Fable - Ask Never A Peaceful Drink

[Erën]

He let out a soft laugh, bracing himself thoroughly for Toruuk's palm to come down on his shoulder. As for the handshake, he was more than willing to shake the hand of a friend. Although, he felt as though his hand became somewhat lost in the minotaur's might grasp. Were it his will, he'd likely be able to crush it!

Thankfully these two had no ire between them.

As for Toruuk's praises, he could not help but reprove him somewhat, "be it so only if you should say, my friend!"

And as for the drink, he was more than happy to partake.

Pneria went without notice to him, having been far to preoccupied with his large friend's presence, and his company.

He shook Ispir's hand with an air of delight, and replied, "I am Erën, it is an honour."
A nod to Nico, but his eyes were quickly drawn to Lilette. She bore a resemblance that he could not ignore, however... he could not say he knew her, or her face. All the same he replied with a likewise elven reply.

"Melmë."
For a few moments, a few more casual and friendly words were shared, as were some laughs. Erën had just draped his cloak over the back of a chair, unveiling his own Celestialist markers. He reached for the chair, and --

Į̵̨͖͕̤̦̻̻̺͆̓͒l̵̜̬̬̮̮̞̯̬̔̒̄͆̒̚͠͝i̸̩̼̜͈̘͉̙̩̭̺͐̐̈́́̕n̷̖̩̭͉̝̬̻̫̩̟̠̉͂̈́̑͆͊͛̋̌͌̏̈͘͠a̴̛̞͍̯̗̻̙̟ͅ ̸̡̦̙̝̙͖̤͙̹̈́̑̎̅͌̄́̚͜͜͠ͅͅţ̶̳̪̮̘̽̓͌̓̂̈̄̏̈́̉̐̒͜ḩ̴̛̣̘̝͓̤̦̭̘̟͑̒̄̿͂̒o̶̝͉̮̅̈̚͝ ̷̛̹̠̯͆̇̀̈́̃̑͛̕̕͠s̴̨̡̛̼̩͍̖̞̣̮̤̏͌̉̂̇̌͒͒̾̓̌͑ͅǫ̶̢̻̣̻̙̦̠̮͎̝̲͗̉̍͊̋́̓̍̋͌̽̎̚͘c̶̢̡̧̛̯͙̿̇̉̈͐̀Ą̷̨̮̞͔̊̓ͅ​

Erën let out an audible groan, his hand reaching up to his head as his eyes winced shut. His balance almost failed, but he steadied himself just enough. It shot like lightning through his mind, invasive and perverted. But his was a strong mind, and although he had been given pause, he too was given an awareness.

"Prepare yourselves..."
He'd hardly gotten the words out before the first foe appeared.

---

Darkweaver | Toruuk Stoneheart | Nico | Ispir Sione | Lilette Blackbriar ​

 

[Pneria]

Spoiler: Music

The ale in her hand was about half-finished by the time glass shattered; and without warning, the dead walked in to patronise the bar as well.

The pint dropped from her hand, beer spilling. Her eyes went round with surprise, mouth parting, completely flabberghasted at the shambling piles of bones suddenly crawling in like undead tosspots.

And there were more coming.

This couldn't be a coincidence, but there was no time to consider that now. Her hesitation only lasted so long before she acted, kicking out of her seat and swiping her hand along a hidden pouch, ferreting out a brass-bound cylinder of a vial, flickering with a liquid that glowed like cold stars. Her fingerless gloves touched intricate brass and glass, clicking bottom and top in separate directions, priming the White Dragon with a gathering hum.

Astra knew, she had met far worse monsters. The eight-armed cistern demon. The Lord Commander. Her patron -- Petrus Iskandar.

Compared to all them, this was just a bunch of walking chamberpots, begging to be smashed.

Damned if she was going to die in some stinking tavern like the Slumbering Dragon.

She flung the vial violently towards window and skeleton, its glow winking like a magical eye in the air -- once, twice, before shattering against a helmeted skull. Fortunately, people had backed out from there; since in the next second, the air contracted as if heaving from a gut-punch, and then exploded in boreal energy. Even from here, the white glare blinded and chilled her.

That particular skeleton was now covered in a sheet of ice, literally frozen in its tracks. A barrier of voracious ice blocked the window too, tying together chairs mid-topple and tables mid-splinter.

"Shite-eating rattlers, crawl back to your sarding maggot-beds, will you?!"

The words burst out from her, unbidden, with all the caustic and colourful bile of the Shallows.

She was not dying in this sodding watering hole.