Quest From Alliria To Elbion

“H-Hey! Wait for me!” Quoril cried as he dashed after Sledge and her giant bird. He was really glad that they had sorted their differences out. Now they could travel with the caravan without any misgivings for each other. It was also comforting to know that even though she still might call him names, she would have his back.

Reaching the tail end of the caravan, he slowed to a walk, staying a few paces behind Sledge. Looking up at the armor clad elf sitting atop the giant bird, Quoril smiled to himself. He had made one friend so far on this journey and couldn’t wait to get a chance to mingle with the others.

Sledge glanced back just enough to see Quoril running to catch up. Keeping pace behind Mace and alongside the caravan. A little smirk. He insisted on walking, didn't he? Fair enough, if it suited him. Might make him winded if a fight suddenly broke out, but he was a mage. Less of a concern.

She had a mind to offer him a ride. He might not take it, and Mace might not like the additional weight, but still, she had a mind to do it. Despite his height, Quoril couldn't be that heavy. Fred was a safe bet with regard to Mace's finicky sensibilities, but Quoril probably made the cut too. Elves never weighed too much.

Heh. Funny thought. If Quoril was walking as an act of solidarity. Walking just to work up a sweat. Making for two sweaty elven messes when they made camp or stopped at a town for the night. Add in Laqueta and all elvenkind represented on this trip could look like proper catastrophes.

And, speaking of Laqueta, she seemed alerted to something. Hand on one of her weapons, looking around.

"Hear something?" Sledge said to her up ahead.

Soon as she asked, Sledge heard something too. Faint little rustles. Branches and leaves brushing up against one another. The wind. Or worse.

And 'worse' was the best case scenario for Sledge. That with a side of extra bandits.

Sledge didn't touch her weapons. Not yet. Forests were great for ambushes, but also for false alarms.

And she rode along. Hands on Mace's reins. Glances here and there.

Laqueta narrowed her eyes at Sledge and stopped twirling the dagger she had in her hand. She ignored the elf, an aura of almost arrogance radiating off Sledge. She tsked slightly and turned away from Sledge, of whom she felt like was judging her. How she yearned to get far away from Alliria and get those pesky officials off her back, the ambushes and the battles where she could finally get some action. She, instead, threw the dagger at a sound in the bushes.

There was a small cry of an animal and then silence. She led Midnight over to the small animal and retrieved her dagger along with the corpse of the bunny. The meat was going to be useless as they likely wouldn't be stopping to eat anytime soon but she could probably sell the hide for a decent price in Elbion. She wiped her dagger clean and put in back in the saddle bag, pulling her hunting knife from her boot and beginning to skin the animal.

Her hands off the reins, they hung loosely next to Laqueta, her hands skillfully at work with the brown bunny. Midnight didn't slow down from a trot as they continued further away from Alliria, her posture stiff and her ears still twitching at the rustling of the brush.
She glanced up every once and while, silently admiring the beauty of the forest, the rays of light streaming through the trees.

A little town named Bremming.

The caravan made it there just after nightfall. Right on Pretty Boy Tzuriel's schedule for day one. No hassle, no fuss, nothing to threaten the caravan other than that rabbit, and Laqueta made short work of him before that bastard got any ideas. Amazing throw, that. Sledge ought to know, her own aim was godawful. So she could appreciate good throws and shots when she saw them.

Still early in the evening, so there was some activity in town. Torches outsides and hearthfires inside houses. The barkeeper and the innkeeper of the town saw them coming in. Big grins on their faces. Brothers, had to be. Looked like illusory copies of the same man, save the barkeep favoring a mustache and the innkeep a bushy beard.

Sledge guided Mace over to the local stablemaster while most of the others disembarked from the caravan. Heh, stablemaster was a human. But, lucky her, he'd actually seen a Moa Strider before, even if he didn't look pleased about it. Fair enough. Bremming was on the northeasternmost part of Falwood. Rare sights, Moas, but not unheard off, like in the vast majority of the Reach to the east of Alliria.

She paid the stablemaster, throwing in a little extra because Mace decided to be a bitch and smack him on the head with her beak, then walked back toward the inn and the tavern. She'd worry about getting a room later. Tavern first. Didn't catch the name of it on the way in, and she liked collecting the various names of taverns in her travels. Some made her laugh. Some didn't. More and more she preferred the ones with names that made her laugh. The taverns with 'serious' or 'prestigious' names tended to have the wine she liked, sure, but you couldn't buy a good time.

Sledge stopped before the stairs leading up to the door. Looked at the sign next to the stairs.

Drink or Don't.

Sledge smiled. A throaty, stifled laugh in her throat. Good enough. Winner of the most goddamn straightforward name she'd ever seen, though.

And she walked up the steps and pushed the door open and walked in. Orange firelight from the hearthfire, plenty of the townsfolk winding down, the caravan drivers, the mustached brother making a hell of a show pouring mead into a glass, and loud cursing from one table as some bloke lost a bet.

Caravan duty wasn't so bad. Maybe fun nights would make up for boring days.

As the curses abated, a voice spoke over the bar from a corner table.

"This is what happens when you try to win more than you earn. Do try to think more next time you consider it."

The speaker was a shorter Raaka, or Birdfolk in the trade tongue, though different from the local variety. His tawny feathers covered the whole of his body, and his wings, while folded, showed potential for a massive spread. What set him apart from the typical Raaka to be found in the region was his face. Where most Raaka encountered in the Aberresai Savannah had the head structure of falcons or eagles, his bore the resemblance of an owl; and his eyes shown with glinting amber. Though it was likely that most would not even know them as Raaka, the Birdfolk of the road often traveled together much as Orc clans oft do. But not so with this one.

After a brief barrage of even more curses, these ones with direction toward the Raaka, the gambler returned to their game with what little remained of their wealth. The Raaka continued drinking alone at their table while pouring over...a book? Rare enough to find a Raaka alone, but a book in a bar such as this, let alone at the same time. It was indeed a strange occurrence to anyone with a mind for these things.

As more from the newly arrived caravan trickled in, the Birdman abandoned his seat and made his way to the stairs, expertly dodging drinks and food with his wings and tail. But as he passed the gambling table, those with an expert eye noted an swift and subtle exchange between the player and the bird before the latter made his final press for the stairs.

Quoril was exhausted. Long days travelling on foot were nothing new to the elf but the heat of the day had proven nearly unbearable. He had considered asking Sledge if he could ride along with her, ultimately deciding to sweat it out until the caravan stopped for the night.

As the moon began to rise in the sky, they reached the small town of Bremming. A few townsfolk were still out and about as the caravan parked by the local inn. Quoril laughed to himself when he read the inn’s name - Drink or Don’t.

Quroil walked up the small steps leading to the building and opened the door. The sight of people sitting around small tables and the glow of the fireplace greeted him as he walked in. Quoril made his way over the bar and sat down. After ordering food and drink, he turned to take in more of his surroundings. Further down the bar, the bar keeper had begun putting on a show while pouring out drinks. At a nearby table a man swore loudly as he lost a bet.

Shortly after his food had been delivered, Quoril saw Sledge enter the inn. He smiled and waved to her before returning to his meal. The elf could worry about obtaining a room later. Right now all Quoril wanted to do was eat, drink, and meet the other members of the caravan.

A fairly drunken elf gets up from the bar with two large beers in his hand and plopped himself down across from quoril “smells like home don’t it!” He exclaimed as he slid one across the table to quoril, “drink up lad!” Na’ill said as he enthusiastically downed an entire mug and slammed it on the table as his cheeks grow progressively more rosy.

Eclectic lot in here. To be expected, still being so close to Alliria.

Plenty of humans, naturally. A dwarf and a halfling sitting next to one another at the bar. Sledge still had a hard time telling the two apart, but tended to stick with the wise words of a dwarven merc in Blair Company: "When in doubt, you daft bitch, it's all in the beard." He was a dick but he wasn't wrong.

Had a table with three massive orcs sitting at it, drinking and keeping to themselves. No way they were from around here, and it was anybody's guess where they'd come from or where they going and for what purpose. Well. This was going to take a few drinks. To get dumb enough to punch one of them. And she did have a mind to get dumb enough to do it.

Even had a Birdfolk in here. Birdfellow? Birdman? Sledge wasn't overly familiar with it. There was a more proper name for them she probably heard before but had since forgotten. Maybe she'd ask him about it. Have to get his attention out of that book though. Nevermind. The Birdfellow got up and walked past the gambling table and up the stairs.

Oh look. Quoril had an elf table going. Well far be it for her to turn her nose up to such hospitality.

Sledge walked up to the bar counter and asked the mustached brother if he had any wine. Sure, he said, handing off the mug of mead to the dwarf and halfling duo at the counter. He crouched down and brought up a selection of four bottles to choose from. Auch. All human-made. Except the last one. Wait. Dwarves made wine? She could hear herself being called a daft bitch again by that lovable asshole in Blair Company. And she could imagine pouring a mug of dwarven ale on his head and telling him it probably tasted better with his copious tears of rage mixed in.

Eh. What did it matter. That one. She pointed to the bottle most to her right. And the mustached brother put the other three away and got her a goblet and she paid for the whole bottle and took it and the goblet and went to Quoril's table. Sat down with Quoril on her right and the other elf on her left.

"Hope I don't bring down the class of this table too much by sitting here," Sledge said. Grinning. And a glance at the other elf. "But you might have beaten me to it. Good on you. Name's Sledge, by the way."

“Smells like home don’t it?” a drunken elf carrying two large drinks cried happily as he took the seat opposite Quoril. “Drink up lad!” he added sliding one of the mugs towards across the table. Quoril wasn’t sure what to make of the elf sitting with him, but decided it would be rude to refuse the drink offered to him. He watched over the rim of his mug as the shaggy haired elf drained his in one long gulp. “I’m Quoril, an alchemist hailing from Alliria.” he said, setting down his mug.

Before his new tablemate could introduce himself, Sledge appeared and plopped herself down in the chair between them. A large bottle of wine and a goblet accompanied her. "Hope I don't bring down the class of this table too much by sitting here," she said with a grin. “There wasn’t any class to begin with anyway.” Quoril said with a smile. Returning his attention to the new elf he asked “Where are ya from, friend?”

Laqueta glanced at her companions, the rabbit pelt long abandoned, somewhere deep in her saddle bag between her clothing and food. She fished some coins from her bag, handing them to the stablemaster before turning towards the inn and making her way inside. The tavern was loud, obnoxious, and unnecessary, therefore not worth her time. Moving past the tavern's bar, she stole a glance at the innkeeper before sloppily writing down her fake alias. Nienna Soarack. She believed it was the name of someone she had killed before, perhaps a former government member or army general. She couldn't remember, after all, they weren't that important. Either way, the look she got on the innkeepers face was priceless. It didn't matter anyway considering she wrote down a different name at each inn she stopped at and like hell would she ever put her real name.

Twirling the key around her fingers, she unlocked the door to her room, number 14. It was a small, 8'x15' room with a single bed and a pine side table along with a fluffy, red chair in the corner of the room. Brown curtains hung from the window and a soft, patchy rug covered the floor. Laqueta then winced a bit, realizing that she could hear the loud, drunken folks downstairs, not that it was unusual for such an occurrence. Locking the door behind her, she tossed the keys on the nightstand and set down her worn leather bag. After doing a quick money check, she let her body relax a bit and changed into a scruffy top and way too big, black pants. It was all she had to sleep in, not complaining considering the pants were pretty comfy. Slipping off her boots, she grabbed her twin blades and placed them on the nightstand along with her other weapons hidden in her clothing.

She made sure to eat something before she went to bed, one of her daggers sitting in the palm of her hand and her other weapons right there on the nightstand. At least she was away from Alliria and that's all she really wanted, stupid government officials always on her ass.

Ah a woman of class! Na’ill says rather loudly and shares a laugh with himself. As he nods towards the elvish woman and her full bottle of wine. “I suppose your one of those high society gals then?” He pauses to laugh again.

He turned his attention back to Quoril “Oh I’m from all over. He sat there and reminisced I was raised in Fal’Addas you know like every other elf then I got into magic I suppose I wasn’t really spose’ to be getting myself into... started scarin’ every one. One day someone saw me do something bad... real bad. I just couldn’t live there no more so I had to leave.” He sat their for s minute in sad contemplation. But you don’t wanna here my life story anyways do ya! He said as he stood up and got his mug re- filled.

Tathra emerged from the stairs, having allowed his friend at the gambling table sufficient time to gather what he needed. He walked casually past the table leaving a coin and collecting a note. Then, noticing his place had already been taken, resigned himself to sit at the bar. There, he unfolded the paper, read it, and then with a quick incantation, incinerated it. He thanked the bartender for a fresh drink in a special mug of his own making. Made spills substantially less common, what with the beak.

Then he noted Na'ill's presence nearby. He was flanked by two other elves, a scrawny male, and a burly female. Still, an empty seat remained at the table. So as he saw Na'ill attempt to stand for more drinks, Tathra appeared behind him and gently eased him back down. "I'll get these ones Na'ill. What are you all having? Names Tathra, by the way." Gathering a list of drinks and names, he returned a few minutes later, drinks in hand, and a bottle of something special.

"So, you're all with the caravan, huh? Bremming doesn't get much anyone except caravans. Well as I'm sure my friend Na'ill here no doubt told you, we actually work caravan protection ourselves. Though the last one fell through. Been waiting here for such an opportunity as yourselves!" Tathra drank deep from his strangely shaped mug before continuing. "We can see the caravan's in good hands with you lot, but do you suppose your Caravan Master would be willing to have us? I can provide a good view of the terrain, and I have knowledge of the paths in the Aberresai Savannah. We both do."

Ha. Quoril had jokes. Well, if he really thought that, good on him. Sure. She was no stranger to pride. Everybody with any sense had a healthy dose of it. But some, elves especially, took it to an insufferable degree. Like her asshole brother. Too much pride tended to poison the air around oneself. Best to know what you were good at, and what you weren't good at. Know your limits. Yeah.

Ha! This other elf. He had jokes too.

"High society gal?" Sledge said as she poured wine into her goblet. A laugh. "A gal named Yneffuwen might be. But not a bitch named Sledge."

She took a drink.

"Oh. Quoril. You tell anybody else in the caravan that my real name is Yneffuwen and I'll break your neck." She took another drink. Grinned. Winked at him. Adding a moment later, "I'm joking. Just a finger. I'll even let you choose, because I'll be nice about it."

A refill of the goblet. She drank the wine quickly, as if it were beer or ale to be chugged. The unnamed elf gave a brief rundown of his past. Damn. Fal'Addas. Sledge knew that pain. There really was such a thing as too perfect. Too much of a good thing, and that thing in the great elven city was peace and tranquility. Life in Fal'Addas wasn't for her. Oh no. For all the shit she gave humans, they sure knew how to live life alright.

And Sledge drank. Making good progress on the bottle. Good way to close out the night. Get a haze of drink swirling around in her head. Start some shit with those orcs. Then finish the night with a bath. Damn if Alliria and the surrounding areas weren't sweltering at times. Fucking sweat. Auch. And how dreadful would it be if Bremming had no bathhouse nor bath service at the inn? Hope for a nearby lake or pond or stream. If they got their drinking water from a well...oof. Bucket baths were the worst.

The other elf got up.

Sledge took another drink. Looked to Quoril.

"So in a couple minutes I'm going to punch one of the orcs over there." She leaned her head back toward the orc table without looking. "You in? Think that other elf will join us? You know. Show those green fucks who's boss."

A grin. Her cheeks reddened by alcohol.

Hey, look, the Birdfellow. Oh. Na'ill. That was the other elf's name. Seemed the Birdfellow and him knew one another. The Birdfellow even guided the tipsy elf back into the chair. And they wanted to be hired on.

Sledge glanced from Na'ill to the Birdfellow. Tathra. He said his name was Tathra. And she shrugged.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Pretty Boy. Shit. Tzuriel. His name is Tzuriel. Think he turned in already at the inn. Haven't seen him. Maybe you can ask the innkeep. How do you feel about punching orcs?"

There. She said it. True, that Tathra would ruin the whole "elves versus orcs" vibe they almost had going. But hey. Brawls were like a lot of things that followed the simple rule: the more the merrier.

Finally. Another mage. Quoril had been beginning to worry that he would be surrounded by warrior types for the whole trip. Na’ill knew some form of forbidden magic. Quoril would have to remember to ask him about it later.

Quoril couldn’t help but laugh when Na’ill called Sledge “A woman of class” and agreed when she responded "High society gal? A gal named Yneffuwen might be. But not a bitch named Sledge.” He had only known Sledge for a day, but as far as he could tell, class wasn't really something that she concerned herself with. “Oh. Quoril. You tell anybody else in the caravan that my real name is Yneffuwen and I'll break your neck. After taking another swig of wine, she winked at him and said "I'm joking. Just a finger. I'll even let you choose, because I'll be nice about it." He wasn’t sure if Sledge was joking or not, so he decided to keep her real name to himself.

As Na’ill got up to get another drink, Sledge turned to Quoril with a grin on her reddened face. "So in a couple minutes I'm going to punch one of the orcs over there." She leaned her head back toward the orc table without looking. "You in? Think that other elf will join us? You know. Show those green fucks who's boss." Quoril could feel the drinks kicking in and clouding his judgement. He normally would have avoided any conflict with orcs, but right now fighting a few sounded fun. “Hell yeah!” Quoril exclaimed. “Na’ill seems like the crazy sort so I’m sure he’ll jump in.”

Na’ill was guided back to his chair by a birdman who identified himself as Tathra. After taking a seat at the table he offered his services as a caravan protector. Sledge informed him that he needed to take it up with Tzuriel and immediately followed up by asking Tathra how he felt about punching orcs. Quoril was excited. His original plan was to eat and then get a room and turn in for the night. But now it was becoming a party.

“I...” Tathra hesitated at the invitation to join the up and coming brawl. It wasn’t that he hated the idea, though there was definite trepidation. No, there was a strong urge to refuse the Elves simply because they were Elves, and at least a couple of the Orcs in the bar he had been working with just last week. However, the brawl could prove the perfect opportunity to endear himself with a future crew. This could do nicely.

“Let’s do this! I’ve been told that I have a mean kick for a Raaka. And who should I blame for my bruises come the morning?” Tathra quaffed what remained of his drink and wiped his beak. He picked up the strange bottle from the center of the table and started towards the bar. “Anyone still conscious at the end gets this treat. Special all the way from the Spine.”

Na’ill didn’t resist the guidance as it was being followed by a drink. “Do you have the money for these or did you gamble it all away again?” He asked Tathra sarcastically as he nudged him in the rib cage.

“As for those green assholes Quoril? I think that’s your name...” he said as he speech started slurring. “Help me get this table!” He said as he stood up and picked up one side and motioned towards the orcs. “Let’s get fuck’n rowdy!” He half yelled as he removed one hand from the table and grabbed the now mostly empty bottle of wine and smashed the end on his head and tossed the crude weapon to his feathered friend.

“Hell yeah that’s the spirit!” He said, glad that Tathra had agreed though Na’ill was almost positive he would’ve turned down the offer. No matter he thought as he resumed his hold he had earlier on the table.

Now that was something.

Everybody accepted. Even Quoril. Alright, so that was unfair. She didn't really know anything about Tathra or Na'ill, their predispositions or lack thereof for starting random tavern brawls, so it was unfair to single out Quoril like that in thought. Should be funny to watch a mage throw some punches though.

Na'ill--well now she was learning something about him, wasn't she?--got a little too into it. "Hey. Na'ill. Drop the weapon, yeah? Fists. Fists. We're not trying to kill anybody, just have a spot of fun. Points for enthusiasm, though."

The mustached barkeep said from behind the counter some choice obscenities and gestured toward the broken glass on the floor from the wine bottle.

Sledge finished what was left of the wine currently in her goblet and set it back down and stood. Glancing to Quoril and Na'ill and Tathra. Biting the skin under her bottom lip. Eyebrows perked up.

And she weaved her way past the other tables and those who sat at them and approached the table full of orcs near the corner. Changed her stride from a walk to more of a saunter as she neared. Looking about innocently. And she tapped one of the orcs, his back to her, on the shoulder. Gods, the muscles on the three of them. She got all greased up just looking at them.

The orc placed his hands on the table and slowly turned his head to look back at her over his shoulder.

And she took off her right gauntlet and dropped it to the floor and punched him. Square in the left cheek. The orc's head barely even moved and motherfuck did her hand hurt now.

The sound of the smack brought most of the activity in the tavern to a halt. That primal and visceral sound of a fight tended to command attention, alright. Silence and curious gazes toward Sledge and her companions and the orcs sitting at the table.

Sledge grinned at the orc.

The orc slowly turned his head and looked to his two fellow orcs.

A moment.

And the other two orcs cheerfully thrust both their arms into the air and shouted something in orcish. The orc Sledge had punched reached up and with one thick arm and laid it around her shoulders and yanked her closer like she was an old war buddy and the sides of their faces were mushed together and he then thrust his free arm into the air like his fellows.

"Another round!" said one of the orcs to the barkeep, who was more than happy to get to work on it.

"For the elves and the Raaka!" said another.

"'Eyyy, race you to the bottom!" Sledge said to the orc who had her in an amiable headlock.

"I live for a good challenge, elf!" he replied.

Well that certainly didn't go the way she had expected, but this was fine too. Probably better to be hungover tomorrow for just a bit instead of nursing injuries for a few days after. Eh. Well. She tried. Seemed the three orcs were far more taken by celebrating the fact that she wanted to fight instead of actually following through on said fight. Fair enough. Quoril had to be a touch relieved. Na'ill disappointed, he seemed ready to stab someone. Tathra she had no idea about. He'd reveal some choice details about his personality with all this fresh drink coming their way, though. For sure.

Well, that went about as well as it could. Tathra was more than willing to ingratiate himself with the crew of the caravan, but a brawl could potentially draw out the bear. He was fairly certain he'd have been able to keep it in line, but there was always the chance. He went over to the table with the Orcs and grabbed drinks on the way.

By the time several rounds had passed, Tathra was well and thoroughly drunk. Several wards now covered various parts of the tavern and people therein. Tathra himself had a rather complex one covering his chest, and was demanding various items be thrown at it in demonstration of its effectiveness. It would be a short night for the Raaka, and his head would not be kind in the morning.

A loud thump woke Laqueta from her sleep. Of course she was by now used to the rowdiness coming from the tavern but this time it sounded closer. Perhaps another drunken person, stumbling about in the halls. Rubbing her forehead in annoyance, she considered sleeping outside as would most people after being woken up for the sixteenth time. Then deciding to murder whomever had chosen to awaken her she dragged herself from the rather comfy mattress, peeling the sheets off her and drowsily stood up. Making over to the door, key in one hand and dagger in the other, she unlocked her door and glanced into the hallway. It was mostly empty, the occasional unconscious body slumped against the wall. Lowering her dagger she nearly hit the face of one of the many people. Her wandering eyes stopped at familiar man.

'Tzuriel?' Her brow furrowed. Was it that he too had been drinking? Not a really smart move on his part but she honestly didn't care about what he did or did not do. Her job was only to protect the caravan, she didn't give a fuck about her companions, Tzuriel included. Laqueta almost turned back to go into her room when she noticed a small collection of red liquid surrounding his body. She froze a bit and wasted no time making her way over to her employer. She gently pressed a finger against his neck and sighed a bit in relief when she felt a pulse. If Tzuriel died then who knows what would happen. They certainly weren't just going to continue on to Eblion and damn would she be pissed if that happened. It's not like she was already hostile enough. She chuckles at her own thoughts and picks up his unconscious body, heading into the room she found him halfway into. If this was somebody else's room, it was Tzuriel's fault for trying to get in there anyway. At least she thought he was trying to get in. Perhaps it was his room and he was just trying to get out.

Laying him out on the bed, Laqueta made sure he was able to breathe before rushing back into the tavern, baggy pants and all. Scanning the room, she hurried over to Quoril whom seemed at least a bit less drunk then the others. Not wasting any time she threw away his drink, not caring that the bottle smashed into tiny pieces and pulled Quoril along with her. She wasn't too sure about the others but Quoril seemed like he knew a thing or two. Of course, she would've just healed Tzuriel if it wasn't for the fact she couldn't keep checking if he was breathing while she chanted out the spell. There was also the problem that she didn't know how he was hurt or how serious the injury was. Her grasp stayed tight as she dragged along the poor elf of whom she was sure was very confused. She was honestly tempted to say 'Hey, now we're going to fuck and you should know I like it rough' but she didn't and quietly snickered at what his reaction would be. 'My humor is coming back, that's strange'.

Quoril felt a mixture of relief and disappointment now that it seemed there would be no fighting. He walked over to where the orcs were sitting and pulled up a chair. Grabbing a bottle, he tipped his chair back against the walled and noticed Laqueta entering the room. “The more the merrier!” Quoril thought to himself.

He barely had the drink to his mouth before Laqueta suddenly appeared before him and slapped it out of his had. By the time the bottle had shattered on the floor, she had grabbed his and began pulling him towards the stairs. He wondered if she was bringing him to her room, but quickly dismissed the thought. The expression on Laqueta’s face made it clear that this wasn't what she was after. Still thoroughly confused, Quoril figured he would know the situation soon enough.

They had made it up the stairs and nearly to the end of the hall, when Laqueta skidded to a halt in front of one of the rooms. She let go of his hand and gave him a push towards the door in front of them. Opening it Quoril saw Tzuriel laying on the bed, pale with a thick streak of blood running out the corner of his mouth. The sight instantly sobered him. He rushed over to the side of the bed and reached to remove his backpack. Cursing, he remembered taking it off upon first entering the inn. The elf sprang up and sprinted out of the room and back down the stairs. Slinging the pack over one shoulder, he raced back up to Tzuriel’s room.

Quoril rushed back over to the bed and checked to make sure Tzuriel was still breathing. The ragged sound of his breathing seemed to indicate some sort of chest wound. He set down his pack and fished around inside. He removed a small bottle filled with a yellow-green liquid, and a tiny piece of blue stone. Uncorking the small bottle, Quoril dropped the blue stone in. The liquid fizzed as the blue stone dissolved. Gently opening Tzuriel's mouth, the elf poured the mixture in. Tzuriel's ragged breathing gradually slowed, returning to normal.

Tossing the bottle back into his open pack, Quoril turned to face Laqueta. "He should feel less pain when he awakens, and his breathing has returned to normal. The potion I gave him will also help his body heal the injury, though it will take a few days. Any idea what happened?" he asked worriedly.

Laqueta glanced up at him from her position, still leaning against the doorway of what she presumed was Tzuriel's room and pursed her lips. She then shook her head gently, delicate wisps of hair caressing her face, dagger sheathed and her room key held loosely in her other hand.

"Found him crawling his way out of this room, unconscious and alone. I heard a loud ruckus outside my room so I thought it was some drunken nobodies." She paused and yawned softly. "Turned out to be him. I'm guessing the injury is internal, I didn't check him for any wounds. It's possible he has a serious medical condition we weren't informed about. Either way, I'll leave him in your care." Stretching out her limbs, she tossed Quoril the key she found in Tzuriel's pocket. "I'm guessing you're going to stay with him for the night. I'll be in my room so don't hesitate to holler if you need me, I'll be happy to help." Her voice monotone as always, not sounding sympathetic or convincing at all. It was a lie as well so that really didn't help either. Laqueta had gotten almost zero sleep so far so she was hoping the young elf could handle the situation on his own.

She made a quick mental note she'd need to practice having more 'enthusiasm'. Turning away from the duo, she walked out of the room and softly closed the door behind her. She sighed in relief when the door to her room made a satisfying click and opened the creaky door to her untouched room. Locking it behind her, she practically collapsed onto the soft bed, loosing consciousness.

Sledge went tankard for tankard with the orc she had punched. Makgraw was his name. Goddamn what an orc-y name. She loved it. Her fucking parents. Yneffuwen. Seriously. Seriously. Might as well turn in her real maces and go to the same candy shop Quoril had to frequent and make a couple dainty maces out of two big blobs of sweets with a name like that.

Hey. Speaking of Quoril. He got dragged off. By Laqueta of all people. Huh. Well. Wasn't her business. And she still had Makgraw and Tathra here so fuck it. Laqueta and Quoril could go do elf things in an elf-y way, and she'd stay here and drink herself stupid in an orc-y way.

Makgraw belched. Sledge belched. The two other orcs belched. Maybe Tathra belched too. Somebody else did, but Sledge didn't see it. Heh. A Birdman belching. That the secret to his flight?

Hey! And Tathra had tricks. By the time ale was sloshing around heavily in Sledge's stomach, the Birdman had did some kind of magic thingy around his chest. Said to throw some shit at it. Sledge looked to Makgraw and Makgraw looked to Sledge.

They grinned.

And they took turns grabbing loose items from the table and from other tables and from the bar counter and all to the protesting of the mustached barkeep and to the cheering of the other two orcs and now even some of the other patrons did Sledge and Makgraw hurl object after object at Tathra's ward. And Sledge was goddamned awful shot, even while sober. Many of her throws went hilariously awry, and by some mischievous twist of fate did one object--an old, thick, and worthless collector's coin--bounce off the wall and off the counter and smack the mustached barkeep in the nose.

An eruption of laughter in the tavern.

And Sledge puked. Laughed too fuckin' hard.

Sledge stumbled her way over to Tathra and Makgraw followed and Sledge held out her arms and braced herself against the Birdman and said, "Hey. Hey. Hey. Taaa~~~...Birdman. Who won? I won. I pegged the barkeep. That counts. Right? Right."

Makgraw laughed and crossed his arms. "Clearly I won. I am most certain I saw the Raaka flinch once even behind his magic. And you could not hold your ale."

Sledge turned around and held out a finger that didn't exactly point at the drunk orc. "Hey. Hey. Hey. Mak...Makgraw." A sly grin. "You keep it up and I'll show you winning, friendo."