Cayde flew down to the entrance of the pub. People walking around just stared at him, floating down, but he paid no attention to them. Inside, the crowd didn't look too good. The pub was filled with men in armor with swords and bows all around. By the look of it, Cayde guessed they were bandits of some sort, but upon close examination, he realized it was some sort of guild. They all had a patch with some sort of skeleton holding a sword with a fish on top of the sword, a sort of coat of arms. They didn't look particularly tough, and there were others there, but Cayde knew to just stay away from them. At the counter, he ordered a bottle of white wine, but before he could get it, someone turned him around and said, "Are you some kind of freak? Get out of here, you don't want me to kill you." Deeply insulted by the ignorant man, Cayde, forgetting completely that he was surrounded by other members of the man's gang, said mockingly, "Oh, don't worry, you won't be able to." The man started getting red, and that was when Cayde really looked at the man. He was bald, and had a blond goatee, and he wore a suit of chain armor with a leather belt that had a loincloth with the symbol on it. He also had a warhammer clumsily stuck into his belt. Without thinking, Cayde drew his sword and immediately, the whole tavern went alive, with some adventurers and city gaurds in the mix. Cayde gripped his sword and charged at the man.

Aerandir had come to this peaceful tavern to relaxe, away from the threats of the outside, but was immediated smothered by the presence of the humans in the pub, their was loads of them, all of them strongly built, an intimidating feature to a slightly built elf. Also, there was a staggering presence of drunks, laughing or arguing over whatever came to their attention in their inebreated state. Thier was also a group of men, each one bearing an emblem of a blade-wielding skeleton, a fish above the sword. Aerandir guessed that these men were all part of some sort of gang, or guild, and listened to their bragging and joking, with a small interest in their over-exagerated stories.

But Aerandir was very surprised when a half dragon, with slightly elven features flew into the pub, stirring alot of people. Aerandir sighed, wondering if this strange person was a regular to the Wilwarin. He brushed his golden hair away from his face and watched this man, wondering if he would do anything else to get the tavern riled up.

Aerandir's previous questions were quickly answered when one of the men, bald and bearing a small goatee, threatened the half-dragon. Aerandir tensed, as the half dragon drew a blade from his side, staring down the man, who wore a set of chain armor, and a simple cloth, prominently displaying the symbol worn by many other men in the tavern. Aerandir jumped to his feet, fumbling with the grip of a short dagger hidden beneath his cloak.

Zekhen had his reasons to dislike going to the local pubs of Lomedor or any other town around the continent of Ea. The Wilwarin’s building seemed to be an exception from the rule, and so was the day when Zekhen stumbled inside. He had come to ‘clear’ his mind with the help of some alcohol, before taking an important decision that could have changed his life, or end it for that matter. The desert elf seemed unbothered and undistracted by anyone as he made his way to the bar, and ordered his drink. From the very first second he seemed to be in a world of his own, returning to reality only to ask for a refill, or startled by a louder and uncommon noise of the pub.

He failed to notice anything or anyone from the pub, nor the tension that had gathered up between a gang of people and some other patrons. The sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath was the one that eventually got his attention and placed him on guard, a firm hand lowering to the hilt of his scimitar. A pointless fight was about to start, one of those that reminded Zekhen why spending time in a pub was useless. He WILL not get involved under any circumstances, unless it would directly threaten his life, or will break out of control and little common sense it might have had.

He didn’t bother even to glance behind to see who was fighting, and continued to delight in his drink which probably took a small control over his senses. He was used with the harshest of conditions and survival tests, but not with alcohol.

Mazzer's brew. The holy of holies. Vex couldn't actually believe she had found a bottle. And not a half-drunk bottle with piss as the other half- no, this was the real thing. This was actual Mazzer's brew. Only slightly lesser than Orc Killer on the scale of the holy brews- and even then, not too much the lesser since the only real tangible difference between it and the renowned orc gutter was that Killer had this nasty tendency of actually killing things (not orcs usually, ironically they usually lasted the longest but heck, who'd be willing to drink something as pansy-ish as 'human killer' or 'elf killer'?)- it was a more than fine brew, it was ecstasy.

And it was probably why Vex didn't even notice that someone was trying to beat her over the head with a beer bottle.

Now it wasn't so much that there wasn't any pain- it was just that the euphoria of Mazzer's was so much... so much more. It was as if her joy was as big as the sun and this pain nothing more than an irritating gnat that she longed to smash into oblivion but wasn't quite up to it because... because it was so much more necessary for her to just continue to peacefully enjoy what she was doing- and that was nothing. Nothing but drink, relax, enjoy and-

Then the weak, pansy-arsed human, in no doubt what was an attempt to grab her attention made a mistake. He tried to take her alcohol. With a cry of inarticulate rage, Vex launched herself into the fray and suddenly, the bar became a lot more lively.

Drinking or even sitting at the bar during that time has become nearly impossible. The bartended and the staff were all hiding behind different pieces of furniture: tables, chairs and even the bar itself. Chaos would soon take over, and the worse was far from being there. It was the time for Zekhen to think on a course of action, should he wisely avoid any trouble and retreat through the first exit that crossed his eye, or should he try and put an end to all of that, thus making a lot of people happy. The days as a B.A.D.I. member made him think a little more about the others, and not only for himself. However, this, unlike any task before, could prove to be the most challenging.

“For the love of the mighty gods, how would I be able to control a building full of drunk and egocentric retards who live only to drink and fight?”

Unable to ask for a refill once the alcohol from his unbothered glass disappeared, he eventually decided to take a look to the whole scene displaying only a few feet away from him. It was worse than he expected…

Even though, a certain individual has caught most of his attention – despite an uncommon and slightly grotesque appearance he could discern that it was a ‘she’. An awfully familiar ‘she’-demon, which brought a déjà vu feeling traveling throughout his being. Prayed he, that the alcohol did not start to mess with him already. Not only that, but it caused him a major lack of memory, he could not recall where exactly and in what circumstances his eye has caught the sight of that creature before.

It was when the commotion was about to begin, that he came, a man of bone and skin who was clearly no sturdier than the walking stick that he held in hand. His arrival was not by any means that of the ordinary. Pale and wrinkled with age, he entered the well populated tavern with a bottle of ale and two lovely females who were at the peak of their beguiling abilities. Studded with diamonds were their eyes and mesmerizing were their smiles. Clearly they were attracted to him, the crooked but handsome beast who was likely in the latter half of his seventh decade.

Interestingly he wore such fashionable pieces of clothing, a great contrast to his once tattered robes. His garb was that of felt, his chains and belts were that of gold as well as the frame of his small pair of spectacles. He smiled, the charmer that he was. What one would find would not be a row of rot but instead a perfect set of dentures.

"Aww but this is such a boring place, Wybie..." The woman with brunette strands pouted quite convincingly.

Wybie appeared to be his newfound nickname instead of Wybert, the name few had ever come to know.

"Now now Ylana... could not a gentleman such as I purchase for you both a drink? I heard that Mazzer's special brew could be quite... satisfying with a touch of Van Der Buck..."

How he teased them and how they laughed, amused to his scruffy old ways. It was interesting of what joy 1,215 pieces of tournament gold could acquire... special services mayhap?

"Give. Me. Back. My. Alcohol. Graaaaaaah." While Vex would have loved to have admit that the last word had been a rather good attempt at scaring the crap out of the person she was currently trying to strangle and kill and perhaps mutilate (not too much, it wasn't like he actually managed to *take* her alcohol and drink any of it- one must always admire and respect the hierarchy of pain and punishment after all) it was actually do to a chair having been smashed over her head. Now one might have been a wee bit skeptical of a chair being able to do any more (or less) damage than a beer bottle which usually was harder to break than any chair but one must recall that the chair in question was meeting a head that wasn't quite as fortified with Mazzer's brew as it had been two seconds ago.

And that that head happened to be just gathering all the pain of the previous beating too. So all things considered, the cry was actually rather weak for the equivalent to fourteen and a half wacks. And splinters. And alcohol laced wounds.

Unfortunately for the person behind her wielding the broken stump of a chair (and fortunately for the person she had been straddling and strangling) there was death in Vex's mind and death in her eyes as she turned. He promptly hit the ground in a dead faint- whether from the fear or Vex's foot in his groin it was hard to tell.

No, to be perfectly honest, it was rather easy to tell. But that'd just ruin the surprise for the man struggling to breathe on the ground when he got a sensitive area stomped with a hoof-ladden foot.

Ylana and Vladimira, exotic femme fatales. To both of them, he had instantly fallen in love. A touching story of the heart it all was, the cliché perhaps of a fairytale… an adult one at that. Both were the epitome of masculine excitement. They were the stars of the stage. They were performers, objects of desire worth the halting of the heart for just a single touch. This was what they had since their youth had been trained to do. This was all that they had ever known to do… until he came, the dashing knight with silvery hair and a rich curled beard.

Five feet and four inches in height, he was tall for his age. He had a prominent chin, a pointed nose and a pair of vibrant gray eyes. He watched them from a far, piercing their senses to the very core as if he grew upon them such lengthy spears. He purchased their freedom.

“Ahhh for Vladimira and Ylana… that would be… feefty gold from Sartana, a hundred from Vaudewducks and ten from Sraxen. That would be a total of one hundred and sixty gold.”

He smiled, a toothy smile to the accommodating gentleman who called himself the ladies’ guardian.

“Oh but good and generous sir, the girls cost more than just what you have offered.”

“Pray how much should I add?”

Wybert questioned. Thus the two proceeded with their transaction.

Such fondness he thought of such memories. Day and night the two females and himself laughed, drank and lavished themselves with extravagant spending. The aged gentleman was still lost in his fantasies when all of a sudden…

THUMP

A man fell before his feet, clutching the space between his thighs.

“ow.. that must have hurt, dear boy…”

He would comment momentarily before peering into the expression of his two lovely companions.

“Shall we take a seat?”

Apparently attracted by the scent of blood (or maybe just Mazzer’s holy holy which seemed to be leaking!) came the rogues and the sad remnants and dregs of society on which all the rich thugs based their wealth and fortunes. Vex spotted the beggar a mile away (well, a theoretical mile anyways. Maybe it was only a few feet. Hard to tell what with the room spinning and the satisfying nut crunching going on. It was probably a mile. No, it was definitely a mile. Vex couldn’t imagine it not being a mile. He was soooo far off in the distance. Vex was amazed she could spot him at all) accompanied by two… err…

What the bloody heck?

The rough-and-tumbled she-devil stumbled towards the beggar and his ‘retinue.’ Her speech slurred and her ability to walk in straight, notably un-crooked lines was shot to… well, Hel, but she still managed to cover the space of a mile in less than ten seconds. It was amazing, yes it certainly was. The beggar was mumbling something, Vex couldn’t hear him. It was so loud- not it was so quiet. No, it was… something or another. Vex couldn’t remember. Ow, pain. Head hurt. Why? Grach.

Vex hit the ground, stone cold, her bottle of Mazzer’s brew still tightly clutched in her hands and blood leaking from the top of her poor, battered skull. In her fall, her wings had reflexively exploded from her back, covering her protectively but in that state it would be easy for anyone… anyone at all… to just steal her alcohol.

But would they dare? Dun, dun, duuuuuun!

It was at such time when the tournament banker of Lomedor was about to play host to his lovely companions that the three was rudely interrupted by a certain drunk female. Clearly she was not the epitome of womanhood which was, in all his honest and intelligent opinion, a gender that belonged solely inside the home; a wife, a cleaning maid, a footman—or rather a woman who would tend to his boots which were all fine pieces of leather, a slave who would pick the large and dark calluses of his aged feet… but of course, he would not bluntly state his thoughts to her. He was courteous; a proper gentleman who was in the midst of impressing his two sensuous displays.

He was about to offer her a kind greeting… perhaps even more. Vladimira had previously suggested a casual invitation and a room reservation. Wybert giggled, intrigued by the thought however the drunk lady didn’t quite hold the prettiest of faces. To put it bluntly, she has the makings of the monster that haunted the underside of children’s beds, the scum of the earth and the brown mass that a cow excretes from its hind—brown… green… pffft it really didn’t matter. Wybert, though failing his eyes may be, had impeccable taste for companions.

The girl collapsed. Thank the heavens that she is dead! He cheered inwardly.

“It seems like only the beautiful must populate this world…. is that not right, my darlings?”

Both females giggled as the three of them moved on to the nearest table. Ylana would merely step over Vex in a casual manner after almost tripping upon the poor drunkard’s bottle of brew which would by then be in the process of spillage.

…apparently they wouldn’t. But that wasn’t the end of Vex’s troubles. There was spilling alcohol and she was near enough to actually smell it. Somehow, from somewhere inside Vex’s very soul the lifeforce necessary to wake herself up and stop the sacrilege that was being done to the sacred alcohol arose and punched her in the gut, doubling and waking her up. That or the orc walking on her back to get to her Mazzer’s Brew managed to get her pain and alcohol addled brain to stand. And stand up high. Or maybe it was her liver complaining to the routine abuse it was suffering and politely informing her of its two week notice.

Pain exploded across her vision as her eyes opened.

Anyhoo, up she went. The orc had the bottle in one hand and his mouth in the other. Or rather, he had a hand on his mouth because Vex had just managed to jam a fist onto it and despite not being skilled in the arts martial managed to leave a sizable dent due to the pent-up fear of stolen alcohol and pent-up rage of the very thought of having her alcohol stolen *twice* in a bloody day. It was inconceivable! It was unlikable! It was the very soul and anchor of death and desperation that drove her to then kick the orc in the nuts when it was revealed that her feeble punch had only bloodied his lip and *not* knocked out all his teeth like she was hoping.

Vex heard a hollow, clunking sound and then crept backwards. The only thought she had when the ham-sized fist of the orc exploded into her stomach was that the half-orc was probably the brightest male she had ever met. Protection was important.

"Wybie darling, what on earth is wrong with that woman?" Vladimira turned, noting how the Rauko female would stand and faint in seemingly random patterns. She was indeed an odd sort.

"Mind her not, my dear" He merely replied as he turned to the tender in request for a bottle of the same brew. Only the heavens knew of what athletic feats these two could perform when drunk.

The three would then settle for a lone table at one of the tavern's darkest corners. It is said that by choosing such a place, one would gain an air of mystery attractive to pretty barmaids and perhaps a flirtatious young nymph for an adventurer. How he fancied them, blossoms of every race. They were all the same when it came to the contents of his rather large source... of income.

The crooked gentleman sat first and then the two followed upon his sides. Such nirvana it was to be between them with his wrinkled hands wrapped around their slender waists, almost moving to their round... hips.

"Ylana..." He would request.

"Yes, my apple?"

"Did you keep that last roll of tobacco?"

"Ahh but how could I lose such a precious item? You can be so... alluring when you smoke." She continued in praise, almost purring against his ear. The tingles would send a shiver across his spine. Aye, this was the life.

"Please do recover it for me then... I feel an overwhelming need for it between my lips."

It was then that he opened his mouth slightly, awaiting the service that Ylana would without a doubt, provide.

Not many things managed to surprise Zekhen, but that night he was surprised not only once, but twice. He couldn’t help but stare blankly to the old man who was followed by three young maids everywhere he went, all of them enjoying their time together. Mysterious were the ways of the human kind, but this exceeded them all. The other thing was the strange behavior of the rauko woman, who seemed to prize a bottle of alcohol more than her own life…

He shook his head slightly, and stood up, it came hard to believe what displayed his eyes, it seemed that he had stepped into a different dimension. For the first time, he admitted that the pub could probably turn to be more dangerous than a sandstorm.

“Do you wish a refill sir?” The voice of the bartender pulled him back to reality, he turned and looked at the fat man for a few seconds in a disturbing silence. “Oh, yes, please. But do tell me, is this a common thing around here?” Wine was poured into the glass, and the bartender nodded in a reply to the question. “And who is that man, over there in the dark corner, the one with the girls?”

“Oh, don’t you know? He is one of the richest men of Lómëdor, nice girls… he is one lucky man, I know I would give an arm to live one day like the banker, wouldn’t you?

Zekhen blinked, once more questioning the purpose of the human race on the face of Arda. “No, thank you, I would rather keep my arm.”

Half-orcs are freakin’ strong was the thought that was rushing through Vex’s brain but what came out of her mouth was a vague and wheezy ‘Nggggggh…’ that didn’t sound much like her and probably included the very notable and more than somewhat painful additive of punctured lungs. Punctured by what? Broken ribs. Broken how? Well, Vex would rather not imagine. She wasn’t human, so there wasn’t any risk of a sudden and overwhelming death (Heck, she had survived a very real and very terrible gutting after all, decapitation would still kill her but that was… y’know, head-offy. Not many things could survive off’d heads) but the risk of death was still pretty much omnipresent. And hurtful. And painful. And stoof.

Anyways, she didn’t much feel like getting up. But her alcohol compelled her. The half-orc was looking evilly (and drunkenly) at her while he fumbled with the Mazzer’s brew. Luckily Vex had used her powers of pure evil and overwhelmed his fingers so that he was undexterously and ineffectively trying to open the brew without any help of his motor skills. Or maybe that was the result of the orc killer hanging at his belt. Whatever the case it gave Vex hope- maybe she wouldn’t have to commit several degrees of murder in the wide-and-open and be able to save her skills for a nice, night time perusal of the city. Yeah, that’d be great… bits of bones and brains hanging around… lots of blood yes… it’d be a dream come true.

Thus dreaming the she-devil watched the half-orc fumble unsuccessively with the bottle of precious alcohol and waited for her chance… and fingered her mace. Would groin protection protect against something designed to penetrate armor… hmmmm….

Standing in the corner and trying not to get hit, Rhyl'drin could only watch in disgust as the pub was torn apart bit by bit. Between the half-orc ripping up some unfortunate victim, an old man scurrying around with three young girls (Rhyl'drin couldn't even begin to comprehend that one), and the general chaos inherent in a room full of a drunk people, the pub had been transformed into an absolute riot. The Drow arranged to meet someone here that day- an alchemist who had agreeed to share her secrets in making more potent poisons and healing potions, in return for services to be rendered at a later date. Rhyl'drin hadn't had any idea what she wanted of him; perhaps she needed some information. That was Rhyl'drins bread and butter- trading secrets and information for goods and services. The Wilwarin Pub and Inn, here in Lómëdor, was his base of operation in the area. He rented a room in the upper stories on a semi-permanent basis, and the owner knew him a little. It seemed like the perfect place for cladestine meetings- he was on his own turf, and there were so many people around, you could easily blend into a crowd, even as a Drow.

It didn't seem like such a great place now, of course.

As Rhyl'drin watched, the mayhem moved closer to him. A chair came flying his way- he only just had enough presence of mind to duck and move, but as soon as he did, he regretted it. He had accidentally launched himself into a half-orc...

"Apologies, apologies!"

Luckily, the orc looked pretty content to rip one person at a time. Rushing to find a safe spot, Rhyl'drin fled the huge thingbefore it could realize what the young Drow had just done.

Cayde flapped his wings around to try to make others keep their distance while he fought off the original warrior. He didn't notice much else going around, but was distracted a little at seeing some other woman that had wings, but he didn't have time to react to that as the bald man tried to bash his head open again. Cayde, with the help of a fear spell, finally managed to catch the man off gaurd and stab his leg cutting him down. Cayde didn't have time to deliver a coup de grace as other men were closing in. He merely stomped on the man on the ground, then continued slashing his sword randomly around. From the back, he could see some people trying to get to the front, but he only recognized them as some sort of city watch. The gang was still plentiful, and Cayde had only known of having killed two people, including the man on the ground. Suddenly however, he was thrown back by some brutish man, and he was knocked to the back of the tavern's counter, already being next to it. He lay there, for a split second, and came to a realization that the city watch might try to attack him too for actually starting the fight. He dismissed those thoughts and flew up, getting a good look at the other patrons, noticing a half-orc that really stood out, and some old man with two lovely women. (Yes, two, why does everyone else say there are three?) Unfortunately, Cayde was pulled down and smashed his head into the bar counter, and he tried slashing at the unseen attacker, but he was only thrown back, and someone stabbed him in the leg. He came crashing down, and noticed some warriors fighting around him. The view was overtaken by gang members, and one lifted his axe, ready to strike.

One could never truly decipher the workings of fate. It was chance that brought him here as noon turned into dusk. From clouds of white, they became sheets of gray, a mixture of hues from the moon's pale silver and the sky's beckoning abyss. The stars shone at a distance, bright specks that hung across the heavens like jewels. He peered upon them but once. The curious orbs of the ocean had always wondered what they truly were; other worlds with a sun of their own. He reclaimed his watch upon the tavern, a lone establishment in the lesser majestic district of Lomedor. From a distance it produced a warm shade so mellow that peered through the windows as rays birthed from the light of the hearth.

What is in store for me this time? He questioned himself in the realm of thought.

Pressing matters were the key ingredients to what brought him here. In a composed watch, he stood in recollection of the note that was passed unto him the night before, slipped underneath his door. The piece of folded parchment was sealed with anonymity with but the insignia of 'friend' which was laced with mystery.

So it began, the pacing into the halls of merriment. Many peculiarities have been birthed here for it was where the intoxicated had gathered when most lids have already been shut. There, gloved fingertips urged the oaken barrier to part; two once joined doors that heralded the animalistic vices within. Never was there a night that he was left unsurprised.

Apparently groin protection did not protect against things designed to gut and pulverize armor. Or so was the conclusion Vex came up with as she cheerfully noted down the numerous streams of blood coming from the half-orcs left foot and then made a mental note to study biology more strenuously so she could hit the pesky things her brain wanted to target but her body was unwilling to. It wasn't lack of coordination, it was lack of built-in, groin-crushy reflex! She would destroy them all- when she was trained for such alcohol-defense induced maneuvers.

Annyways, she had hit his big toe. That probably wasn't the right thing to as the Orc howled in fury and took a leap backwards on one foot, crashing into another table of patrons and enmeshing himself in a sudden different fight.

No wait, that was the right thing.

What was wrong about it was that he took the alcohol with him. Vex let out yet another cry of inarticulate rage and launched herself at the table he had crashed into, wounds bleeding (well, she was fairly certain they were bleeding. Maybe it was just unneeded stimuli of her pain receptors brought upon by- no wait, she didn't know that kind of stuff so nevermind) and lungs punctured (maybe) and bones broken (maybe). And when she hit that table, at least two men were knocked over, one wielding an axe on someone who looked like another rauko but was probably not and another went sprawling towards the lovely ladies of the bar.

The ones that *weren't* Vex, of course.

Rhyl'drin, oddly enough, soon found himself behind the bar. It seemed like the one place with perfect cover from the riot going on. He considered running up to his room to grab a spear and perhaps start bloodying the place up, but his more cautious nature quickly subdued the rash idea.

"Aha!" he cried, distracted from the fight for a moment by the sight of a particularly well-aged bottle of scotch kept behind the counter. "We wouldn't want this to get damaged in this ruckus!" he exclaimed, reaching for the bottle. With a satisfying pop, he removed the top and poured himself a small glass.

A few shots later, and the Drow had a relatively pleasant buzz. The drink was smooth and didn't burn going down like lesser whiskeys and malts. "I'll have to add this to my collection" he said. He replaced the cap and pocketed the bottle- he was always looking for something to add to his elixirs and "potions" to make them go down easier and more enjoyably.

When he finally got back up, the room was tilting and still very much alive with the fight, which now seemed more like a blur. Rhyl'drin pulled the bottle out a bit and swished it: the bubbles that formed disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared, a sure sign that the alcoholic content was incredibly high. "So much for talking shop about alchemy," he sighed. He scanned the crowd for the women one more time, just to be sure she hadn't arrived in the middle of all this mayhem.

Ylana, such a slender siren from the pits of temptation she truly was. Not once with the plentitude of men within this tavern, did she cast her gaze elsewhere than upon her royal escort. Wybert, in her eyes was far beyond the epitome of what was to be considered handsome. Aged he might have been, however, what she saw was wit encapsulated in a wealthy noble of such intelligence. He has been kind to her. He had brought her and her sister, Vladimira across the land if only to see the farthest reaches and the exotic loveliness of Ea. The man never seemed to run out of gold. She would find herself waking to a knock on the door upon the arrival of a messenger with coinage sealed in a pouch.

"Wybie, my peach, does your gold come from trees?" Ylana would ask with her bright blue eyes and her darling strands of flaxen hair.

"Nay my grapefruit... it comes from my utmost love for you." He would tease in a wide and toothy grin as he laid by her side.

Oh such wonderful memories they were and it would be upon their reminiscence that the fair woman smiled. It was then that she pulled out with grace, a long rolled baton for a tobacco between her rather distracting pair of mounds. One could have sworn she moved sensuously slower than any other being on earth.

She lifted the wad unto Van Der Buck's lips who casually accepted with closed and relaxed lids. Ahh this is the life indeed For him, he was in heaven; a bottle of the finest alcohol was about to arrive, two incredibly attractive females lay seated to do his bidding, a smoke of the finest-- He could have melted within the realm of his dark corner until he opened his eyes to the sight of one that had suddenly struck fear into his heart. Gray pupils formed to the size of saucers. He almost died in sheer panic.

"Quickly girls, hide me!" He ordered, retreating immediately to the shadows underneath the table.

The axe guy was knocked over, but started to fall on Cayde, and as he screamed, "Oh my god!!" he tried sticking his legs up and doing something to stop the hulk from crushing him. Fortunately, he managed to kick the still alive body to the side, where the body regained his balance, but the body got his axe and took a swing. Cayde scrambled up, but saw that the man was swinging it at the previous woman that he saw, and Cayde subconsciously rammed his wing in between her and the axe. It tore through his wing, "Damn!" but he ignored it and punched the gang member at the face, having dropped his sword somewhere. He looked around for a weapon, and quickly took a rusty sword from some man's body, and lunged it backward, thinking that the warrior was there. He accidently stabbed it into a table, but he threw it up and lodged it into some man's shoulder. Cayde knew it was the right man, but he didn't kill the guy. Due to the crossgaurd of the sword and the fact that the bladed end is well lodged through the floor, the man couldn't get up. He was fierce at trying to though, and Cayde tried casting fear on him to calm him down. He got up and noticed that the members were still fighting fiercely, but numerous other patrons that have stood up to fight and even others completely ignoring them have trapped the gang into a corner, rather than being spread out. They fought fiercely, but not as much people fell as before. Cayde thought the gaurd could handle it, and instead looked around for that woman with wings like his own.

Vex was a she-devil birthed and born in the realms of chaos of Hel. She was supposedly constructed of nothing but pure chaotic energies that had infused some shallow receptacle, stolen from one of the other planes of existence. Hers had been one of the dreg souls, one of the souls that had not cut deals with Raku before her death- she was thus an unremarkable and unremarked soul among billions, no probably trillions of others. And she had to sink or swim, back in Hel.

People told of depravity on the material plane as if it meant something. As if the shallow things such as genocide, murder and rape could actually match the atrocities commited in Hel. At least on Arda, such things were done for a reason. At least such things were done -because- someone had been powerful enough or rich enough or mighty enough in persuasive forces to actually convince others that he (more often than she, in any case) was right. Hel was different. Hel was HEL. There was no escaping fact, no escaping reason. Or rather, they were the only things that could be escaped. It wasn't an experience that could be dignified with words- it was the lowest of the low, the darkest of the dark, that which made demons on Arda who remembered that which was dark and damp shiver in fear.

And it was the reason that Vex struggled to remain alive. She knew that something was wrong now, beyond a shade of a doubt. Forgotten was the alcohol and along came the simple needs.

Breathe. Breathe. Exhale. Breathe.

Yeah, after this breather she'd get... the alcohol. Yeah. And everything would be fine. Yeah. Get up, just get up and...

He panned his gaze, haunting they were from one side to the other. The man of an unknown origin was searching, searching for the sniveling crook who had kept in his protection, the enormous wealth amassed in the Tournament of the Sixteen Conquerors.

The vision returned to him once more of the eve he had claimed the sheet into his hands. Its folds were sealed by a pool of hardened wax embossed with an unknown seal, two lions in the act of combat. It would appear that whomever sent it was of a noble origin for few had the wealth to acquire a formal signet as intricate as this.

With a single snap, he unfolded the note. It was scribbled hastily, almost mimicking how a chicken would normally carve its mark with its talons.

"To my lord, Von Mortem..." It read.

"I am merely a concerned friend as I write this. In a pub my squire had found himself the other evening and from there he caught a glimpse of a rather peculiar fellow of a white beard with the frame of a stick. He was draped in a nobleman's garb, rich purple, I might add. You are aware of how rare such a material is, yes? According to my squire, he was laced with gold.

'Perhaps he was a wealthy merchant?' my henchman dismissed, but it was then that he, by chance, overheard the subject of the man's discussion with the tender.

'feefty gold from Sartana, a hundred from Vaudewducks and ten from Sraxen. That would be a total of one hundred and sixty gold.'

Forgive me if I am mistaken but were not such names belonging to the most popular of tournament contestants?"

And so the message continued, inciting within him a tremendous amount of fury.

His consciousness returned to where he stood, before the door where at a distance a girl was found wrestling with an orc nearly twice her breadth. She was not his concern. Thus he proceeded with his search to several others who merely took their calm pace in drinking.

Soon, they came into the confines of his vision, two females who seemed to converse with another who hid beneath an oaken desk adorned by a bottle of Mazzer's brew. He would make his approach; a stark warrior draped in an ominous shroud.

Lyon was tired. And hungry. And thirsty. These three things combined were always what led him to the Wilwarin Pub, and what always ended in him enjoying a fine glass of mead. The Pub was a favorite haunt of his, a safe place where he could always relax. Never had he seen a fight break out in the peaceful pub.

Until today, that is.

Upon reaching the door to the pub from the outside alley, he thought he heard quite a bit of noise coming from inside. But that wasn't anything out of the ordinary; after all, it was a building full of hot-blooded men and alcohol. When mixed, the result was noise. Sure, today there were a few screams, but nothing to worry about, right? Confidently opening the door, he strode inside, looking forward to the thought of sitting down.

Two seconds later, a flying fist ended Lyon's pleasant thoughts. Trying to shake away the lights that were swirling around in his vision, he saw, much to his surprise, that the entire bar was in an uproar. The mercenary sighed; what was this, the fifth bar fight he had encountered? Something like that...perhaps it was only four, he couldn't quite remember. Deciding that it wasn't very important, he randomly lashed out with his arm and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of someone yelping in pain. He then strode up to the counter, where a bartender was standing with his arms crossed, looking annoyed. He cheered up when Lyon asked him for a drink, and half a minute later, the mercenary was sitting at a table by himself, enjoying watching the chaos unfold instead of being a part of it.

There was stuff going on that Vex didn't quite appreciate or understand. Maybe she just wasn't the sort to actually be bothered to appreciate anything. Perhaps it was something else. It was probably something else. Who knew? Who cared? Annnyways, there was something going on in the back of her head that buzzed and tingled and felt and tasted just a wee bit weird. Like the coppery tang of blood mixed with concentrated apple juice.

Why did she know how that tasted? Well Hel was a pretty interesting place once you got to know the bars- but, nevermind, Hel sucked. Best not go back to those memories. Small, indelible traumas each and every second of non-alcohol laced stupor it was. It was supposed to be, it was Hel after all. Hades for those who studied and bothered to learn the ancient names and forms of that god-forsaken (no, it was not forsaken, NEVER forsaken until He who ruled it was destroyed beyond his flimsy excuse of Immortality) place.

For the second time that day, Vex wrenched herself from unconsciousness and noted, with some satisfaction that the half-orc had been laid out by some particularly prosperous blow. And that no one had bothered to steal the brew either. Excellent! With a smile and a grin her arm snaked out towards the yellow bottle and snatched it greedily. She poured some in the palm of her hand, rubbed it on her head (owch, the sting!) took stock of her bodily possessions (and that which her body possessed) and noted that her ribs were sore, not broken and that she had -probably- suffered some major internal head injury which would account for her near-death experience.

Oh well, best get back to drinking. Getting up, shakily, from the ground, Vex staggered back towards the bar.

By the gods and all the deities who knew mercy... here he comes!

From his place, Wybert could see the heavy strides of a pair of boots, glistening slightly in a shine. They were nearing him. He need not rethink who it was for he already knew.

The Obsidian Nocturne, the man had derived his notoriety from such a name. Van Der Buck himself knew not a speck beyond the man's haunting title. Von Mortem was very secretive in his ways. He had reserved much of his private affairs to himself. Wybert on the other hand was merely aware that the man was a seasoned swordsman. Word spread like wildfire once before that the immortal once played a key role in the war of the moon as one of the handful who had survived the conflict mythically unscathed. He shivered from such a thought. How he had hoped that the shadows upon his place were thicker than they normally were if only to shield his frame from view.

"Distract him you two!"

He unleashed a fierce whisper to Vladimira and Ylana as he cast his tobacco to the alcohol-lathered floorboard to put an end to its pyre.

Still as night he sat there, watching the realities of the world as they unfolded. He could hear the sound of the phantom's approach; a steady beat of soles that mimicked the rushed beating of his heart. Should he be found, not even the wealth of his coin sack could save him.

Vex smelled fear in the air and thrived in it. It was one of the few scents that was uncorrupted by Hel's nauseating fumes... no doubt the result of much planning sessions with the Archrauko on so on but Vex liked to believe that the taste and smell of fear was different from normal emotion and emotive responses. Fear was primal, basic- from the moment of birth, to the moment of death, fear was the ultimate motivator, the ultimate planner and the ultimate drive that forced those who were already living to live longer.

It was probably why she sat back down at the bar and ordered a new drink. She no longer feared things that mortals did. Moments ago she was dying, now she wasn't. That was life. Briefly, she wondered where Ennui had gone but then shrugged. Who cared? When the drink came she put away Mazzer's brew somewhat dejectedly. She had drunk far too much of Mazzer's as it was, and good alcohol had to be saved for those rainy days and long camping trips of doom .

She drank and considered and fumbled with her thoughts. Vex had discovered, rather early on, that she had had a particularly low tolerance to alcohol for a rauko but that if she kept on drinking, kept on indulging... she actually began to become more perceptive. Time would slow, speed up, slow down again. She could smell things she hadn't smelled before. Notice how the droplets of blood and sweat traced meandering paths down the countertop of the bar and on the floor.

No doubt some arse would break her contemplative mood with a beer bottle, but for the moment, the Rauko just... enjoyed.

Nathaniel truly was in his element. The typically scowling male wore a wide grin, his teeth bared and eyes wide. His dark hair was greasy from neglecting to wash, but it wasn't immediately visible given its naturally dark hue. Nathaniel's eyes, equally dark, were glossy and gleamed in the light of the pub. Completely sprawled, he looked like he was enjoying a drink with friends. Instead, he was thoroughly enjoying the brawl around him, the chaos.

Chaos was a peculiar element. It wasn't a physical entity, and it couldn't be perceived the same way things such as death and earth could be. Though it could be observed with the natural senses, it at times seemed even more powerful than that-- lurking just outside the window, in the garden perhaps. While conflict reigned there were always the subtle strings to be spotted, and though the curtain hid the hand it was usually chaos at the helm. Whispering to its puppets, seducing its minions. It was more than man or woman, more than anger or love, it was everything and nothing at the same time. It hated itself but lavished itself with love, it snarled in a choir's prophecy.

Both beautiful and terrible. Child and adult. There were Gods who represented the element and claimed to control it, but Ita the Reckless stood as an example that it held just as much control over the minion. Nathaniel didn't pretend to have any control over the deafening whispers in his mind, the soft tendrils that wove and settled in his mind like satin. He knew he was being used, and some part, no matter how small, enjoyed it. Yearned for it, even.

So now, when he was able to watch some demon and orc trying to kill each other, amongst a great deal of other combatants, he could smile and smell the chaos in the air. With every stumble and misstep he gave a knowing smile, eyes drinking in the sight of mind and body betraying one another. It was not an all out fight, others remained performing their business or simply sitting and nursing a drink. This was good; this discordant ring of goals was like a thousand bells ringing at once; both wedding and funeral bells. It eased him, filling him with a pleasurable sensation he'd never been able to synthesize in all his life.

With a chuckle he noticed the magistrate of the tournament, a man he'd seen only once before-- long ago, in the Hall of Heralds. If rumors were to be believed he would later be supervising a match between himself and the House of Osse, but Nathaniel didn't care about things as primitive as that when he was getting high. A pleasurable sigh and he rolled his shoulders, letting his dark eyes slowly follow the man as he strode by.

Thus he strode onwards, mute to all other worldly concerns as he pursued his hypothesis. Wybert Van Der Buck was here, he need not search into the darkness if only to find him. He could catch the scent of the man's presence, the rich perfume mingling with potent smoke of the finest tobacco. He could smell the presence of a cheat who had squandered all for himself, the gold of those who had invested their lives upon finding victory in the tournament. Aye, the tournament who at this very hour still ensued in their respective locations.

"My my... you are quite a sight to behold, noble knight..."

Vladimira praised as Von Mortem's shadow cast its shade upon her. The female was alluring indeed as was her sister. Scantily clothed, both revealed more than what one would normally choose to see. Other men would have entertained themselves by taking a seat with them in order to indulge in a moment of flirtation. Obsidian on the other hand seemed immune. Two hundred years of life had graced him with many gallivanting adventures. Now the sight of a lithe frame no longer piqued his interest unless a brain was contained within its shell. His mind as well, was focused naught upon their bossoms but upon the presence that purposefully sought to evade the sternness of his glare.

"As much as I would love to indulge your fantasies, my lovely ladies..." He replied with undeniable authority.

"I would like you to please produce the gentleman under the table. Let him know that if he were not to make himself known within three counts, I will haul him myself and have a dagger to his throat."

This was a very odd day. Lyon tried to wrap his head around the...complexity of it all. So much was happening in the pub, too much for the mercenary to quite comprehend. Something suspicious was going on in a corner, where an elderly looking man was sitting. Then there was the orc that was laying unconscious on the floor. There was a fight going on in another area of the bar, where a winged man was fighting. He was glad to note that the corner that he had chosen was considerably free of chaos. It looked like he'd be able to enjoy his rest after all.

Leaning back and sipping his beer, he sighed. Life had slowed down...nothing exciting was happening...unless, of course, you counted the situation he was currently in. Bu Lyon wasn't paying attention to that. He was too busy getting drunk. Taking a hearty swig from his glass, he leaned back and sighed again, this time with satisfaction. He yawned, and briefly considered going to sleep. It would be so satisfying to just lay there, not a worry in the world...

A sudden tug at his waist caused him to jerk out his dagger in a flash. Lashing back with it, there was a shriek of pain, and a soft thump.

"That's what happens when you try to steal from a mercenary, buddy." Lyon said.

A pickpocket had decided to try and take advantage of him by stealing his money bag. The result? The daring thief now had his hand cut off. Lyon reached down and pried his bag out of the severed hand, and returning it to it's rightful place on his belt, he perused his drink, ignoring the sobs coming from his victim. The fool knew the risks, and he had dared to try anyway. He had got what he deserved.

Obsidian's approach, terrified him to abyssal depths. He could only imagine what wrath hid behind those glaring orbs. How at which point he could already picture his death played a multitude of times in his mind, all in varyingly creative ways. He was delusional. There, in the realms of the subconscious, he pictured himself tied to a great oak, nude in all his unattractive glory whilst painted with honey so that he may be consumed by ants in a slow but undeniably cruel death.

Another vision placed him upon a horse, beside the very same oak. For some reason, his panic had led him to imagine roles revolving around a single tree. Nonetheless he was there, with a noose tied snugly around his neck. Even the slightest stir could cause his death. Should the stallion decide to part with his patch of grass and to move on to greener pastures, Van der Buck would be doomed to eternal damnation in the halls of the underworld almost instantly.

The banker fabricated other gruesome incidents in his mind, those that involved knives and kitchen utensils but no longer would he be able to compose his thoughts. Von Mortem was here. The sight of the man's boots that lay astride before him from but an arm's distance caused such a great amount of anxiety that he sought for other means of escape. Clearly, femme fatales were not the sort to keep a man searching for a man.

His gaze darted to a nearby table. It was a risk to pursue, but what was there to be lost?

"I would like you to please produce the gentleman under the table. Let him know that if he were not to make himself known within three counts, I will haul him myself and have a dagger to his throat."

His life was already at stake.

Thus, the most terrifying adventure of his entire life began. To a seasoned warrior, it would be as if one were to cross a chasm lined with soldiers from another legion.

He crawled. Sweat poured in a stream between the ridge of his crooked nose. Every step could be his last.

Lyon was somewhat surprised, and a little disappointed, upon discovering that his delicious mead had all been drained from it's glass container. He also felt a little strange...why was his brain so fuzzy? He couldn't think...everything just seemed so...

"Hey," he said, laughing at the sight of the elderly man he had seen before crawling around on the floor. I wonder why that guy's crawling around like a baby? Oh well, I guess it shouldn't matter to me." He stood up, groaning a little as the world spun beneath him, and he then proceeded to stagger somewhat haphazardly to the counter, where he promptly procured another glass. He tried to walk back to his table, but after several attempts at standing up, decided that he was quite well of where he was. "Cheers!" he shouted to no one in particular, and drained the glass in a matter of seconds.

At this point, all awareness of the world around him faded. All he was able to see was the polished counter beneath him, and the glass that was once again empty. He suddenly felt a strong sensation of sadness. Why did all of that good liquid stuff go away? He wanted more...

He attempted to grunt his need to the bartender, and the man seemed to understand. What a great guy he is, Lyon thought as he received yet another glass. He's so nice, getting this for me. Wait a minute...this? What is this? Ah, to hell with it! Who cares? He began drinking again, this time slower than before, so as to make the alchohol last longer.

"A gentleman?"

Ylana arched a brow, acting quite surprised. It is a pity that she was did not go through the schooling of a thespian else she would have been more convincing.

"What gentleman?"

Vladimira uttered in response with her mouth agape to such blasphemy.

"We have a maaaan under the table?"

Ylana proceeded, forming a large and meaning-filled smile as if she were sensuously aroused by the mere thought of a foreign presence peering through the blackness underneath. On the other hand, her leg stirred with her toes withdrawn from her slender pair of sandals. She would pinch her Wybie in a rather amused act of seduction.

"My my... such joy we could derive from a man under a table..."

Vladimira turned to her sister, matching her with the same expression. Truly, they were a delight to behold to the brainless. It was not a wonder that Wybert had found his heaven in the arms of these two, extraordinarily entertaining fiends from the likely womb of a brothel.

"Enough!"

"Or you would proceed to indulge us under the table yourself?" Ylana laughed, playfully with tears forming in her eyes due to the comedy of the situation.

It was then that with the fullness of his strength that Von Mortem sought for the bottom side of the oaken desk, clasping such with his gloved fingertips. With a single exertion of force, tremendous, he would upturn it from its place. It would tumble; urged in a fury so great that part of it would shatter into splinters upon the neighboring surface.

He was sly as a panther or at least he had imagined himself to be. Every step led him closer to his goal, another shelter where he could plot further on the possibilities of escape. Tunneled was his determined vision. Just a little more.... he recited again and again inwardly as he pictured himself as a young knight battling the torrents in the midst of a sea of enemies along a narrow bride of stone. His wrinkled fingers pressed upon the floor that was coated with slime, pushing further with his shaking stilt-like knees. This was not an easy task for one so old but he would not yield. His focus was supreme until...

"We have a maaaan under the table?"

Ylana teased. Suddenly, he felt a pinch for his leg. Why that blue-eyed bim-- How he had wished then that he had selected two who were far more skilled in wit than they were with their sensuous feet. He dismissed the thought of them almost as urgently as it had arrived.

He by then, was half-way through his mark in the midst of the shade. Still, he was left with hope that he would not be seen. It was then that it came. At first he thought that his mind had been praying upon his desperation, but then it happened. The shadow parted above him to a beam of incandescence. His wooden shroud was leaving him, turning, tumbling and then...

BAM!

The upper half of its length slammed upon his destination, sending splinters his way as he defended his eyes, hands crossed before his face. He was shivering.

Despite his desire to prevent his lovely beverage from disappearing too quickly, it did so very soon. Lyon punched the counter in drunken frustration. He then looked around for that friendly bartender, but the man was nowhere to be seen. No where in the somewhat impaired vision of a certain drunk mercenary, anyway. Lyon sighed, and resolved to wait for him.

Alas, the alcohol he had consumed was too much for his brain. He began mumbling incomprehensibly under his breath, and for some strange reason, he noticed, the floor wouldn't stay still, despite the fact that he was sitting in a very sturdy chair. At least, he had thought it was sturdy when had slumped into it, but now it was rocking like the floor! What was going on? It was as thought the world had been transformed into some kind of giant ship. Lyon hated ships. He didn't feel at all comfortable on them.

He began pondering all the things that were wrong about ships. For one, they were big. Big things were bad, weren't they? Of course they were...He laughed at the thought of a big thing being good. He then continued to reason that they were very expensive, and were very easily destroyed. All in all, ships were just plain despicable. He vowed to never ride one unless it was for work.

As soon as he came to this conclusion, his mind completely and utterly shut itself down. The booze had proved to be too much for the mercenary, who hadn't had any form of alcohol for over half a year. His head slumped down to the table, and he fell fast asleep, oblivious to the surrounding world.

Both females almost leapt in fright as if their hearts had stopped for that one moment. The brew which came with the desk before them was tossed into the air and with a fury that paralleled Obsidian's, it smashed against a distant wall, shattering into a thousand pieces of glass. They turned away, almost expecting to be harmed from such a result. Instead, the crystals fell elsewhere, leaving but a trail of dampness in its place. The precious liquids coated the aged wood that served as the tavern's frame. It was of an acidic combination that immediately lit into a brilliant flame. It was a molotov cocktail in disguise, holding a certain scent within it, the intoxicating aroma of alcohol that for some reason bore the fragrance of flowers.

They sat in stillness as if they had never seen a stir as startling as what they had witnessed. Where have these two been for the entire duration of their lives? One would ask. Locked in a room where all they had come to learn was the art of belly dancing?

His attention would not be upon them, but upon the miserly fool who was kneeling before him with hands to his chest, uttering words that claimed his innocence. And when that failed he continued with a more desperate offer.

"Please my lord... spare me!" He begged.

"We can share them?" He pursued even further, indicating the two who were left without words upon their seats. They merely smiled, projecting their talents of endearment in a flutter of lids.

Von Mortem would Wybert in a fit of anger. Surging past the barriers of all that was lawful and moral, he bent, encircling his grasp around the man's collar. He would draw the fool close so that the bastard could search through terror-inflicting eyes. He would not have any patience left for Van der Buck. He marched onwards to where the two lithe frames remained with his arm lifting the entirety of the poor beggar's form. The man would lose his shoes; his toes would barely be touching the ground as he was brought closer to the glass arch of a window.

Finally, out of the corner of his eye, Rhyl'drin spied the women. She was a human, or maybe an Elf... beautiful for a surface dweller, Rhyl'drin thought. He had no doubt that her alchemy was often oriented towards retaining the youthful gloss on her cheeks and rosy color of her lips, but he also knew that she practiced a deadly art, one that had been perfected over centuries.

Wandering amidst the crazies who were entertaining themselves in the riot, he sat down next to her. "My apologies, Miranda. I didn't expect there to be such a crowd as this here tonight."

She nodded understandingly. "All is well. The only thing I worry about is that you won't be able to absorb the lesson with all this noise."

Rhyl'drin laughed and shook his head. "My hearing is just fine, lady. Worried that I will make a mistake and poison myself?"

The woman shrugged. "It has happened before. Even the best master may fail miserably when the pupil does not listen."

"I assure you," Rhyl'drin said slowly, "you will not have wasted your knowledge on me. I've been in far more dangerous situations than the mixing of a potent toxin."

The woman nodded, with attractive curls falling into place across her forehead. Rhyl'drin might have pursued a romantic relationship with her, despite being a surface dweller, if only he lead a more stable life. He laughed at himself to think this- she seemed so superior and out of reach that it was foolish to consider the option. He focused on her teaching for the time being. "Very well then. First, you will have to gather your ingredients...."

Amidst the chaos, a lone brown-haired mercenary snored loudly. The explosion nearby stirred him but for a second, and then once again, he was fast asleep, dreaming about who knew what? He mumbled something in his sleep that sounded a little like, "Bah...mentor always told me to stay away from the drink, but I didn't listen..." As his snores became louder, it was virtually impossible to hear anything else.

The concerned bartender walked over to him. The man prodded the sleeping figure several times before saying, "Sir? Sir, wake up." After a few moments of no response, the guy pulled his head up by his long hair, put his mouth right next to his ear, and shouted, "SIR, WAKE UP!" Lyon jumped up, his eyes shooting around frantically, his left hand searching for a weapon.

"What's going on?" He asked drearily, as he tried to recall just exactly who he was and where he was. He managed to rediscover that his name was Lyon, he was a mercenary, and that he was in a pub, though he couldn't quite recall which one. Judging from all the chaos, he'd say the Drital Qu'ellar, but that didn't seem quite right. He looked over at the bartender, and decided to ask him.

"Where am I?" he asked plaintively.

"The Wilwarin, sir." the man answered. "You had a few too many, and you passed out."

"Really?" Lyon asked, amazed. How had that happened? He had never been a heavy drinker. And now, here he was, awakening to find himself in a pub, with an incredibly excruciating headache. Obviously, something had gone terribly wrong. His eyes scanned his surroundings as he tried to get his bearings.

The alcohol sucked.

That was the problem with good alcohol, after you got off it, everything else tasted like crud. Offal. Things that Vex had ingested (forced ingestion, of course) in Hel but that she still loathed. Not hated- loathed. You could hate something without necessairily ever experiencing it but to loathe something? That required some hefty experience. You could loathe a person. You could loathe a food. But you needed to experience it first. Needed to experience -lots- of it.

Yup, loathe was definitely the right word. Vex was quite amazed at her higher state of consciousness brought upon by alcohol. She had never existed on this wave of... enlightenement before. Never saw the need to fiddle and twiddle with words. Perhaps she should do this more often- not just get drunk. Get super drunk. Using her reflexes brought upon by this heightened state of awareness she carefully and artistically caught a randomly thrown bottle of beer with her face. It was artistic because she avoided the cutlery, the chairs, the bats (bats?) and the random half-orc that accompanied it. As she watched the bottle slowly hit and shatter on the floor Vex nodded in appreciation.

Yessirre, nothing like a good bottle of alcohol, enlightenment and a good day's worth of wages. Then her brow scrunched up as she wondered where the wages thought had come from and she lost enlightenment. It was a sad process. A sad and deadly process for her brain cells no doubt, but no one on this side of the milky spoon had ever heard of brain cells so it was a moot point.

He gasped. His entire life played before his eyes as the feel of the floor left him. He was flying, for the first time in his life, only in a manner that he did not entirely welcome. He found the rest of himself dangling like a coat pinned to a line of clothes to dry.

He instinctively grasped for Melandro's wrist. It was solid as steel encased in leather.

As they moved, he felt his toes slip from the confines of his shoes. Certainly? Was the floor lathered with that much alcoholic slick that his soles were left glued to the boards as if they were in all intents a trap? He would not be left pondering upon such insignificant nonsense for then Wybert feared for his life. He knew not what the knight was capable, but by the sight of his sheathes, twin blades that hung on either side of his belt, the man was clearly a skilled fighter.

Van der Buck sought for freedom. He fought with all his might, but what scrawny might is capable of battling against one who appeared closer to the peak of youth?

"Alright then... we will not share..." He bargained.

"You can have them both! With my coat! Yes, my precious coat!"

Melandro was relentless.

"You can have my shoes!"

"And what worth are those material possessions to me?" Obsidian barked.

"I can sell them for profit and return to you--"

Vladimira gasped in reply to Wybert's rudeness. Flushed and in a fit of anger, she rose with her sister, facing the man with a tremendous amount of scorn. Obviously, she was emotionally distressed. About damn time.

"You dare sell us like we were nothing to you?