Open Chronicles Broken noses at the Crooked Noose

[Irman Harefoot]

The town of Quarry Hill was named as such for the gargantuan pile of stones that the town was first settled around. The stones had been dug up long ago by the deep reaching mines of ancient dwarven kingdoms, piled high as the dwarves carved through The Spine. Countless years later, as human expansion began onto the spine, the deep mountain stones piled at Quarry Hill became a vital commodity. Eventually though, the town became a trading hub and grew tremendously. Countless old dwarven roads had led to Quarry Hill, so it was in many ways at the heart of the numerous villages popping up throughout the Spinal Midlands.

Being a trade city so close to dwarven lands, Quarry Hill had no shortage of Bars. Many were of great repute such as the Flowering Keg, the Blushing Bishop, or the Wicked Mouse. But all were well liked save one. The Crooked Noose: a shit hole by all regards. Just outside the town’s stone walls in a shanty town of vagrants and brigands, marked by a dirty wooden sign and the stench of vomit as no less than five dirty men lay about the front entrance on any given night. The current mayor had been elected on a platform that he would finally close the Crooked Noose, he failed.

Irman Harefoot sat at the bar opposite the barkeep, a mountain of a man who called himself ‘Mr. Thumb’. Irman was not the Noose’s normal kind of clientele, even dressed down from his usual attire he stood out. There were the obvious reasons of course, Irman looked like a rabbit contorted into the shape of a thin dwarf and had cotton balls shoved into his ears; but he also clearly had some money and standing to his name. A well off mercenary like him could afford far better, but far better couldn’t get him away from what he had seen just a few days prior or what he was stuck doing now.

Irman shoved his mug to Mr Thumb with a couple silver coins and watched as the man went to fill the mug with more watery beer.

“It feels like I’m drinking a swamp” Irman mused, his speech finally starting to slur a bit.

Irman went to take the refilled Mug from Mr Thumb when all of a sudden he felt someone tapping him on the back.

 

[Mongrel]

Something about the Crooked Noose almost called to Mongrel. It was what could only be described, even with his limited vocabulary, as a hovel. Such a word perfectly illustrated his life as well, which was perhaps why he so resonated with the dilapidated building.

It reeked of a smell that was distinctly food-like in the worst of ways and anyone with half a braincell could see how dangerous its occupants were.

Mongrel grinned as he stepped inside and over the bodies of five less than fortuitous prior patrons. Where’s the fun in life if not for taking risks?…or so his thought process went.He sat down at a table and part of the surface immediately broke off and fell to the floor. Ah, like home already.

Taking a lazy look around, he spotted the rabbit. He raised his hand to summon the barkeep as he looked curiously at the surprisingly well dressed rabbit-man sitting in the bar, a bit confused why he was even here. His garb was what the man who had first given him his name had been wearing. The word mongrel was cool, but their tone that day was not. It remained to be seen whether the mercenaries would take it well.

A drunken man got up and began stumbling over to the rabbit before tapping him on the back, and then leveling a vicious slap at their furry head. “Making fun of us, ey? Coming in here looking all shiny and colorful and rich?” they snarled, almost animalistic themself. Well, that man must have had a rough day, Mongrel thought.

Well, nothing like a good brawl to lift the spirits, Mongrel thought with a smirk before pitching his mug directly at the head of the patron next to the freshly hit rabbit.

Irman Harefoot

 

[Sigrun Flintfeet]

Quarry hill was not a place to be seen as a respectable dwarf. And being found dead in the Crooked Noose was even worse - she suspected her father would have had a stroke if he could see her now.

Fortunately for her, she was far from respectable, and in here, few seemed to care - despite her and Irman making for strange company, indeed.

That was, at least, until someone did care enough to bother them.

“It feels like I’m drinking a swamp” Irman mused, his speech finally starting to slur a bit.

Irman went to take the refilled Mug from Mr Thumb when all of a sudden he felt someone tapping him on the back.

"A swamp? Hmph. That's high praise." Sigrun took a swig of her own ale, then grimaced painfully, slamming it on the counter with disdain. "Tastes like latrine, to me."

All of a sudden, the dimwitted interloper was harrassing Irman. Sigrun leapt to her feet, standing about as tall from the floor as she had sitting in the human-sized chair. Which amounted to about the same height as Irman, dwarfing them both compared to most of the establishment. Likely why people thought they could take advantage of them - a common mistake among humans, she found. Her dark eyes glared up at the drunk, hands balling into fists.

She opened her mouth to kindly let the patron know how much his face reminded her of the rear end of a reindeer, before a mug slammed into an unlucky drinker near her.

Mongrel
Irman Harefoot

 

[Irman Harefoot]

The bar was quiet for a moment as the wooden mug clattered on the dirt floor. Half the patrons watched as the dazed struggled to avoid falling over, while the other half eyed the young vagrant who had just struck Tybar, 4th in command of the infamous Zodyr Mountain Bandits, in the head. Mr Thumb simply went about moving the Noose’s pricier bottle under the bar counter with practiced efficiency.

Tybar broke the quiet by cursing at the young vagrant with his face as red as a beet.

“Cowardly Whelp! Shitty mongrels like you and the rabbit know nothing bout being a real man, don’t got the balls to face a man head on so you got to get them while their back is turned like a gods dammed snake. I’ll-“

“Hey”

Irman was standing on top of his bar stool, looking at Tybar with an apathetic expression. When Tybar turned to face him Irman punched the drunken bandit straight in the face, knocking Tybar out and onto the dirt with blood pouring out of his Broken and busted nose.

The other bandits began scrambling, while the rest of the Noose’s drunken patrons saw this as a go ahead for a full on brawl.

Amidst the mounting clamor, Irman mustered what clarity he could through his intoxicated state to call out to the young Vagrant who had thrown the first mug. “You better not run away from this mess you started, kid. If you do, I’ll beat your ass in ways you can’t even imagine.”

 

[Mongrel]

Mongrel grinned before getting out of his seat, revealing his mace on his belt plainly to the rabbit and then loosing an insane cackle. “Funny! You seem unfamiliar with me, so I’ll excuse the disrespect. What coward would throw something and then scram?” He replied, using the greater half of his vocabulary to respond to this question of his honor.

Despite being a bandit, Mongrel had rules of simple but not insignificant value: Keep your life by any means, and do not disrespect it by pretending to put it on the line. Unlike many of the patrons, Mongrel was not drunk, and that was plain to see for anyone smart enough to realize. He had intended for a fight to break out and be able to let off some steam.

One of the drunken new participants of the brawl went for him while he was talking and his gaze shifted from excited to that of a beast, his smile taking on a feral edge. When the man went to strike, he jumped back and palmed their head (with both hands) before slamming it into the table six times straight, knocking them unconscious in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps deciding to be a bit dramatic, he would then lightly kick the offender’s head, sending them off the table and showing the man’s now bloodied face for all to see.

The sheer brutality of the act caused a pause in the fighting, and Mongrel took the time to issue a challenge: “I am Mongrel! I want to fight you, rabbit! For the outsiders, interrupt either of us and I will put you to sleep. NO Exceptions.” he explained with a snarl, at which point the brawlers got back to whatever they were concerned with at the moment.

“Do you accept?” He would then ask, tone of voice making it perfectly clear the answer didn’t matter in the slightest.

 

[Sigrun Flintfeet]

Spoiler: Music

In the blink of an eye, the fires of a brawl had been lit, and all of a sudden, Sigrun found herself dodging meaty fists and ducking below flung chairs, mugs and knives.

One such knife nailed her braid of brown hair to a nearby beam. Stuck, a man with less teeth than sense charged her like a ram. She yanked the knife free with a twist of her arm, and pointed it straight for his groin, ready to meet him. That halted the charger, and in his arrest, she threw the blade back in his face - hilt first. Clasping his broken nose with a pitched whine, Sigrun turned her attention from him, tripping another brawler by catching his kicking boot and tossing his sprawling leg in the air.

The sheer brutality of the act caused a pause in the fighting, and Mongrel took the time to issue a challenge: “I am Mongrel! I want to fight you, rabbit! For the outsiders, interrupt either of us and I will put you to sleep. NO Exceptions.”

The human with the rabid grin she realised to be the instigator of this. She had no time or patience for this goblin-shite. Perhaps if she took him out, it would end this palaver.

Punching, weaving and wrestling her way through the forest of kicking limbs, she found an item to throw. A shaft without an axe-head. She had no desire to kill any of these scumbags, but this could turn off their lights, at least.

"Oy! Why don't you sleep on this, dirt-bag?!"

With the practised aim of an axe-thrower, she catapulted the spinning shaft through the throng, aimed for Mongrel's temple.

 

[Irman Harefoot]

Seeing this “mongrel” gleefully demand a challenge as angry drunks descended upon him un-dissuaded made Irman question just how drunk he actually was.
“Sure I accept, and if you want to fight your way over to me than be my guest, Dog Boy! Wait…you aren’t just ragging on me for my clothes too are you!” Irman quickly hopped onto the bar counter as a bandit full-body tackled the stool he had been standing on. Atop the bar Irman had an easy time dealing with the bandits and drunkards that were coming his way. The counter was taking a beating, but better it than him Irman thought.

That was until a strong hand picked Irman up by his collar from behind the bar.
“My counter ain’t no theatre stage” growled Mr Thumb before chucking Irman to the other side of the bar.

A wooden chair broke Irman’s fall as it shattered from the impact. Irman’s head was spinning and he struggled to stand up as he saw the brawl continue on around the counter and where he assumed Sigrun still was. Out of the corner of his eye he could also see Mongrel, doing something.