Jacob Worrell's page

Beer feels himself hoisted up by his belt and experiences a flash of hot anger before being introduced to the burly Druid who just manhandled him. He suppresses his rage.

A strong one. And me need allies.

Beer grits his teeth and widens his lips horizontally in an attempt to feign friendliness, his contorted expression resembles the face of a man struggling to relieve himself over a latrine more than a smile.

Aye, laddy. Beer, like the drink. Look forward to knowing yeh more friendly like, when we be farther away from that c*&ts whip

After a hike that lasts few a hours, Beer arrives at a secluded spot atop a cliff face overlooking Jeopardy Bay. This will do. He drops his pack from his shoulders and pauses to look out over the open water. A cool sea breeze kisses his face. He inhales deeply the aroma of salt water and it stirs within him the memories of past battles and a deep longing for the open ocean.

Beer picks up his great axe and readies himself in a fighting stance. He begins swinging his weapon with rhythmic overhead strikes. His form is tight and disciplined, his stance balanced and sturdy.

After a set of two hundred, he stops and silently stares at the axe clenched between his two fists. Moments pass and it's as if Beer is in a sort of trance. All sound falls away but the waves crashing beneath the rocks below and his quick, heavy breaths now becoming slower...slower...slower.

Then, suddenly, a flash of anger.

Weak!

Beer switches to a single handed grip (right hand) and continues the exercise. He labors under the awkward, unbalanced weight of the axe straining more and more with each strike. After fifty repetitions the muscles in his arm begin to fail. He is now grunting with each swing as his pace gradually slows. A sense of self pity begins to creep into Beer's mind like a silent invader as well as the faintest echo of a more distant grief. Before that thought can surface into consciousness, however, a boiling, murderous rage meets the intruder and Beer loses himself entirely.

NO! NOOOOO!

He howls as his strength surges. With grit teeth and wide eyes filled with madness, Beer picks up his axe in his right hand and begins swinging franticly. His disciplined, measured strikes are replaced with berserk movements of reckless abandon as he swings his axe at a frantic, desperate pace.

Thirty seconds go by before the fires slowly dim in Beer's eyes. He raises his axe to swing one final time, but as he raises it above his head, his grip fails him. The axe falls and lands upon a rock with a clang. Beer falls to his knees and brings his left hand up to his right bicep, which is now burning. He cradles it tenderly. He is soaked with sweat and is so exhausted that he's seeing spots in his vision. Three, slow minutes pass as Beer kneels still panting.

Finally, he rises, his right arm dangling limply against his side. He collects his belongings with his left hand, throws his pack across his left shoulder and silently heads back to town.

Beer sits back in his oversized chair and puts his feet up on the table, his diminutive 3-foot frame hidden by the table's height. The pint of beer he holds in his right hand appears comically large. He puts it to his lips and takes another large swig.

The tavern is lively this evening. The riff raff of Beggarspoint have come in with the tide it seems and not a table remains unoccupied. Gales of laughter erupt spontaneously from different corners only slightly more frequently than the occasional fight.

Beer glances at the human sitting to his left, his head slightly bowed, his eyes studying the table's cracks and scratches. He appears to be forlorn. Another human sits directly across from him staring at the sad man with a bemused look in his eye.

Beer: Vern, yeh look to me like the sorriest sack of crow shit mine eyes have ever seen.

Vern: I just can't believe it's over...

Beer: Aye. The sea giveth and the b*!## taketh away...what can you do? Be glad you escaped with yer life. That counts for something with me.

(Vern pounds the table)

Vern: Damn the fates! The Black Talon is gone forever (his eyes well up with tears)...what a fine vessel it was, what a fine crew it was!

Beer: Aye, a fine ship she was, but that's in the past. She belongs to the rocks now. Best to leave it in the past. And besides, your cousin Bran here is gonna take great care of yeh.

Bran: That's right, I don't know why yer bellyaching. Just be thankful I have room on my crew for you....and we actually know how to steer straight.

(Bran glances at Beer condescendingly)

Beer: You'd be wise to speak of me crew with a bit of respect.. yer cousin and me go back a long way, but yer flaring me temper laddy.

Bran: (bursts out into mocking laughter) Oh please, little man. It's no wonder The Black Talon lies wrecked across the rocks of Shenchu Bay...why you could probably barely raise a sail. They clearly sacrificed brawn for entertainment. Did you do little dances for your crew, little man?

In a flash, Beer pulls his feet off the table and onto his chair. He jumps onto the table, and drives his half full mug of ale into Bran's face with a straight punch. Bran keels straight backwards in his chair and hits the ground with his feet straight in the air. Beer jumps down from the table and pulls up the greataxe embedded into the floorboard beneath his seat. He hovers over Bran menacingly as blood begins to pour from his nose and run down the sides of his face.

Beer: Don't mistake me, laddy. Yer short man jokes don't affect me. Gozreh, in her infinite wisdom gifted me my three foot frame and a passion for making the scum of the earth a little shorter. Trust me, lad, you don't know pure joy until you hack a man down at the knees. No yeh pissed me off when you spoke ill of the dead. Lucky for you, I keep a fair bit of affection left for yer cousin in me breast. Otherwise (Beer crouches on one knee, balances on his axe and gets close to Bran's face), I'd be performing Beer's special surgery on yer kneecaps.

Beer pats Bran's face with tender sarcasm. He rises to his feet and turns to Vern.

Beer: Welp, I think I've had me fill of booze and blood tonight.

Beer tosses Bran some coin and turns to leave. He pauses at the door and looks back.

Beer: Good luck, Vern.