular drunkard turns his attention to his opponent and smiles as one smiles at a child making a futile attempt. His thick arm effortlessly slams the opponents wrist to the table, and watchers shout and raise their glasses. The defeated man nods in concession and drops a silver coin to the big man’s palm, and moves elsewhere to nurse his throbbing hand.
Women and men of fine clothes mix with the plainly dressed, and all seem to be united in the endeavor to drink themselves blind, sing themselves hoarse, or dance holes into their shoes. A handful of fair-faced barmaids weave between tables and the moustachioed barkeep hurries from one order to another. The large pub looks to be half dancing floor, and half tables, but the three notice a few more tables tucked against a darker corner, furthest from the music and carousing. Other than the single cheer at their entry, most of the patrons pay the three little heed.
"Boy, keep an eye out for us, will you? I don' expect to run into trouble this soon into the night, but an extra pair of eyes is never a bad thing."
Nme'an turns over comfortably in his bed and resumes dreaming about being part of a team sent into a strange, far away pyramid. His task: Use an odd explosive encased in a metal shell larger than he has yet encountered to stun the unkillable, otherworldly god in the pyramid's depths back to sleep.
Things aren't going too well so far...
As they enter through the inns swinging door Mots wide eyes take on the shine of the lights from the common room. Stepping lightly he smiles cheerfully at the gathered crowd. Waving over to the barkeep he indicates a drink for himself and Themp before moving to sit at a half-full table with a loud sigh of content.
The boy’s eyes widen in admiration at the bouncing woman on the stage, “Merry Molly…”
Merry Molly delivers a fierce and frantic melody with a flourish, the drinkers and dancers cheer, and she leads them into another verse.
The small pickpocket blinks and answers Themp, “For ten silver? Of course!” He casually leans back against the wall near Mot's table, and makes a convincing display of appearing to be engrossed in the musician's performance.
Mot finds a few seats at a table already occupied by an older gentleman who taps to the lively tune, sipping his wine and watching the other revelers with slight amusement. He nods a quiet acknowledgement to the highlander, but otherwise ignores Mot as he returns to observing the people around him. In a few minutes, a serving wench lays Mot’s ordered drinks on the table.
As Themp’s eyes sweep the bar, a pair of pretty eyes meet his and then suddenly look away. A cute girl with short blonde hair and wearing a brown cloak over a fit figure lifts a tankard to her face, but after a few glances back at him, Themp can tell she doesn’t want to be noticed. She may not even be drinking anything.
Mot catches the barmaid’s eyes lingering for a moment on his thick coat of chest hair.
His keen highland eyes also see the symbol of the Accidental God’s cup over the doorway to the kitchen. Carved below it reads:
Work is the curse of the drinking class.
Hardest drinker:
Eli Preston, smith
Honorable Mention:
Jorah Thatcher, thatcher
It seems that not everyone is celebrating tonight. One man, wearing scuffed armor and ragged clothing, hunches over the bar near the stairs, slamming one hard drink down and then another. He glares quietly at the empty cups in front of him, brooding. The scabbard of a longsword hangs at his belt, and he seems to waver a bit as he leans against the wooden bar. By the lack of the insignia, it is plain he is not a city guard, and a few minor cuts and bruises on his face make his demeanor even surlier.
Where have I heard this voice before?
EDIT:
As Themp moves into the bar, right before noticing the precious little thing at the bar, he turns towards Mot's table.
As the big man settles into his seat he smiles at the older gentleman. "Weel met, Graybeard." he says by way of friendly greeting. As the tavern wench brings the drinks he notices her examination, and gives her one of her own before catching her eye and winking mischievously.
Unconsciously his foot begins to tap to the music and he hums along while half draining the first ale of the night.
The lady’s man has seen a hundred faces like hers in Thaleniel alone: big, doe-like eyes just waiting for a gallant gentleman to sweep her off her feet.
Merry Molly is a talented musician known throughout the Kingdom of Vyren. Word spreads quickly when she appears at a tavern or inn to play and sing. She is best known for her lively fiddle and her tempo-tapping boots, but she also employs a fair singing voice and some skill with the lyre.
Themp heard a story, that a particular high-brow inn in Clearwater had a grand harp on display, and she tuned and played it so beautifully, the patrons were reduced to tears. She declined one hundred proposals that night alone, and had to slip away from the town under cover of night. As the story goes, she had never touched a grand harp before that night. Many musicians aspire to her level of versatile skill. Scores of men claim to have bedded her, but the lie is so frequent, only the foolish believe it.
No one really knows when and where she will appear next, but everyone is elated to hear her when she arrives. Some say she travels under disguise, to avoid followers. Others whisper she uses magic to hide or appear instantly in taverns across the country.
Merry Molly is a famous musician who travels through the kingdom, gracing inns, taverns, and lucky travelers on the road with a song or a tale before continuing along her way.
Mot remembers when she last passed through his clan’s neck of the highlands -she sought to learn the folksongs of the stubborn, ancient Urlghain people. Before Molly’s performance, Mot had never seen his father’s crone mother dance with so much verve. And just as quickly as she appeared, eager to learn and play, she set off again for the lowlands, leaving fond memories behind. But that was many years ago, when Mot was just a lad. It doesn't look like she's aged a day.
The barmaid blushes and turns quickly to serve other patrons, but not before the highlander notices a small smile playing over her face. The elder sharing the table smiles back at the highlander, “Quite. ” His old eyes turn to the drinks in front of Mot, before adding cheerfully, “I don’t recognize you as a regular. Are you from this part of Thaleniel?”
The big, ale-flushed man seated at the table near the bar makes an exaggerated slam on the table with his metal tankard and bellows for more ale. The sulking drunk sneers at the loud patron but turns back to the bar, gesturing for another splash of a burning tonic.
"Excuse me, big man, I must attend another table for a while. Be back in a bit. Oh, and kid, keep an eye out, will you?" says Themp while walking past the table over to the lady with the short hair.
"Why, hello there. I couldn't help but notice such a beautiful set of eyes in the room, shining like a single rose in the middle of a plain. Could I venture to offer you a refill? Or perhaps a dance? Or a stroll into the night?"
Nme'an's dreams continue one after the other, the mere dozens of minutes he has been asleep meaning little inside his own mind. Having defeated the slumbering god and having escaped from the pyramid with his life, he soon finds himself on a ship carved out of a red world's moon. This ship is unbelievably odd though. It has no sails and no oars and does not even make its way on an ocean. Instead, it navigates among the heavens themselves! For a few moments, Nme'an's dreaming self marvels at the sheer impossibility of it all, but he is soon forced back into action. There is battle to be had, both against the strange creatures boarding the moon-ship from a heavens-navigating vessel of their own, and against two of the ship's three bodiless spirits, helpful servants who have, for some reason, been driven rampant!
At Themp’s words, she smiles as one who cannot help it, but her tone and eyes remain deadpan and ...familiar?
“Never could resist your charms,” she replies in mock resign, “A refill will do nicely Themp.”
She inclines her head to the bar, “You know what I like.” She winks.
The big Casns man waves Themp off with a smile before turning back to the elderly gentleman. "Och noo, Ah was just passin troo." He gestures towards the door, "Ehts a fine wee city, but it dinnae coompare to mah hoome." Hearing the portly man a few tables down Mot smiles widely and downs the remainder of his tankard before waving for another round. "A reefill Graybeard?"
Wait, what? Something about her strikes me familiar...
After a quick glance to check if the boy is paying attention, Themp furiously concentrates on remembering the face. And the drink.
While his mind races, Themp keeps the smug grin on his face and acts on.
"I don't think you ever could." *wink* "Let's get you some more, shall we?"
He casually turns around and walks over to the bar.
Now Themp remembers this girl. Her name is Laura Turel, and her drink of choice is mead -especially if it is strong and only mildly sweet. She comes from a family of lumbermen and carpenters. Themp and Laura had something of a history some years ago, perhaps three now, cut short by her strict and unforgiving father. If the young scoundrel remembers correctly, his attempts to assuage the father’s wrath didn’t exactly work, and Themp had to avoid that part of the city for awhile after Mr. Turel sent his laborers after him to “teach him a lesson”.
The wizened old man amiably holds up a hand in resistance. “No, thank you. I’ll nurse my wine for awhile longer, and then go home. It’s just nice to get a break from the silence of the library. All the music and shouting helps after hours of quiet gnawing at your ears,” he smirks. Keeping his smile, his expression changes when he realizes that he might be talking to someone who has never had a quiet moment in his life.
“I’ve never visited the highlands myself, but I’ve always admired the accent. And the Urlghain poetry!” his eyes take on a far away look, “Unconventional, but evokes very strong images and emotions. My wife tells me it was my recital of a highland verses that turned her eye from the gallant knights of my youth,” he shrugs, “I’d like to think I’ve a bit more charm than a poetry book, but who am I to argue?” He smiles easily and chuckles.
With uncanny timing, the blushing barmaid hurries to Mot’s table with more ale, sparing him a pretty smile before turning to serve other patrons. Her curly brown hair bounces as she weaves through the tables with practiced steps.
As Themp approaches the bar, he notices that the cantankerous drunk in the corner leering at him.
“Never trusht a wizarrrd,” he slurs a bit loudly, throwing back another hard drink. He gulps and winces, “I wasn’t told we was fightin’ wild boarss, or I woulda brought a shpeer.”
He continues, taking Themp’s proximity to mean he had a listener. He holds up two sweaty fingers with a wavering arm. “Two dead. Maybe three, if Leo can’t pull through...”
The armored drunk burps and widens his eyes for a moment, then frowns, losing his train of thought.
“Never trushta wizarrd…” he grumbles.
Mot nods his furry head sagely. "Aye books an' pages an' letters." His ears perk up though at the mention of Urlghain poetry. "Och! Ya lahk tha langooage of tha floowers do ya?!" He grins merrily and waggles his eyebrows at the pretty maid when she brings his ale. Speaking to the old man, though loud enough for the woman to hear, he continues. "Ah happen ta be ae woordsmith mah seelf." He leans forward earnestly. "Woold ya care ta heer soome?" His eyes twinkle at the prospect of an audience.
Oh, Laura! Well, now is no time to save up on pleasantries. It's not every day one gets to catch her out of her father's sight. Especially if 'one' is me.
"Oy, partner!" calls Themp for the barkeep "How much for a tankard of mead? The strong stuff, not the honey." After separating the right amount of money, Themp places it on the counter. "I'll want one of each!"
As he is leaving for Laura's table with the cups, however, Themp glances back at the unfortunate drunk and quips "Boars? Ha! The old man threw wolves at us, didn't you hear?", then proceeds to the table before the man can make sense of it.
Arriving at the table, Themp casually strolls around Laura to the far side of the table, making point of gently scraping his hand carrying her mead on her lower back before placing the tankard on the table.
"There you go, woody. *wink*
As Mot replies to the old librarian, the voices in the nearly full bar swell into a chorus of another shanty. The greybeard’s smile is pleasant and uncertain, “You’ll have to speak up, son. I’ll want to catch every word,” he leans forward eagerly, “If you do not mind sharing of course.”
Mot also notices that the serving girl takes her time as she serves the tables nearby. Perhaps she listens too.
Laura simply shakes her head, amused. She touches her cup to Themps before taking a long pull. She turns a quizzical look to the rogue as she sets down her drink.
“You’re braver than I thought, Themp. Or dumber,” she grins, “When word came through naming you as a city champion, it threw my father into a fit. He closed the shop early and left.”
She takes a sip, “He’s probably out looking for you,” she adds casually. Her mischievous look hints that another confrontation between the two would be highly amusing to her, that, or she likes to make romancers squirm uncomfortably.
Casns nods in understanding, straightening in his seat he adopts a posture one can only assume is his reciting pose. "Och aye! Ah call this oone Tha Looveloorn Paarlor." Back straight, calloused hands clasped in front of him he begins speaking in a deep brogue that cuts through the din of the bar.
"Thar oonce was ae maaiden fair,
whoo sat in ae maaidens chair,
wheen aloong came ae great huge bear,
whoo dinnae lahk mooch her hair,
ooo Ah hoow Ah wish Ah coould knoo her bet-tair!
He leans back as the massive smile again takes his face, eagerly awaiting the older fellows opinion.
Well, it's not like I haven't escaped from him before. Besides, it'd be a nice opportunity to gauge the big man's usefulness in my ventures.
Struggling very hard to keep the flirtatious grin after Mot's... erhm... poem, he moves a whole foot closer to Laura.
"Ah, sweetheart, I'm so glad your father still thinks so fondly of me. But I've always wondered" he adds while pulling her by the waist, not before making sure the boy was still on the lookout "how fondly you think of me." *wink*
The merriment in the room falters for a moment at the highlander’s ...proclamation. The elder before Mot keeps his uneasy smile. “That was ...nice,” he remarks kindly, this time taking a large gulp of his wine as curious eyes turn to their table. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I have never heard that one,” he adds with a cheerful tone.
The messenger boy leaning against the wall snickers. Mot is unable to read the serving girl’s reaction, as she carries a tray of empty tankards into the kitchen.
“Oi!” the big arm-wrestler shouts a few tables down, “We won’t be havin’ any of your backwater lullabies tonight, highlander! Pipe down for the lovely Molly!” A few at his table give a hearty, “Yeah!” in affirmation.
The thick-shouldered smith raises a tankard and a smile to the minstrel for approval, but Merry Molly ignores it completely. In fact, Mot’s disturbance drew only a brief, annoyed glance from the fiddler as her bow squealed out a cheerful melody. The dancers seemed to scarcely notice, and the folk at the tables return to singing, drinking and talking. Now Mot is conscious of words floating from conversations at nearby tables: “...drunken highlander…”, “...surprised it rhymed…”, and “...chest hair…”.
Themp checks back on the youngster that accompanied them, to find him holding a chuckle behind his hand, not really keeping a sharp eye out. As the rogue looks up, he notices that the surly drunk at the bar glares directly at him. Once they make eye contact, the armored brute pushes himself upright and begins to swagger toward the pair.
Laura, oblivious to the drunk, snuggles up beside Themp and begins a sultry reply, “I guess you’re slightly better than drinking alone. I suppose I can-”
“You’re in that tourney too, eh?” the interrupter’s breath reeks of whiskey, brusquely pointing a thick finger at him, “Am I to guess thatchuwere wunna th’champions named today?”
He glowers at Themp, wavering a bit where he stands. A few nearby patrons quietly scoot their chairs a few inches away from the confrontation and try to ignore it, and the bar as a whole doesn’t seem to notice one voice in the dozens that fill the room.
The big Urlghain spares a sour glance at the portly smith before smiling again at the elderly chap. In a stage whisper louder than normal conversations the barbarian says. "Weel Ah'm glad aht leest oone of ya has goot soome taste for ae fuuture classic!" He rises from his seat and downs his most recent beverage. "Eff ya weel excuse mea Graybeard, Ah must ahtend ta mae new friend!"
Swaggering across the room the Casns warrior slaps a meaty hand on the drunks shoulders before saying cheerfully; "Aye, hea is oone oof tha champeeons! Ae right prooper fearsoome warrior this oone!"
Argh, when I finally get the girl a drink of her stature...
Turning to the drunk with the friendliest mock smile (intensity doubled when Mot showed up), Themp stares him right in the eyes.
"Well, there was quite some cheering directed at us. And a banquet. You should've seen the banquet. Oh, wait, you couldn't. You didn't win..."
He quickly darts a glance at the boy to beckon him to come closer.
Half-turning back to Laura, he addresses her. "Say, pretty eyes, why don't we find ourselves a place with fewer distractions?"
The inebriated man angrily shakes off Mot's hand. The well-meaning highlander’s affirmation, coupled with Themp’s taunts at the warrior’s failure, has the drunk fuming. His hackles raise. “That gold reward should be MINE!” With the last word, the man arcs a haymaker at the young boy’s jaw.
Despite his drunken state, the brute’s knuckles slam into Themp’s face.
“Oi!” Laura cries, spilling her drink, “watch it, f+#$er!”
The harsh sound a fist striking flesh turns draws most of the eyes of those at the table. Merry Molly and the dancers do not yet seem to notice, and the music continues. The drunk before Themp takes an aggressive and arrogant “I sure showed him” posture.
Just before getting hit, Themp was able to make eye-contact with the messenger boy. He nodded in understanding, but once the first blow was struck, the boy is no where to be seen. To be fair, Mot, a mountain of muscle, and this armored drunk are taking up most of the rogue’s field of vision.
"Hey! You made the lady spill her drink!"
As recovers from the blow, Themp addresses the crowd "Doesn't this place respect the sacredness of a lady's drink anymore?"
Watching the lumbering drunks wild swing connect, Mot's eyes open wide with delight. A generous guffaw escapes his lips as the spindly thief takes the hit. "Och, ya doon it naow friend!" He says to the fighter. "Mah pal es tha mightyest oof warrioors!"
Try as he might, the barbaric Casns struggles to contain the glint in his eye.
Themp guesses that the boy is probably taking advantage of the distraction, as pickpockets are wont to do.
Several patrons turn frowns to the armored drunk, but make no move to get involved.
The surly drunk sneers at the Urlghain, “Ha! You’re a sh*te liar, highlander. Sod off!”
The warrior slams his shoulder against Mot in an attempt to knock him back.
The berserker is nearly bowled over by the force of the shoulder check as he bumps into chairs and the table behind him. Keeping his footing, he finds himself a few steps away from the drunken brute.
The red-faced smith cracks a wide, wild grin at the sight of the drunkard’s beligerance. His bearded maw opens wide and bellows with impossible volume, “BAARRRR FIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
He upends his table as he stands, sending tankards and ale flying. The big man decks the nearest person, who happens to be one of his rising tablemates, who likewise goes flying.
More drinkers at other tables join in the violence. The barmaids hurry to the kitchen and watch through the door. Soon, the dancers merge with the pandemonium, and Molly’s tune switches to one that seems to play to the chaotic rhythm of a fully-fledged tavern brawl. The barkeep, knowing he cannot hope to end the fighting alone, holds up a club against anyone who tries to make off with free drink from the bar. The air is busy with thrown punches and bottles, curses stinking of ale, rough roars of laughter, and fists finding faces.
"Oho, wrong chooice boyo." Mot steps forward, the big smile now accentuated by a dangerous glint in his eye. Meaty hands clasp together as knuckles crack and pop.
The fighter raises his eyebrows at Mot in mock surprise, “Is that right, big man?” He raises his fists. “Puttup yer dukes!”
"Pretty eyes, stay behind me!" Offers Themp, not once turning his eyes from the drunk's.
The drunk merely glances at the rogue’s juke, not buying the feigned attack. He steps in and delivers a right hook at the highlander.
The punch connects with Mot’s eye.
Taking a lazy, wavering boxer’s stance, he drunkenly sidesteps to keep his back to the wall. He faces the highlander, though he sends a few wary glances Themp’s way.
“Whack ‘im good, Themp!” Laura says as gently rests a hand on Themp’s back, keeping the young man between herself and the drunkard.
"The lady asks, the lady receives!"
Where is that boy when I need him?!
Taking the hit, Mots head snaps back. Snorting with anger and derision, the smile leaves his face as his eyes begin to cloud over. "Yoor fuuneral little mahn." He says before bringing both fists clasped together in a sweeping strike, aimed for the drunks head.
Meanwhile!
Nme'an continues to sleep.
Themp spots the messenger boy ducking and tumbling through the combat with a gleeful smile on his face. A closer look at one hand shows him to be clutching a coin purse, undoubtedly the newest addition to the boy’s possessions. It is unclear who it was stolen from, but Themp is certain it wasn’t him, Mot, or Laura. He appears to slowly be making his way to the pair, carefully avoiding the brawling around him.
Themp jabs the man in the armpit, just above his armor. The fighter flinches and glances at the scoundrel at the wrong moment, as Mot furiously clobbers the drunkard. He wobbles and blinks, and then scowls as he lashes a fist at the highlander.
But the swing is too wild, and he fails to connect.
Mot roars in a furious laughter that shakes the very beams of the roof. Raising a leg, the size of a cedar trunk, he kicks the drunk straight in the chestplate.
Filling his lungs the massive berserker begins bellowing the lyrics of a well known Urlghain drinking song, lyrics only slightly tailored to their situation. His deep brogue fills the inn as his fearsomely furry face swings about looking for another target.
"Up weth fist, ouut with boot,
Oon weel goo for by tha boooze,
Mot oof Casns has given tha woord,
Fighten et oout in the bar-low!"
Taking advantage of Mot's blow and below, Themp picks up his tankard and...
...smashes at the drunk's face.
"But feel free to have my drink!"
The drunkard staggers at Mot’s fierce kick, which effectively knocks the wind and fight out of him. Themp’s tankard crashes over his head, and mead runs down his face and shoulders. He collapses to the floor, out cold. The messenger boy is seen standing behind him, holding up a drawstring pouch of coin and grinning ear to ear. “I don’t think he’ll be needing this.” He tosses the coin pouch directly between Mot and Themp.
With an exaggerated bow, he says to Themp, “No need to pay me either, Mister Sir. These brawlers are guarding their faces, not their gold.” With a mischievous grin, he ducks back into the fighting crowd and is seen no more.
Mot then notices that Merry Molly fiddles out a robust melody to his song, and by now, half the bar is singing the Urlghain shanty, sort of. They get most of the words right, anyway. Looking about, Mot can see that the large blacksmith stands roaring in laughter, knocking a pair of heads together. His two challengers crumple to the ground, and the barrel-chested smith raises a thick arm to Mot from across the bar. “Dance with me, ya peat-footed shilpy! HaHA!”
The man stands only a few inches shorter than the highlander, and roots his big feet to ground, waving a challenge to Urlghain berserker. A few tables stand between the two, but when has mere furniture stopped a fearsome Casns?
Themp feels his shoulder yanked and he pivots in place until he faces Laura, who surprises him with a kiss. “So,” she smiles as she releases him, “what next, my hero?” She feigns a swoon with her hand over her forehead, but her question is genuine.
Fierce eyes alighting on the bulky smith, Mot's wild smile grows manic as he roars across the room. "Ya theenk ya ahre a proooper challenge?! Wheel see about thaht ya clatty dreep!" The warrior walks around the tables rolling his neck till the vertebra stretch and pop. Coming face to face with the smith, the mammoth Casns speaks, heavy ale-soaked breath washing over his opponents face. "Oho, ah'll teech ya tooo respect tha langooage oof floowers ya heid-the-baw jessie! Whaddaya thenk o'that, Mr apron weer'n, basket face, flagoon wield'n, glipe dreep bauchle, growler up'n blit'n all blither'n gomeril, nancy oaf-look'n stank dodger, nif blookies an' milk drinker, soy faced shaan gadgie, snivelen worm-eyed hooten-blaugh, nyaff an midgie-raker!?
Mot glowers down at the smith, the look in his eyes saying one thing:
CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.
Without another word the berserker slams his forehead straight into the brawlers face with as much force as he can muster.
Right after almost fumbling the coin purse from the boy...
I wasn't expecting that at all
...Themp is once again caught by surprise by a sudden stolen kiss.
"Well, pretty eyes, there's no such thing as stealing a kiss from me unpunished!" exclaims Themp. He then pulls her in his embrace and steals a bigger kiss.
Hearing the commotion (and the very long-winded insult, which prompts a chuckle), Themp turns just in time to see the blow.
"Do you require assistance, big man?" shouts Themp after Mot.