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[color=crimson]”Why is it...”[/color] Finch muttered to himself as he immediately dropped to the floor and rolled underneath his table, [color=crimson]“We can’t take one, simple, bloody spot to rest...”[/color]

A mug exploded against the back of one man’s head, sending glass flying in every which direction

[color=crimson]“...Without bringing the whole damn town on our heads?”[/color]

If worst came to worst, and they were about to either be put up in stocks with even more new friends or once again put in a dungeon, Finch was going to give them [i]all[/i] the slip and spring that noble from Camlorn all by his lonesome self if he had to. He had to hand it to them though – they knew how to fight. Not that it would help them get into the castle [i]unnoticed[/i]. A curious thing, this bar-brawl though – Finch has never been in one before. He thought it was all punching, chairs, and mug and bottle fighting. There was significantly more blood being shed here than he had expected. Hopefully they were non-fatal.

Finch peered from his hiding place, trying to find a path to slip through the chaos – to see the spaces between their legs and see if he can find something of use he can take with him through this chaos... hopefully he wouldn’t get grabbed. He took a wooden bowl of salt of the table with him, and weaved his way through the thrashing. Sort of crouched, trying to stay out of everyone’s line of sight. He felt he almost made it where he wanted to go until a large meaty hand grabbed him by the scruff of his clothing and lifted Finch into the air. The young beggar clutched his wooden bowl of salt, his fingernails digging into them. He came face to face with a real brute of a nord! The man could probably give the Hand of Mauloch a run for his money, and he was angrily digging his eyes into this little runt of an imperial – the possible result of the lingering racism from the civil war ten years ago, Finch didn’t know. He just grabbed a fistful of salt in his hand and smeared it across the nord’s face, getting chunks in his eyes and whatever cuts and scrapes he had on his face.

In agony, the nord man dropped him to the ground and grabbed his face, getting what salt he could from his eyes. Now in a panic, Finch turned around just in time to see a Breton man swing a punch at him. The young, fleet-footed imperial was able to avoid the swing in time, just for it to come into contact with the nord that had taken Finch just before. The punch did little to harm the nord, but it did make him that much angrier.

“You filthy elf-lover!” The nord shouted, before taking his two meaty paws and grabbing both sides of the breton’s head and threw him halfway across the tavern (who let out a fretful cry of distress) into a number of people, knocking them over like pins. Finch, on the other hand, had long since escaped the rumble. 

In the back of the tavern, there seemed to be nobody in here. Everyone was fighting out front, some were spilling into the streets, and anyone with half a mind left high-tailed it out of here; which meant Finch had the opportunity to cherry-pick whatever swill he wanted out of here. Hopefully Cedric, Brynn, or the orc wouldn’t feel so obligated to relieve him the burden of carrying whatever vintage Finch had on him then. Unlike the others, Finch’s mind was still on the job they were tasked with. After all, his own [i]life[/i] was on the line!

Now, what was a choice pick? Finch didn’t know much about alcohol, but he figured that the older it was, the finer it was... or he could just look at whatever price they were labeled with. That worked too. There was a little bit of searching, and Finch found himself wandering to the far back side of innkeeper’s stock. A small compartment. Finch sighed as he broke out one of the lockpicks he had on his person, in one of the many little pockets he had from whatever patches of cloth he stitched onto his clothes, and he began fiddling.

[i]‘No resistance there... no, resistance there. There... no, not there...’

Click!

‘Oh... there? Huh. Lucky.’[/i]

As he opened up the little chest, it held a couple bottles of wine. Finch didn’t stare at them as if they were some miraculous, miracle elixirs – he didn’t get the whole hype over this stuff. A quick read on the label read, “Firebrand Wine”. Huh. Whatever. Finch grabbed a bottle of that, shut the chest and started to turn around, but...

The innkeeper was standing in the door way, staring in disbelief at Finch as he held a very expensive drink in his hands.

“You...!” The man spat, starting to take angry steps toward the thief.

Finch started stammering, again in a panic. He was cornered! There was a window in here, but he couldn’t possibly...

Without thinking, the young imperial grabbed a wine rack carrying dozens and dozens of drinks, and pushed on it with all of his might (though that’s not saying much). It was enough, however, that the shelf began to tip and bottles were spilling over. The whole setup crashed into the ground between Finch and the innkeeper, glass and drink spilling everywhere. In the innkeeper’s moment of disbelief as half the stock that he had left was destroyed, Finch took the opportunity to unlatch the window and climb up the wall to make his great escape outside. There, he sprinted around the building with belongings (and stolen belonging) in hand, hoping to lose him in all of the confusion. The ice cold air licked the skin his blood rushed through, tingling as the speckles of cold sweat touched it.

As he came around, he came upon a grisly scene. Beside a few of the others, like the two mages, the elf, the merchant, there was one of his own party: Fiona was kneeled over Nolan, victorious over his motionless body before her - wounded, but victorious. Finch’s run slowed down to a jog, then to a pace. This time, there was no awe. The savage orc was one thing, this human girl barely older than him was another. He just looked at her in diluted anger and disbelief.

[color=crimson]“I'm so glad something could come out of this brawl of ours.”[/color] Finch commented bitterly. Then he stopped, appearing to be in thought. [color=crimson]“Oh, wait a second! There [i]wasn’t![/i] Someone, please... just get the [i]other[/i] three or so idiots out of there before we spend [i]another[/i] night in a dungeon.”[/color]

Finch sighed. By the Nine, he felt so exhausted. Not just in the literal sense either. He just wanted to get this whole chapter in his life over and done with. His life was dangling in front of him on the end of a fishing line. The only way he could save himself was by biting, but this lot was keeping him from doing that. He felt tired and bitter and just wanted to be done. He walked past Nolan’s body as his blood leaked out into the snow. The man certainly deserved what he had coming to him, but... was it really worth it? One punch leading to so many deaths? Gods, what [i]was[/i] it that Finch wanted to do? He felt directionless. The book he found presented him with a fork in the road, and he wasn’t sure which side to take. He turned his eyes from the bloody sight and looked back at Fiona.

[color=crimson]“Well, I guess there are worse things I could be than a ‘burglar’.”[/color] He said with a shrug, quoting Fiona’s earlier words. He shook his head and started walking off toward the other side of this little town where the gates were, wanting to get as far away from the fighting and as close toward Camlorn as possible.