A cacophonous roar of laughter quickly took to the air. In the center of the tavern was a mix mash of both drunks and the sober had gathered around a table and were shuffling and stumbling about in their fits. At that table, both a distressed male Orc and an amused female [color=004b80]Brithian[/color] sat. Plenty of green was open to the air, as the orc sat with a large majority of his clothing and equipment resting on the table. All the poor fellow was left with was his loin cloth and his boots. He glared down to a flipped cup with an intensity that could engulf the whole place with flames that even the fury of hell couldn’t match. 

As for the Brithian, she held an air of confidence. How could she not? She was still, and for the most part, fully clothed. But even then, one could easily get the feeling that she wouldn’t care if she was disrobed or not. The multi-colored wraps she uses to force her braided mane back rested on the table. And under those was her fashionably loud maroon long coat. That left the woman dressed in her silver-gray trousers, boots, a belt, and a long sleeved shift with an argyle pattern that travels up the sleeves around the collar and just a ways under her nearly flat chest. She was leaning back in her chair casually, one paw like foot pressed against the edge of the table, and the other’s leg crossed over the top. The hurdy gurdy made it clear she was a minstrel. The long sword made it clear that she was likely a traveler, or just a woman that takes personal defence seriously enough. And oh the grin she wore. It was broad and shaped like a crescent, showing off teeth that could reflect light even in the dark. In many cases, it’d be charismatic. But now? For that Orc, it was a thing of pure evil.

It was the Brithian’s cast, but she allowed the die to remain covered for now. If only to let the Orc stew and fester in his own emotions.

“Hurry it up you damned woman,” The Orc bellowed, making it clear he was kept waiting long enough. To which earned him the lovely sight of watching that grin widen just a hair further.

“Now now! Anticipation is what makes a treat all the sweeter. But… looking at you,” the catlike minstrel chimed. She trailed off just long enough to reach over and lift the cup to reveal her four die. Six over the opposition’s cast. “... I’d say the treat was only intended for me.”

Her whiskers twitched in delight as she saw the boots hit the table. She reached over, grabbed them, and started to playfully stamp them around the table by the ankle. “Oh what a shame it is for you darlin~. Stomper’s like these tells a girl you’ll have them singin like a minstrel, and a minstrel? Well… I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

“Oi,” the barkeep chimed up from her post. “Unless you both plan on wiping down my tables for the duration of your stay here I’d recommend keeping your boots…” she shooed at the brith woman sitting at the bar “And your paws of my bar, lass.” The elven woman spoke with a tired Dalic accent. She seemed to be relatively young, but the bags under her eyes indicated premature aging. She was somewhat frantic, and her voice hoarse. The festival no doubt took its toll on the woman. Fortunately, the Brthian minstrel seemed to be quite empathetic about her woes, and had removed both her feet, and the orc’s boost by request.

The Orc, clearly too frustrated to speak, slammed his cup down with enough force to shake the table. He set his jaw, and quickly lifted his cup. The look of hope quickly faded from his face, once his cup dropped to the table.

Before she could respond to the orc’s subtle protests a dwarf two seats down from this confrontation slid his mug down towards the server. “No...no...I’ve told ye Normand that you’ve reached ye limit. It’s the tap for ye.” She sighed to herself before gripping the mug in her left hand. “For the rest of the night.” She eyed the dwarf. His bulging eyes couldn’t manage to stare her down, and instead his gaze shifted to the ground. Furrowing his eyebrows and tugging on his beard he began to mutter to himself before forcing himself from his stool and waddling towards the stairs to the far left of the tavern.
 
The barkeep turned her attention back towards the orc and the brith for a moment before walking over to wash out the cup. Though her back was turned the woman still managed to seem vigilant. If one squinted hard enough they might mistake her for a knight of Ardent’s Watch; perhaps even an Oathkeeper. 

The Brithian’s gaze had remained on the barkeep for some time. One could even see a glint of curiosity in her eyes before they turned to look down to the die on the table. Her eyes sparkled with humor while she bellowed out a heartful laugh, “Double snake eyes eh!? At this point, I’d wager that your luck current luck speaks volumes of how ‘lucky’ you get at night mm? No matter!”

The cat scooped up the die and rolled them across the table. There was absolutely no need to check once one saw one of the four cubes stop at a two. And especially not when you could be watching the display of the brith quickly rounding the table to pounce the loser to the ground. There was a brief tuffle before the minstrel stood up high and tall with her bounty in her hands. The Orc’s loin cloth tripped firmly by the lashings, was waved in the air like a flag.

“Behold! Raux The Minstrel is victorious for the night! Saved by the merciful grace of luck from the…” She looked to the Orc as he stood up. Something waved into view and quickly caught her off guard. Her eyes flicked down, and by reaction her head quickly recoiled back.
The display is, at first, met with cheer from the other patrons of the tavern. Their joyous banter though quite quickly turned to disgusted muttering. This was enough to make the barkeep turn back to the two. 

She gasped as fits of red lined her cheeks. She nearly dropped the sud soaked cup in her hands. It slipped from her grasp, but in a hastened fumble she managed to catch it before its descent onto the floor. She stammered trying to find words, but there simply were none. 
“Be that another fist down there boy,” Raux chirped with surprise. The comment was met with a chuckle and a comment from the Orc. 
“Well.. damn, good for you. Good thing you lost, cause I don’t think I’d be able to make good on the bet. I bet they call you Galag Three Arm back at the camps, eh?” That earned her a laugh. And to greater effect the Minstrel turned to regard the audience.

“Am I not the only one seeing this, boys and girls? Why by the twelve we celebrating a magus who killed three dragons? Ye should be celebrating that this Orc wasn’t on the lines to knock down them gates with a thrust of what’s between his legs!

The minstrel quickly clapped her hands together after the situation had been diffused with some light laughter. “Tell you what! Being a good sport, and given us all a… enlightening view. I give you a consolation!” With that… the brith produced a pair of women’s undergarments from seemingly nowhere. The fur suggested that it might have been worn at some point. And whether it was warm or not would only be known to the Orc, who found the bands quickly looped around his tusk like teeth and pulled over his head. She snatched up her mug from the table and raised it high. One arm to clasp the orc by the shoulder and pull him close.

“TO GALAG THREE ARMS EVERYONE! CONQUEROR OF LANDS! ORC OF ASS DESTRUCTION!” Raux called out, drawing out a mix of cheers and laughter to those who had been surrounding the table. 

Seated in a booth next to the tavern’s inactive fireplace sat a rather large human male. His bald head was decorated with a number of scars, and his beard dripped with the finest Dwarven Brandy. He belted out in a fit of laughter. “Galag? Has that boy been telling his war stories again, Mira?” The human had a particularly mocking bite to his words. 

Sighing to herself the the barkeep, Mira, looked on at the orc in pity. “Put your clothes back on, Bryce.” 
Raux, having finished her drink and collected her things, sauntered up to the bar with that same broad grin she wore before. “Come now, my good lass! That blush on your face tells me you liked what ya saw!”

“Careful my good lady, your employers paid good coin, but that doesn’t mean I won’t make you clean the throw-up outside of the tavern.” Mira gave Raux a cautious, but friendly smile. It seemed the dishes she’d been doing were all cleaned now. She made her way back to the counter. It seemed that was her sanctuary. Though she was clearly tired there was an aura of peace and motherly instinct about her.
The cat’s eyes dipped down to the counter. A finger idly feeling the grain of the bar, and the many nicks, scratches, and grooves that marred the surface. It did not show it’s age though, from what she could see. It had been roughed up, but the wood did not show any signs of being rotten, or have nearly as many stains as it should. If anything… the elf seemed to look as if she had several years shaved off her lifespan in a mere few hours.

“Is that so,” Raux chimmed with her grin softening to a smile. She sat up straight for the moment and leaned in. “Cause to me, it looks like that little show slapped the life back into that lovely face of yours!”
She smiled for a second before looking to Raux. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for two life times. Between, Normand, Bryce, and Dig,” Mira motioned to the the bald human male that had spoken up before. “And my drunkard brother, Josrian- I’ve got enough headache. You lot will drive me to Organa before long.”
 
The Brithian leaned in closer now, planting an elbow on the counter while her cheek rested in a hand. “All the more reason to live like I do! Like everyday is your last,” the edge of Raux’s lips pulled a little further to widen her smile as she continued, “of course I mean lying in your own filth while screaming to the nurse for more pudding!”

Her eyebrows rose in one part amusement and the other part horror. “Then she’s taken you already, it seems.” Smiling, the elf reached down below her before perking back up. She brandished a rather expensive looking bottle in her hand. “A peace offering,” she propositioned. “My name, as you might’ve heard, is Mira.” 

Raux looked over the bottle with a hint of curisoity in her eyes, and pursed lips. “Ah! Something has taken me! For better or worse,” The minstrel chirpped as she slipped her coat back on. Once she finished tying the wraps back over her mane, she extended a hand with a charming smile. “Raux! Though I’m sure you already know! You seem to know of my arrangements too!”
“Aye, but we have little else in this world save our formalities.” She let out a small sigh that could’ve easily been mistaken as a muffled groan. “At least, that’s what mother always said.” 

“Ah, my mother always told me to find a man and give her grandchildren to spoil. I’m sure she’d have a fit when I tell her I’m now in my thirties and across seas,” the cat laughed before accepting the pro-offered bottle. “So! Do you know where I’m supposed to meet the man of the hour?”

Mira shuffled slightly before popping the cork on the bottle, and grabbing the nearest mug. “That’d be Viceroy Bayim Cadby, he’s typically out drunk as a monk on his balcony for the festival. I had heard that Lord Caldwin von Gudeuir was attending the festival as well.” 
The cat raised a brow to the sudden misdirection. But, she allowed it to slide by freely. Afterall, there’s a good chance that the bar lady doesn’t want to overstep and get into the deep end of things. “Lord Caldwin you say,” Raux chirped with a hint of interest. “Well, can’t blame the stuffy collars for wishing to get out and about. What’s he doing this time round?”