Viktor strolled into the pub, paying no real attention to the name of it. He had just come into the area while traveling to find work and decided that he needed to take a drink and just relax, and he did so as he ordered what ever the barkeep thought was best to drown down the pain of no place to call home. He decided not look around since, all he wanted was a drink and not a fight. The last time he looked around in a pub he was in a fight outside and managed to win although the odds would say otherwise. Why must I always come back to these places? he thought to himself as looked at the glass that was filled to the very rim, with what it was he would not know until he took a sip. Could the sip kill him? it very well could, or could it just make him another drunkard? both seemed likely to happen, but would they happen?

Maktesh slowly walked into the pub surveying the people populating it. He had been traveling long and was tired and in no mood to talk to anyone. He flexed his large white wings, and thought back to the last time he was in Lomendor. he was amused at how he had tried to hide his wings beneath his cloak. I was so self concious and timid, he mused, it is amazing how travel can jade you to the opinions of others, I hardley care what strangers think of me now. Alvis his hawk perched wisely on his shoulder, his deep brown eyes showing an untold intelligence. Maktesh made his way towards the bar and sat down, Alvis still perched upon his shoulder, and ordered a simple beer.

Alkar was off in one corner of the bar with two dwarves two men and another elf. They were about to have a massive drinking contest to see who 'as the dwarves say' was the most manly. The two men were their only to fill mugs and declare if someone was unconcious or wozy. The four men competing looked at each other and then they nodded. Alkar reached for a a mug and downed it. He was wolfing down his second mug when he looked to see his opponents all three of them on their second glasses also.

This went on for another hour or so and they had been drinking for quite some time now one of the dwarves was uneffected while the other one and the second elf had already fallen unconcious from to much ale. They were just guzzling it down now mug after mug after mug. It wwas about their two hundred and fiftieth mug when the dwarf fainted. "No man can take that much ale and be unneffected." said one of the pourers amazed. Of course Alkar had only drank one or two mugs. He had this box chair mad so he could phase his ale right through himself and down into an open keg.

Maktesh sat quietly, half done with his beer. He slowly scanned the room with his soft blue eyes. Ther was little that caught his interest, save for a drinking contest between a dwarf and an elf. Even that managed to hold his attention for little more than a few minutes. The rest of the contestants had passed out and Maktesh noticed a bit of a wavering of the light around the elve's chair. Either he was drinking a very strong brew of beer or there was an enchantment upon the chair. Maktesh figured it to be the latter, for he had never known an elf to honestly beat a dwarf in a drinking contest. Maktesh turned back to his own beer. As much as he despised trickery and lies it was nothing serious, nor his business. He felt no desire to become involved in someone else's affairs, not tonight at any rate. he was tired and hungry. Upon getting the barkeep's attention he ordered the house special, which just so happened to be roast chicken. The barkeep was a large jovial man with a thick mustache. As Alvis squawked a bit upon his shoulder he shushed him, assuring the noble hawk that he would recieve his fair portion of the meal.

At the pub, silver, black tinted tinted armor glinting very dimly at the counter, sat Veltan Highwind, brother of Kain. He bore no helmet and had his weapons checked by the bartender, not wanting to worry about their burdens. Also, carrying weapons around in a pub usually attracted more attention that desired. He was staring at nothing in particular, just waiting and buying himself some tome for revelation. He waited for the time to pass, wanting nothing but to blend in with the common crowd. Nevertheless, Veltan always seemed to attract attention wherever he went, his silver hair and eyes usually unnerving some people, or limitlessly intruiging others. He sighed and closed his eyes for a while. There were drinking games going on, drinking contests, drunken babbling, drunken arguing, and, to Veltan's dismay, drunken singing. Veltan couldn't help but wondering exactly why whenever anybody sat down at a pub, that they absolutely felt they had to get loaded. He sighed and then opened his eyes once more. His days as a knight in the military alongside his brother had taught him to get drunk only once in a great while, yet these people seemed to make a practice out of it. He slid the underside of his semi-steel enclosed fingers over the bar counter, the uncovered side, his rough, battle hardened fingers grazing over the smooth, timetouched mahogany countertop. The day seemed to be in good order, but for the lousy drunken singing. Contemplating the many different ways he could shut them up, he muttered to himself. "Well, it's not their voices, per se, it's the way that they search for the right notes, but just can't find them." Veltan's eyes looked over to the congregating drunkards and he shook his head.

One particularly rowdy singer of the group danced his way over, his step the usual alcoholic three-step waltz they all seemed to be adept at. "You lookin' at somthin' then?" he inquired with the lisping brogue that seemed to acompany the dance. "I'm not afeard to thrash ye if yer lookin' for some trouble." his dance was puncuated by a stumble when he reached the back of Veltans barstool. Veltan looked over his shoulder, confirming the suspicion that the drunk was indeed talking to him. "Sit down m' boy" he said. "It's not worth you getting beaten." as soon as the words crossed his lips, Veltan groaned inwardly. His icy tone might have been slightly defering to a sober and sensible man, but alcohol always seemed to make people seem tougher than they really are. Well, to themselves at any rate. "Oi! That does it!" the drunk bellowed, swinging his fist, clumsily back as he spoke. Veltan turned and caught the punch midswing with his left hand. "I told you-" he muttered to him and then sunk his mailed fist right under the ribcage of the the drunken man. Without even rising from his barstool or changing expression. Veltan took that selfsame fist and swung it hard and fast at the face of his new drinking buddy, not letting go of the grip on his wrist. The force of the blow nearly knocked the man into a state of unconsioucness, but Veltan wanted to make sure that his lesson would sift its way through all of that alcohol, so he cocked his right foot back, hooked it and kicked the man in the small of the back with his heel, the impact forcing the man into a nearby barstool. "-to sit." And then, for good measure, he knocked the stool over with the same foot, the drunk laying down in sitting position. And that ended the trouble partially due to the fact that the man had cracked his head on the floor, pulling the blanket of unconciousness over his face, but also, because nobody in that group would rightly attack Veltan for a while. Or at least until a few more tankards.