Inside the Stag, Mr. Harrison Montomgery Tinder was at his rightful place in society once again - behind the counter. Him and a few other barkeeps running the show, were, essentially, the backbone of common society in Estermere.
"If ye don't remember, Jones, a flagon'll cost you two coppers. All those chuggers getting to your memory again, eh?"
"A night here? Four silver pieces, if I may, good sir. The best beds in all of Rostguard, if ah may intrude to say."
"A-nother pie, Johnnie? Five coppers. That's yer eighth one tonight, I'm remindin' ye. Yer getting too robust to be old man Jenkin's woodcutter."
"I've told you time n' time again, Dave, the red stuff is five gold pieces a bottle! This is quality wine, imported all the way from Harleston! And you can't even pay for a joint of lamb. Go find a better job, and then maybe we'll talk."
"I [i]know[/i], sire. Horse thieves are gettin' more common around this district nowadays. But if ye need a quick ride around town, there's a manned carriage that often stops nearby. Eight coppers a trip."
Busy, busy, busy. Just the way he liked it. This could turn out to be just another one of those nights.
"A jug, Mister Tinder. Don't forget the flagon."
Standing in front of Harry Tinder was a man, presumably an elf in frame, cloaked in grey and leaning on an oaken staff. His eyes were shrouded by his tattered hood, which had a strange curling symbol emblazoned on its peak.
"Ah, good evening, Mister Berion." Harry gladly accepted the four copper pieces and proceeded to fill up a clay jug with ale. "Not often you come here downtown."
"The cottage can get... lonely sometimes, Mister Tinder." Berion said [i]lonely[/i] strangely, as if he was hiding something. But he was [i]always[/i] hiding something. He always had, even before the Black War.
"Glad to see you enjoy the company of the Leaping Stag then, Mister Berion." Harry smiled sincerely, revealing a splendid set of teeth beneath a long red mustache. "Good evening."
The elf simply nodded, got his jug and flagon from the table (leaving his staff propped up against the counter) and proceeded to a quiet part of the tavern. Wherever he went, even the most intoxicated of patrons inched away to make a 'path' for him. When he finally sat down at a nondescript corner table, patrons on neighboring tables suddenly quieted down to a whisper. Berion made a second trip to the counter to receive his staff, then sat down and began to open a nondescript leatherbound book. Nearly half of the patrons looked at him odd. His 'normalcy' was too good to be true.
"Oi! You there! Elf-boy!"
The door had suddenly burst open, letting in a thuggish group of men. More than thugs, actually - two had shortswords by their sides, one had a handaxe, another two daggers, and one simply had a very, very big club. They strode confidently but menacingly towards Berion's table, and quite suddenly hoisted the elf up by the soldiers and stood him up on his feet before he could react. Berion's cowl was suddenly thrown back, revealing long golden hair, sharp cheekbones, and emerald green eyes. The leader unsheathed his handaxe and placed it dangerously close to the elf's frail throat.
"Oi. Elf-boy. Still in the land of the living?"
"Better than ever, gentlemen. " The elf shrugged off his captors' grips on his shoulders and stood up to his full height. "What do you req-"
"Don't give me them formalities!" The leader grabbed Berion's collar and quite literally spit into his face. Berion at this moment seemed placid, but some saw burning coals behind the elf's eyes. "Remember when you nearly burnt Coujin's arm off last week?"
"He tried to extort twenty gold pieces from me."
"We take whatever we [i]bloody[/i] please in this district, elf-boy! We had to take him to a healer, and you're gonna pay!"
"I also made him stab himself with his own dagger." Berion subtly gestured with his eyes towards the leader's shortsword. "And I am [i]not[/i] afraid to do it again."
"Oh, you will be, elf-boy... after we show you [i]this[/i]!"
The leader unsheathed a very long ornate golden wand. Its ruby-eyed carefully-wrought dragon head glimmered menacingly in the candelight. A crackling deep blue ball was forming inside its mouth. For what seemed the first time in a hundred years, Onar Berion displayed a (faint) expression of fear on his face. All the patrons were now ignoring their drinks and paying close attention to the encounter. This, after all, would be no ordinary bar brawl.
"You [i]obviously[/i] didn't buy this, did you?"
"None of your business! Now, apologize and swear to become the Big Rats' slave until your dying breath, or be incinerated!"
"I am not obligated to apologize."
Almost immediately, Onar Berion was violently thrown by an unseen hand against the wooden wall. There was a collective gasp. Onar lay limp for a few seconds, then managed to stand up and hurled a massive fireball at the leader's face. The leader received a similar effect as he was thrown outside through the wooden wall. A second later, Berion abruptly followed suit.
"Oi!"
"Ye can't do that to him!"
"He'll burn ye! And freeze ye, and sorcery ye!"
"Come on, lads!"
The four other thugs unsheathed their weapons and growled as the Stag patrons all came for them. Tinder sighed. Place would be a mess in the morning. Probably, it would all boil down to nothing. But for now, he kept a hand on the handaxe used for chopping firewood under the counter.