((Heheheh...*evil cackle*))

In a flurry of teal robes, the 16-year-old boy stepped from a carriage and into the bustling streets of Lomedor, only to be shoved around like a doll by a horde of citizens doing their daily business. Almost immediately, his polite and rather posh expression was replaced by a stark mask. White teeth bared and brows knitted together, the teenager shoved through the crowd with amazing authority and aggressiveness for one so delicate-looking. At a first glance, one would know that Tamolux Quintero was a boy of rich upbringing--the type that knew his manners and had no lack of sophisticated etiquette. Such a boy was /not/ one for brawn, and mind you, he did get pushed and trampled on during the struggle to get to his destination.

Finally reaching the edge of the dirt road, his formerly spotless robes bore a thick layer of dust, and there was even a bruise under his right cheekbone (which he healed with magic, but there was still a small blue mark). However, his platinum blond hair was still in the worst state imaginable, as it had always been. Stalagmites of blond poked every which-way until it looked like a bird nest that no bird dared claim. Even though he always spent ever ounce of his time preening his precious robes, his hair was always windswept no matter how hard he tackled it. Every bit of this teenager pointed to a rich family, from the pale skin from lack of sunlight, to the intelligent pale blue eyes. Thus was Tamolux Quintero. But oh, there where many more clues about his background…

He strode purposefully into the Wilwarin Inn and Pub, and sat down at a more comfortable and expensive seat far from the door, dusting off his robes as he did so (and the chair, which was much too dirty for him of course). “A bowl of stew, please, and herbal tea--the best you have,” he said in a practiced voice. If he had been standing up, or addressing someone more prestigious perhaps, you could almost imagine him doing a highly formal bow. The man taking the order glanced at him. “Sure y’don’t want a big bottle o’ grog?” the barman asked. But one glimpse from Tamolux told him what his answer was, and the man hurried away.

Alcohol, Tamolux thought with a sniff. He spotted a very drunken man swaggering around a couple tables down, hollering and yelling a song and odd threats at the top of his lungs, and Tamolux cringed slightly at the sight. There was no way that he would loose his dignity like that, /ever/. The boy had his pride as a proper gentleman, and believe me, his pride probably towered over most people. Nothing could possibly stir Tamolux Quintero into drinking, now could there?

The wind howled across the streets of Lomedor, shaking the quaint little pub of the Wilwarin Inn, a dark figure striding across the streets. The indisputable smell of iron wafted through the air as faint crystals of natural ice began treading down on the dilapidated, slate roof. Outside, the silhouette strode against the cobblestone streets. The virgin layer of snow crunching with the man's footsteps as his jet black robes billowed under him. Ominous clouds stood poised above the streets of Lomedor, as if waiting to cover upon the city in a smothering blanket. Quickly, the citizens of the bright and cheery city scattered, preparing for the harsh and violent winter storm that would soon be upon them all.

Despite this, the dark figure could still be seen trekking through the city’s labyrinth of alleys and nooks which filled the long depths of the metropolis. Grumbling, Demetrio hugged his cloak tighter and tighter against himself, protecting against the cold weather. Darn the city’s need for the new call-a-healer program, thought the young healer as he grabbed his bag in order to prevent it fluttering in the ever increasing winds so that his potions wouldn’t get too messed up or shaken. Why in the world did the call for a healer always occur along with the worst possible timing?

Honestly, one would actually think that the citizens of Lomedor wanted all their healers to die out. Plus, the pay was barely anything compared with that of a healer in a clinic. Someday, Demetrio would buy his own clinic and show the nurses in the hospital how great he was…maybe if he joined the war as a field medic his reputation would grow? Shaking the thoughts from his head, the young Vasquez continued inching his way through the streets of Lomedor hoping that the Wilwarin Inn would appear sooner or later.

It wasn’t before long when Demetrio soon saw the welcome sign of the Wilwarin’s trademark butterfly. Rushing up with a quick teleportation spell (Lothlomendil bless the soul of whoever thought of that spell), Demetrio carefully opened the door, a gust filling the pub before the mage quickly snapped the door shut, his face flushing with the warmth.

An affable smile lit his face as the bartender looked up, evidently glad to see the healer back once again in order to care for one of his partons. Demetrio really needed to tell the healer that he wasn’t the inn’s personal slave. Quickly, the robust man pointed to the back where a chef with obvious burns from the stoves was moaning in pain. Rolling his eyes Demetrio walked over to the chef, taking a casual look at the man.

Shuffling through his pack, Demetrio soon found the proper ointments and potions. Gently, Demetrio uttered the Sindarian phrases as they activated the healing process. Slowly and gradually, the burned skin began to repair itself, before appearing a nice pinkish shade, although it was vastly different from that of the chef’s tanned skin. Well, Demetrio would need all the mana he could get and healing a wound all the way was just a waste of energy. With a quick slap of his healing salve onto the wound, Demetrio announced that the chef was good to go, despite the cringing reactions to the chef.

”Aw, what are you winging about? I’ve seen hobbits take better wounds then you, you baby!” scolded Demetrio as he packed his belongings and moved towards the bar, “That’ll be 40 gold coins, sir!”

”Only 40 this time? What happened to the usual 50 gold? Lowering your prices I see!” remarked the bartender, his face evidently elated at saving 10 coins of gold.

”Please, even a healer needs his dinner, and plus the weather’s just terrible outside,” retorted Demetrio as the bartender grumbled, ordering a chef to bring in a meal for the healer. Something about how healers were always cheating him out of his money.

Quickly, the kitchen door swung open, as the plump bartender strode towards Demetrio, the fragrance of the sizzling steak wafting throughout the pub, permeating it with a fresh smell that was the signature of meat. Carefully, the mage gingerly picked up the silverware, delicately slicing a piece of the steak out, before placing it into his mouth. Slowly, the mage allowed the delicate juices to seep along his tongues, carefully chewing through the meat.

The potato sat still on the plate, its fluffy contents dripping with golden butter, and was then invaded by the mage's fork. He mashed it as the stranger spoke, not taking his eyes off of him, then gently scooped out some of the contents, and slipped it into his mouth.

Demetrio cut another piece of steak, and dipped it into the potato, coating it in the mash, then ate it softly, before setting down the cutlery. Looking up, Demetrio nodded before asking, ”None of my father’s herbal tea? The Vasquez family always needs tea you know!”

Slowly, the bartender grumbled some more, handing Demetrio a teapot of the Laskaran tea. However, immediately, Demetrio’s peripheral vision spotted a spark of blond hair. Turning around, Demetrio immediately wondered where he recognized the hair…perhaps a patient he treated?

((OOC: Need to pack, need to pack for tomorrow’s flight…))

“Your stew, sir.” Tamolux placed the piece of parchment of his father’s trade receipt down onto the wooden table as the food was placed before him. It was fresh and hot, with wisps of steam still tumbling into the somewhat chilly air. Gingerly, he lifted the spoon and dipped it into the soup, starting his light meal just as he eyed a healer charging in to rescue a man from a light burn. The chef howled and whined at the top of his voice, and Tamolux rubbed his temples, deeply disturbed by the unnecessary racket. Psh, people these days…making such a fuss over small wounds. It certainly wasn't worth all this torture. Yet, Tamolux kept to himself and decided not to complain (for once), and continued to eat while he waited for his herbal tea.

Much to his relief, the commotion was soon over. The chef was healed and the healer started on his dinner as well. An aroma of steak floated through the air, and Tamolux looked up in amusement. How could this healer afford such an expensive meal? Interested, the blond teenager glanced at the boy to his left from the corner of his pale blue eyes. The first thing that caught his attention was the boy’s jet black hair. It stood out in all directions, somewhat like his own.

But then… ”None of my father’s herbal tea? The Vasquez family always needs tea you know!” Vasquez, and that word rang a big bell. Such, that Tamolux’s spoon hovered mid-air on its way towards his mouth. A teapot was handed over to the healer by the grumbling bartender, after mumbling something about rip-offs. It was then that Tamolux felt a pair of eyes on him (and it happened to be Demetrio noticing his mass of blond hair). Reaching over to the tea kettle, he poured its contents expertly into the small teacup, and the smell of herbal leaves suffused through the air. Cupping the ceramic with both hands, he took a small sip. “So it happens to be Quintero tea,” he muttered, partly to himself, yet partly to the older boy. A small annoying little smirk pulled at his lips and he turned slightly towards the young Vasquez sitting beside him.

***

A wagon rolled by to the entrance of the pub, and the bartender went out to greet it. “The eight barrels are here already?” the barman asked the driver, and eyed the round wooden cylinders, and shrugged his shoulders. “I thought they were comin’ tomorrow, but now’s just fine.” Before long, all eight barrels containing alcohol were unloaded, and the bartender started rolling them into the Wilwarin Inn and Pub, one by one, while Tamolux and Demetrio were still eating. In less than a few minutes, all of them were standing upright next to the counter, waiting to be opened, and render their drinkers into the drunkest state.

((OOC: Is that comment even enough to make Demetrio slightly mad? XD))

Quickly and without thought, Demetrio's hands instinctively went towards the ceramic teapot, its common brown exterior providing a false facade for the extravagance that would lay behind it. With the skill of a boy who's blood virtually ran with tea in it, Demetrio began mixing the tea causing it to release an aroma which immediately permeated the air, almost drowning out the pungent stench of alcohol. With a quick rise, dip, and stop the tea made its way into Demetrio's ceramic cup as if guided by an unseen force.

Of course, the best part of it all was that Demetrio had never raised his own hand while concocting and naturalising the intricate process of drinking tea. It was amazing how the teapot was able to hover in the air so skillfully and without a single waver. Unsuspectingly, Demetrio's index finger directed the entire process. The new "Unseen Servant" spell which Demetrio had recently learned from a mage that lived quite close to the hospital had been particularily useful to the young Vasquez recently as the tea pot slowly made its way down to his area of the table.

Slowly, steam began to waft up into Demetrio's nose, his senses reacting quite well to the fragrant aroma. The tea leaves which were found inside the herbal tea slowly unraveled in the steaming liquid, Demetrio slowly and gracefully picking it up. A gentle whisper issued a cool breeze through the tea, sending ripples to clash against the cup's ceramic walls. With a pleasant sigh, Demetrio finally sent the cup towards his lips, allowing the hot liquid to seep down his throat. However, instead of the usually fresh and soothing effects of the tea, Demetrio only tasted the bitterness within it as if the tea had been mass collected and not even checked or inspected for quality. This definitely wasn't the hand-picked, pain-stakingly grown Vasquez tea which his family was renown for creating. This was the disgusting tea of the...

“So it happens to be Quintero tea,” suddenly spoke a boy who's voice virtually dripped with arrogance. Yes, the tea could only belong to the brand which was known to the Laskarans as having the cheapest and worst quality. The Quintero Family. Gritting his teeth, Demetrio sent a glare towards the bartender with a look that would of frozen the robust man in his very shoes. A look that would of killed, one which even Ita the Reckless would have been proud of (which was quite the compliment, thank you). With a faint look, the bartender began to go pale, "What? Oh! You wanted Vasquez tea, well. You know, business has been bad lately and the Quintero brand was much cheaper and... the bartender said before Demetrio's glare turned the temperature down to subzero, causing the bartender to make himself shut up in fear.

Demetrio's hands slowly began to warm-up, a slight spark even visible to those who focused on his hands. With a slight movement, scorch marks could be seen on the rouch surface of the wood grain. Keeping his face down, Demetrio roughly stabbed his stake, before sending his glare straight down the table towards the boy's platinum hair which looked like...well, a bird's nest. Perhaps the worst fashion statement ever created in mankind, one worthy of being punished. Demetrio soon began scanning his mind for the most painful spells he could imagine. Maybe a fireball to burn those spotless teal robes? A geyser to boil the boy's skin? Quicksand to bury him underground? Lightning? They were all viable options, but ones which would cause Demetrio to be thrown into prison.

"Well, if it isn't a Quintero himself. I was wondering where that pungent stench was brewing from," remarked Demetrio, his voice full of daggers as men hastily moved a fresh new batch of ale onto the counter. Well, they would see who had the better family and tolerance, thought Demetrio. He doubted that this Quintero...whatever his name was, would be able to hold even a mug of the weak beverage. "Then again, it could be the smell of fear. A Quintero's fear that he can't even hold in his ale!

Instantly, a long howl went through the room as Demetrio uttered the worst possible threat to be thrown in a pub. Quickly, two mugs went up as men around the room began making bets on which of the two boys would go down first to the alcohol's dangerous lure.

Sipping slowly from the ceramic cup, Tamolux let a small mouthful quench his craving for tea after going without if for a painstakingly long time. The refreshing taste allowed him to relax periodically, and the mage exhaled with a sigh that soothed every muscle in his body.

It was the evenings when he had enjoyed his tea in Laskar that he had missed the most. Now that he was in a foreign land, things were different. He no longer had the guidance of his father, the abundance of tea to his satisfaction every evening, nor his comfortable bed at night, or maids to do his chores. Such /chores/ were up to him now, and it pained his dignity to think that he had sink so low. But with the second sip of the Quintero tea, the worries were gone, washed away with the faint bitter taste, and a smirk appeared on his face. Oh yes, it was Quintero tea indeed, not the Vasquez tea that stripped the money off its customers that the tea didn’t deserve. The little joys in life such as finding one’s own product being served in a distant country was quite enough to lift his spirits.

A small wave of scorn and rage fueled his satisfaction as the Vasquez sitting beside him seethed. He watched the bartender stutter in effort to explain, and to evade Demetrio’s icy glare. "What? Oh! You wanted Vasquez tea, well. You know, business has been bad lately and the Quintero brand was much cheaper and...” Hearing this, the young blond nearly grinned. But of course, it turned out to be more like a sneer more than any sign of true happiness. The Vasquez to his left steamed at the information, and how Tamolux loved to watch him squirm. Along with the Quintero tea he was drinking, this just topped his day more than anyone could imagine. The ‘grin’ widened.

"Well, if it isn't a Quintero himself. I was wondering where that pungent stench was brewing from," the somewhat angered voice came from his left. Then, the Vasquez continued. "Then again, it could be the smell of fear. A Quintero's fear that he can't even hold in his ale!” At this, any sign of overconfidence vanished from Tamolux’s pale face, and the teenager turned slightly paler than the normal light shade; the sneer gone completely. A huge roar drew up among the men who had been listening to this conversation, and his blood froze in his veins. Even a well-bred boy like him knew what this challenge meant. The wheels in his blond head whirred wildly, but no possible excuse came up, no matter how many angles he attacked. Refusing the challenge was of the utmost disgrace, and Tamolux was very keen to keep his pride, thank you very much.

Fighting his instinct to refuse, Tamolux glared at his polished boots, and slammed his teacup onto the wooden table firmly. The loud ‘bang’ reached every end of the pub. “Bring it on.” These three words carried none of his sophisticated tone whatsoever. His hand gripped the glass of ale closest to him, and he faltered for a second as if reconsidering his choice. But then, the usual confidence and nonchalance returned. “May I be so flattered as to know your name, Vasquez? Sadly enough, I don’t even have a clue, considering how prestigious you claim to be,” he drawled aloofly, right hand tightening his grip on the cold glass. “Cheers to you.” Then, with several large gulps, Tamolux Quintero downed his first glass. At first, it seemed that he hadn’t done anything but drink water. Then, the sick taste of ale in his mouth made his face twist in disgust. However, a reckless sensation stole over him. "First to fall buys 300 Gold's worth of tea from the other family!" he challenged, extending a hand.

((EDIT: I didn't mean /that/ biiig pile of gold! >< I kind of forgot how much a guild cost, so I got my numbers all mixed up. XD ))

Slowly but surely, Demetrio confidence increased as if by magic, his head and ego both inflating to otherworldy or even godly proportions. Never in his life had he been able to humiliate his rivals in such a way and today was a day to celebrate. What exactly to celebrate? His family's once again true superiority to the Quintero clan which had so often ravaged his family's economic might...not that his family hadn't done the exact same to the Quintero's fortune.

However, the long history of both families' tiring and trivial (although that was an understatement) clashes were of no importance to Demetrio at that moment. He was just basking in the glory of watching the shock and humiliation which would soon appear on the face of the foolish Quintero heir which sat before him. The boy would have no pity by the end of the day... if Demetrio knew what fate had in store for him.

Fortunately, for the readers of this story it was in Demetrio's interest that he would not know the painful effects of alcoholic intoxication which would be his fate on this night, and if the gods of the pantheon had any matters in this (which they probably did), then his drinking rival/companion would also suffer the same consequences which befell any amateur drinker.

Demetrio's once icy and almost lethal glares soon faded away in a current of pride and egotistical power as he downed his final cup of tea from the poor quality of the ceramic from which he drank. It truly wasn't the luxuries which he had once enjoyed as a child in Laskar, but at least he had his magic still. No need for maids or servants which his family had so lavishly enjoyed. Instead Demetrio could conjure simple forces of magic which would complete his menial tasks "chores" for him. Something called an unseen servant which was quite the enchantment Demetrio needed for his tasks. Plus, he never ever needed to get his hands dirty, a task which this boy probably had to do.

A sneer soon left the face of Tamolux Quintero to the satisfaction of Demetrio as the once dignified and cultured, maybe even "sophisticated" boy turned into nothing but a common laborer, his voice tinted with rage and the ever bitter taste of vengence. Well, no vengence would be raining upon Demetrio's parade today as he raised himself, heading over to the pub as Tamolux's vile words reached him,"Bring it on."

Slowly, Demetrio twirled his head, his face surprised that Tamolux would even attempt to consume the disgusting beverages which so often intoxicated the patrons of the Wilwarin, as good natured as they were. "Well met, Quintero. Tonight we'll see which one of us can actually hold each others ale, Demetrio replied, his ego swelling another notch.

The tone of the room soon fell silent as Tamolux began consuming the liquid, Demetrio not waiting to fall behind. With a quick swipe, Demetrio poured the ale into his throat, his mind taking quite a few minutes to realize the shock of not tea...but ale. With a few gulps, Demetrio soon slammed the wooden mug upon the table, his face not changing a bit, although that was probably due to the slow affects of the alcohol.

"Are you two sure you can handle yourselves? the bartender immediately asked, nervous that he would have to allow the two boys to be sleeping in his inn. Drunken customers were often not the best especially in an inn and if they knew magic. Last time the bartneder had drunken sorcerors which had nearly destroyed the entire city. Not a very good experience.

Looking back, Demetrio lit himself quite the fireball, his mana mixing with the alcohol in his blood stream to creat a portable inferno. "I think I can handle myself, its the boy over there...Whats-his-name Quintero who might need help!" Demetrio exclaimed, a glint in his eyes which had never appeared before.

Uh-oh, thought the bartender.

The taste of ale was so putrid that it almost made him gag as he quaffed it by the mug-full. It was such a disgusting drink--nowhere along the lines of his precious herbal tea. But down it went as he pushed the urge to slam the drink on the table and leave. His pride and family name was at stake, and when he was in a situation such as this, he had no doubt what his priority was. Just thinking of the Vasquez befouling the Quintero name would give him the determination to drink a thousand mugs if necessary. And these thoughts enabled him to gulp down the revolting alcohol.

The last mouthful in the cup went down his throat, and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, not caring whether or not he dirtied the teal fabric for once in his life. As soon as this first mug was down, the bartender came over to refill in a rather uneasy manner, as if trying to come up with an alternative that would stop these two egotistical teenagers from ruining his inn. However, it was obvious that he couldn’t come up with a better idea--just how dangerous it would be to defy two drunken, magical, reckless boys from prestigious families? He had no other option but to fill their empty mugs. Soon enough, Tamolux’s second cup was full.

Vasquez had completely ignored his ‘polite’ inquiry for his name, yet he didn’t seem to care for such things anymore. That boy was a Vasquez, and his name was not significant enough to waste his brain capacity, even though he certainly had enough memory to spare. "I think I can handle myself, it’s the boy over there...What’s-his-name Quintero who might need help!" Tamolux snorted indignantly. If Vasquez didn’t care for his name, why should he? The Vasquez’s were all the same, and they should all be known merely as ‘Vasquez’ to him.

A glowing ball of orange fire accumulated in the 19-year-old’s hands. Tamolux had no doubt that this fireball could singe his robes and skin, along with the wooden tables and chairs in the pub. Even though the slow effects of his previous mug-full had started to seep into his system, the mage still had a half-clear mind. Oh, and he /knew/ who he was up against if it came to a magical battle ‘til the very end. So, as quickly as he could muster, Tamolux slid off his seat until he was standing, and downed his second mug of ale. “Better catch up if you don’t want to lose, Vasquez!” he proclaimed with a somewhat groggy grin, swaying on his feet. Then, he gave his drinking opponent a supposedly playful shove to the shoulder. However, the healer’s medical bag happened to be behind Demetrio and was probably full of delicate potion containers that could easily break, but we don't need to mention that.

“So, what do you say about the Gold? Three hundred to the winner. Shake on it, Vasquez?” He held onto the chair to steady himself, feeling a numb stupor suffusing through his usually attentive mind. A loud drunken laughter came next. Swaggering over to the table, he immediately downed a third serving. “Or are you too cowardly to take the challenge?” However, this voice wasn't the usual sneering, jibing, contemptuous tone he always used. Oddly enough, his voice was almost childish--it seemed that most of the alcohol had finally gotten to the boy.

((Wow, I finally have some time to post))

Slowly and gradually, the effects of the ale's alocholic content began to wrap its putrid tendrils around Demetrio's mind as his usually calm temperment was slowly replaced by a surprisingly, irrational and impractical state of concentration as his eyes slowly blocked out all sounds and sights other then the mugs and mugs of ale that awaited him. Quickly, Demetrio snatched a full mug of the alcoholic beverage and quickly began quaffing the liquid by the mouthful, his eyes not even twitching.

With a loud and satisfying slam against the hardwood countertop, Demetrio let out a feral growl that beckoned for more ale. No one ever beat him in a competition and his reputation in school was quite renown for the ruthless tactics which he had more then often employed while in even a trivial contest. Win at all costs was somewhat of a unofficial family motto according to the Vasquez family...and the Quintero family would just be another nuisance that would be crushed under the Vasquez shadow.

Watching the Quintero boy...yes, he was merely a boy, Demetrio thought under his intoxicated state of mind, Demetrio noticed that he was beginning to become desperate as Demetrio himself struggled to clear his mind of the derogatory effects of the brew, his mana struggling to keep pace with the damage which the alcohol was causing within his own body. Grabbing the closest beverage, Demetrio once again began another episode of the contest, downing what seemed like his fourth mug, to the surprise of the Wilwarin's regular patrons and the bartender himself. Well, it probably had something to do with the mana hidden in the boys' bloodstream, thought the bartender, and it was still best if the two mages didn't galvanize another barfight. It was bad enough with warriors, but even worse with mages.

Demetrio's mind however couldn't stay at the bottle for long as he saw the Quintero swagger over, his foots light and his mannerism...well, confident. Demetrio would need to settle that as the Quintero boy downed another mug, Demetrio growling as he quickly followed, a slight dribble dropping down his lip. Under normal circumstances, Demetrio would have stopped there in order to wipe off the liquid, but his mind didn't seem to be under the normal circumstances, and so Demetrio continued to gulp the ale until the last drop was gone.

Pushing the mug forward, Demetrio suddenly noticed that the boy was right infront of him, as Quintero uttered something, which Demetrio's ears couldn't pick up (probably due to the amount of intoxication which his mind was under). Well, it probably wasn't important until the Quintero shoved Demetrio. Usually, it would have been considered light, but under the drunken regulations of Demetrio's mind, the Quintero might as well have instigated a full out war against the Vasquez family, just like the time of old when nobles were often battling each other out at simple whims. Well, if it was a war the boy wanted, then it was a war the boy would get. Of course, it didn't help that Demetrio's entire bag of potions and salves were just destroyed but that wasn't too important, seeing how Demetrio was unable to think correctly.

Trying to think of a nice retort, Demetrio's mind was suddenly incapable of speaking the correct syllables. Instead of How dare you!, the Sindarian incantation for the chaotic spell, Crimson Lightning came out. With a small shockwave, lightning began literally shooting out of Demetrio's very fingertips, as small chains of electricity were immediatelly attracted to the closest objects near Demetrio...which just so happened to be the wall of liquor. Well, things didn't go well after that as a chain reaction occured, causing the liquids to burst into flames.

As Demetrio's eyes sparkled his mind attempted to say something along the lines of Oh! Pretty colors! However just as the syllables were expelled from the healer's lips, the incantation for a pheonix summoning was brought forth, only causing more trouble, as the flames of the liquids slowly shifted into the shape of a pheonix. It could be said that the following was perhaps the worst occaison for the bartender as patrons immediately began screaming, regretting ever coming to the bar during Christmas as the pheonix soared through the room lighting everything aflame.

With a roar, the bartender immediately grabbed the scruff of Demetrio's collar along with that of Tamolux, throwing the poor healer out onto the snow as the local Guards attempted to kill the flames which only seemed to roar higher. "What ish de matter?" Demetrio uttered under drunken lips, his twisted words only causing another solar wind to sweep through the bar, making matters worse.