[i]That's a left hook. Duck.[/i]

The fist slammed heavily into Mordrag's right jaw. The hulking man stumbled backwards – though that was more likely due to the dozen or so pints in his body than to the punch.

[i]Alright then, my turn.[/i]

He rose up like a bear, preparing the mightiest hammer fist, and was promptly flattened by a tackle from behind. Kicks rained in on the huge Gothi from all directions, and it was all he could do to roll over onto his stomach to protect his face and stomach.

“Alright there, that's enough!” The speaker seemed to be a mile away to Mordrag who wasn't entirely sure where that would even be at the current moment. “He's had enough ye bastards. Now get yer arses back in the bar.”

With a few final kicks, the men made their way back into the... [i]fine establishment[/i]... The deliverer of the left hook spat on the heap of flesh before slinging his mate's unconscious body – the initial cause of the confict – over his own massive shoulder.

With the street cleared of all but Mordrag and the man who ended the fight, the peacemaker sat himself down on the damp, foul smelling curb. “When are ye gonna quit gettin yer broke face broke even more, ya stupid lout?” The big man grinned back at the comments stupidly. “You're not gonna remember a moment of this are ye?”

“I'll sure remember your ugly arse, Friend.” Blood sputtered out of Mordrag's mouth with every other word. Though he was a decent fighter with an impressively muscled body, guzzling booze proved once again to quickly replace coordinated skill with bumbling awkwardness. His taste for a good drink – especially at a reduced price in the tavern owned by his friend, the peacemaker – meant that the big bruiser was well acquainted with the street. Another fight over a spilled drink... or a girl or dirty look or the sort... made Mordrag happy that he could take a hell of a beating. He would be okay, but first, blackness...

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Though the big man surely deserved it, Arbo Horst wouldn't let his friend finish off the night in the street. Though he was a huge – massive! – pain in the arse, the massive Gothi was a huge asset to The Golden Spring. For its location in the Hollows, the tavern was comparably upscale with no in-house prostitutes, thinly-veiled illicit drug sales, or holes in the furnishing. Horst's vision for The Golden Spring came into being  At its outset, Arbo Horst naively believed that a classy establishment would attract similar patrons; however, he had been dramatically mistaken. With the competition in the Hollows, any increase in prices – regardless of any increase in quality – meant a decrease in profit. The Golden Spring was in imminent danger of going under, being outcompeted by the neighboring Fisherman's Beans and Barrel every night, when Arbo Horst found his lifesaver in a loud mountain of muscle.

For all of Mordrag Desertheart's affinity for making enemies, the big man with the big personality was equally as proficient at making friends. The day he came bumbling into the Hollows with hooligans hailing from Midcy'ru to Pinnor, Arbo Horst's luck changed. Arbo met the man at a butcher's shop, and the two shared a laugh over a hefty housewife and the large sausages she was purchasing. In no time at all, the massive Gothi and his companions were enjoying drinks, stews, and pastries at a discount. Suddenly, The Golden Spring was filled with drunk musicians, amateur magicians, and revelers of every sort. As the travelers grew to admire Horst and his establishment, the brawls moved more consistently out of the tavern and onto the streets. An atmosphere of loyalty, respect and joyful celebration began to permeate everything associated with Arbo Horst, building a community that attracted more people from all around the Hollows. The Golden Spring would never be able to compete with higher profile, opportunistic places like Fisherman's Beans and Barrel or The Farmer's Daughter, but Horst would survive thanks to a steady patronage and a growing loyal staff – not one of them more so than the head bouncer, Mordrag Desertheart himself.

The whole situation was convenient – even enjoyable – but nearly every day the man would claim that the job was only temporary. Any day now he would be off in the world to make himself rich enough to live the way he wanted, supporting his sister and paying off his numerous debts. Every day he spoke boldly about his dreams, and every day he was working security in the bar, drinking too much and picking silly fights.

That all changed with one simple flier.

________________________________________________

[i]A band of adventurers led by some bloke named Rask?[/i]

This was his chance. With a few parting words to Arbo and a half dozen regulars currently in The Golden Spring – Mordrag was never one for sentimentality – the big brute slung a small pack of his belongings over his shoulder and walked out of the tavern. For some reason, the world seemed to be a hell of a lot bigger than the groggy night before.

Inside the lounge The Farmer's Daughter, Mordrag sat back near the fireplace, his bulk taking up an entire sofa to himself. His thirsty mouth swallowed generous amounts of an awful dark stout. Any notable patrons?

[i]A tall, muscled elf; tough bitch. An ugly man with tattoos from fingers to face; hits like a girl, punchable nose. A serving girl with her ample chest threatening to burst out of her low-cut shirt; diseases for certain. A well-dressed, reserved woman; business in the streets, madness in the sheets of course.[/i] Mordrag prided himself on his quick judgment of people. They weren't always – or even often – accurate, but his judgments were absolutely quick. The large man relaxed and waited for this Rask, a smile on his face and a drink in both hands.