[center][img]https://i.ytimg.com/vi/rv3Nl-Od9YU/maxresdefault.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][hider=][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EULoybB2Nsw[/youtube][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQIhbTiawN89[/youtube][/hider][/center]

Despite the Astorian mage’s inquiries the barkeep seemed determined to argue with the minstrel seated in front of him at the bar.  The barkeep was a stout man, no younger than forty years. His eyes were tired, and the wrinkles that lined his features were growing deeper with age. In another life, he'd likely been decently handsome, but the years seemed unkind. His goatee was a mess of black and gray. His mustache was fanciful, and spread outward like troll horns. His hair was thinning, but he'd enough of it to avoid stares. 

The minstrel was a younger, and more beautiful, man. He had no facial hair save for small amounts of stubble. He was fair-of-skin compared to the typical Caracan native. His hair, falling just above the shoulder, was partly tied back in a mess of dreaded locks with small golden adornments scattered precariously throughout.  

The pair continued bickering among themselves for another twenty seconds before finally noticing Karlus’ presence. The barkeep glanced over in his direction. “[color=92278f][b]Ah, a man of sense![/b][/color]” As he spoke he filled a glass with a fine [color=gold]golden ail[/color] before sliding it along the surface of the bar towards some eager patron. His attention only briefly left Karlus’ before returning his gaze.  “[color=92278f][b]This [i]idiota[/i] is trying to get us all killed[/b][/color],” he said as he gestured towards the minstrel. The barkeep’s accent was as thick a Caracan one as the guard’s from the docks. 

The minstrel nearly rose from his chair to challenge the barkeep. “[color=0072bc][b]Idiot,[/b][/color]” he questioned as his palms buckled into the edge of the bar. “[color=0072bc][b]You’d sooner lick shit off the boots of the mad princes than inform the poor fools who whittle away drunk on your stag piss that their city is burning.[/b][/color]” The minstrel turned his torso towards Karlus. “[color=0072bc][b]I mean only to entertain and educate through my art, sir. This philistine would see my work silenced.[/b][/color]” It was difficult for the mage to place the man’s accent. It wasn’t so foreign as to mark him as an outsider of the Union, but it was distinct and clearly not Caracan. 

“[color=92278f][b]You got drunk, off [i]my stag piss mind[/i] you,[/b][/color]” the barkeep’s eyes trailed to yours for a moment before continuing. “[color=92278f][b]And in your stupor you wrote your foolish little song. A song that will have us thrown in the Pits, if not to Veruun himself![/b][/color]” The barkeep turned again to Karlus. “[color=92278f]If you can get this man out of my establishment, I will be happy to assist you in information and in quantma. Let him sing his damned songs out there; away from my caupona![/color]”

Before Karlus could offer an answer the minstrel spoke up. “[color=0072bc][b]I’ll double that pay if you keep him from interrupting my performance,[/b][/color]” he said as he threw a small pouch of coins on the table. “[color=0072bc][b]And I can promise that my quantma are much heavier than this malaka’s.[/b][/color]” 

“[color=39b54a][b]You mistake me, sirs.[/b][/color]” Karlus' eyes darted back and forth behind the pair. “[color=39b54a][b]I have no want of your gold. I am looking for Tali Riverend, nothing more. Your dispute is none of my concern.[/b][/color]”

“[color=0072bc][b]I must disagree, my friend, what I have to say concerns us all. This city is at war, and only in the arts may the lost citizens of Caracas find refuge.[/b][/color]” At this point it seemed clear that the minstrel had begun to succumb to the drink.  

The barkeep rolled his eyes at the patron’s rambling, but largely ignored his philosophies. “[color=92278f][b]The name sounds familiar,[/b][/color]” he remarked coyly to Karlus. “[color=92278f][b]Though, with this madman in my ear I find it difficult to recall.[/b][/color]” 

Karlus raised one hand towards his face and turned his gaze away from them, almost as if to study his fingernails. 

“[color=39b54a][b]Please. I do not suffer foolishness.[/b][/color]” He raised the hand to his mouth, whispered something into the closed space between his fingers, and opened it. A swirl of green flame was suspended there, twisting and dancing in the air above his upturned palm.

“[color=0072bc][i]Skata[/i][/color]," the minstrel's glassy eyes widened as green embers danced before them.  "[color=0072bc][b]You’re with the League![/b][/color]” As he recoiled his stool followed suit and tipped backwards knocking him, and the contents in his satchel, to the floor. “[color=0072bc][b]I..I..meant no offense,[/b][/color]” he said in a worried frenzy as he tried desperately to carry what had fallen in his arms. Despite his hurried rush for the door, and Karlus’ display the tavern seemed relatively unaware as banter and drinking continued throughout the ordeal. 

Before the barkeep could reward the mage for his help Karlus turned away. There was a sound of someone calling to him from behind. The source of said voice was a large tiefling sitting with another human, and the brith he’d noticed earlier. "[color=ed1c24][b]Ahem.... here, please![/b][/color]"

Karlus looked at the bartender, closed his hand, and walked towards the table.
[hr][hr]

By this point, the tavern had become quite rowdy. It seemed that the ale and wine had worked its own magic on the throngs of patrons. The swelling of multilingual chatter was finally cut through by the sound of one of the dock workers. 

[center]“[b]Knife-eared fuck! I’ll gut you for that,[/b]” [/center]

The worker rose from his chair as playing cards sputtered to the ground from the table. The outburst was enough to silence nearly the entire tavern. He clumsily pulled out a small curved dagger and pointed it accusingly at a middle-aged elven man. The elf nearly fell out of his chair as he scrambled to make distance from his accuser with arms raised in surrender. It took a few moments, but before long most of the tavern positioned themselves to inspect the commotion. 

Before anyone could continue the barkeep yelled out from his post, “[color=92278f][b]Outside, now or it'll be the Pits for you,[/b][/color]”

The dock worker looked towards the direction of the barkeep before dropping his shoulders and foregoing his hostile stance. He snatched a satchel from the table before making his way towards the door in compliance with the barkeep’s command.  “[b]Che culo, elf. Dangerous times afoot, and your kin are dying like flies,[/b]” warned the dock worker before exiting the tavern slamming the door shut behind him. The bar remained quiet for what felt like minutes before chatter began to pick up again. Some of the other workers situated at the same table as the elf either dispersed or quietly made their exit. Others still comforted the older elf, who seemed visibly shaken as he tried to comb the cards up from off of the tavern floor. 

[hider=Annabella]
Had the city really gone to ruin so quickly? You sat positioned towards the back of the tavern looking out at the sheer number of travelers stuck at the port. It seemed that everyone had been touched by a bit of madness, fighting in the streets and blood in the water. You’d come here hoping to lend aid, and tend to the sick. What you’d found was a city at war with itself. You took another sip from your cup. It seemed the only remedy in times like these. 

[color=fff79a]Your story began where theirs had ended. Glorious was your warfare as you ripped through the jungles of High Mist. There was no orc, no man, nor brith who could match your thunder in combat. Your triumphs only strengthened their dogged trust in you. They’d follow you to the ends of Ithea, and you’d ask it of them if it meant your pride. When the time came, they paid the price for your arrogance. The light in your eyes dulled on that day. The next, you severed your bonds to your people, and left the shores of your home. With your hands, you’d do what with a blade you failed to. [/color]

Stirring from your thoughts you looked out once again to the occupants of the tavern. Most of them were cloistered within homogenous groups. Such was the way of the world, you supposed. Soon after though did your wandering eye catch the sight of four rather noteworthy characters, a hodgepodge collection of peoples. There were two humans one dressed in pelts and the other in black leathers, a lightly armored brith, and a tiefling with a rifle at his side. Puckish rogues seeking riches and glory? Perhaps, but you hoped that maybe they were like you. Ancestors, this city needed all the help it could get. 
[/hider]
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[center] [i]Collab between [@Famotill] and [@Kassarock] [/i][/center]