[color=gray][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/AS2MEph.png[/img] [color=gold]Time:[/color] Evening, Ignis 2 [color=gold]Location:[/color] Tough Tavern [center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wtz8GNEyI68&list=RDWtz8GNEyI68&start_radio=1[/youtube][/center] [sub][@Tae][@CitrusArms][@Potter][@Lava Alckon][@Samreaper][@Tpartywithzombi][@ReusableSword][/sub] [img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img] [color=#997657][h1]₱₳Ɽ₮ 3 - ₮ⱧɆ ĐⱤł₦₭ł₦₲ ₲₳₥Ɇ[/h1][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/4YhzjaR.png[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img] [color=#997657][h1]ⱤØɄ₦Đ Ø₦Ɇ[/h1][/color][/center] The room re-centered around the hearth. Drake hung forward against the post, wrists wrenched behind it in rough rope. Ox stood near him like a wall, watchful, one hand still dusted with ash from feeding the flames. By the fire, one of Garran’s men worked the black iron poker in the coals until the tip burned orange-white, turning it lazily. At the bar, Kalliope moved like she’d been born behind the taps. She loaded the brimming tankards onto a tray and carried them out, setting one down in front of each of them, whispering to them when she had the chance. The yeasty stink of beer rose toward their noses as she said, [color=#8D3B72]“You heard the man. Fast. Clean. Don’t breathe if you don’t have to.”[/color] Then, even quieter, her gaze sweeping their faces to ensure focus, but lingering on Stratya as she said. [color=#8D3B72]”Razor psycho boy’s pistol was a single shot, however he’ll have knives, maybe a second gun, but watch his hands. My guess is he won't use a second gun unless absolutely necessary. It's too quick for him. And the witch? She’s brittle. The magic cost her. Look for the fissure. Now drink.”[/color] Garran’s knuckles tapped the tabletop once as he announced: [color=#997657]“Round one. Ox calls it. You lift it, you empty it, you don’t set it down ’til it’s done.”[/color] The tavern’s noise fell away, every patron watching as if their own lives depended on it. [color=#997657]“No sippin’. No spillin’. No stoppin’. No throwin’ it back up.”[/color] he repeated. His gaze slid over their faces, then flicked to Drake. [color=#997657]“You fail—he burns.”[/color] By the hearth, the poker lifted, heat shimmering off the metal. The man brought it toward Drake as if to warn all of them of the consequence that loomed. [color=#997657] “Let’s call this game… “[/color] Garran drawled with a nasty smile, [color=#997657]“ [i]Drink or despair…[/i]”[/color] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/2AlUNuX.png[/img][/center] Kalliope’s whispers had made sense to Olivia, and she listened intently. [color=8FBC8B]"Good advice.”[/color] Liv whispered and stared at Kalliope when there was an opening. [color=8FBC8B] “Archers and witch bitch need to be a focus. They’re controlling the room and can’t do much without ‘em. Magic comes with a cost; we gotta make her weaker, see if she can spend more of that bullshit.”[/color] Her gaze moved briefly to both Marius and Maelen. Their laughter echoed in her mind from a distant time, and she gritted her teeth. [color=8FBC8B]"We need a distraction, and then I can parkour to the rafters and take out the fucking archers. Bow’s a bow, right? I can shoot and fight hand-to-hand combat.”[/color] She trembled and took slow, deep breaths. Half of Kazumin's attention had been split on the conversation, the other half on Drake and Garran. His gaze remained steady and glaring at Garran, unable to forgive them for using Drake as their game piece, and himself feeling he had a hand in his friend’s precariously dangerous situations. Kazumin grit his teeth with a tsk.*[b] [color=limegreen]As if sullying this day wasn’t bad enough, but to dirty drinking games…too cowardly to partake themselves too at that, damn chickens.[/color][/b].* He huffed through his nose, pushing the detestable smell of heated metal, which reminded him of the times of branding the cattle, and here Drake was cruelly being branded like he was some common barn animal. Stratya took a steady, careful breath as she eyed the archers Lady Olivia spoke of. She’d hardly noticed her vulgarity. As the Captain then eyed her hefty tankard from the previous drink, she decided she didn’t have time to deliberate, only to plan, and not even the time to share it,[color=peru] “Take th’ stairman.”[/color] She spoke as concisely as she reasonably could. The fewer words, the fewer chances to be overheard. Another gun would be a problem.[color=peru] “I c’n distrract. Th’ gun, tho’,”[/color] Stratya’s eyes met with Kalliope’s. With Olivia taking care of the archer on the stairs and Marius so far away, dealing with that would have to fall to Kalliope. Even with a trick or two, Stratya wouldn’t be much use if she got shot. As the conversation nearby carried on into discussing plans, did Kazu shift his gaze up to the archers, then the witch, the main threats for sure? He leaned towards them. "[color=limegreen] I’m a fine damn climber myself, and with those crossbows means they ain’t firing till they're certain. Get a distraction going, and I can finesse my way up there before they can so much as blink. Might get a use of those crossbows ourselves if lucky.”[/color] The blonde added, prepared to back up and cover any that needed it. Roman gathered himself for what was to come and what had passed, nodding at the whispered information and the input from the others. [color=f26522]“The mage is mine,”[/color] he whispered. [color=f26522]“I’ll keep us going. Cause a distraction.”[/color] He met the eyes of everyone at the table. The blue in his eyes had begun to shift to a subtle yellow. [color=f26522]“On my mark.”[/color] Roman gave a brief signal by strumming his fingers, then making a fist. He knew what he could do; there were many things he could do. Many things that would get everyone killed. Illusions were the best bet for distraction and support to handle this. Now he just had to step back and trust in the others. Try not to get himself killed in a bar fight or let the magic consume him. [color=8FBC8B]"Leave some of the mage for me, Roman.”[/color] Olivia’s voice came out as a low hiss. Her eyes burned with fire. [color=8FBC8B] "Or, leave the scraps for me, at the very least.”[/color] “[color=limegreen]You two can have her, and I’ll cover. As long as I get a go at the prick with the gun, can’t let that knife-wielding freak out of our sights, too.[/color]” Kazu said through a hushed grimace, thinking back to Kali’s words.” [color=limegreen]Garran’s asking to get decked too.[/color]” He scoffed with a click of his tongue. Ariella nodded excitedly as they all conversed, completely unaware of the serious nature of the situation, [color=slateblue]"I can’t wait for my turn,”[/color] she whispered to know one. In fact, the whisper was not so softly said but loud enough for those around her to hear in her forced whispered tone. Charlotte’s eyes drifted between each of those at the table as they spoke. The words seemed to tumble over one another ever since Kalliope had spoken. The things they were saying—all of them felt unreal, like a scene from one of her adventure books, the ones where everyone always knew exactly when to strike and how the danger would unfold. But this wasn’t a book, and there was no way to know if any of their actions would coordinate with one another. All she could think about was how easily a single wrong movement could turn the room into a slaughter. The thought led her gaze back to Drake. The sight of him bound there, shoulders hunched forward, [i]helpless[/i], made her throat tighten. Her vision blurred, tears threatening. [color=D0B4EC]“What if…”[/color] her voice came out smaller than she meant it to, almost as though she were speaking only to herself, [color=D0B4EC]“What if they hurt him because of our haste?”[/color] Her eyes slowly slid toward the rafters as Olivia’s words echoed in her mind. [color=D0B4EC]“And those aren’t bows… [i]They’re crossbows.[/i] They’ll have to reload. If we can make the room surge into chaos somehow after the first shot, they'll have trouble lining up another clean one. There are more patrons here than there are of them after all.”[/color] [center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X55hMiDQbfA&list=RDX55hMiDQbfA&start_radio=1[/youtube][/center] Then, Kazumin was the first to move. His hand closed around the tankard, and he tipped it back like a man who’d done this a hundred times. There was not a single pause or spill. When the cup finally hit the table, it was spotlessly empty. Ox shook his head at the man with the poker. For a moment, the tavern forgot to be terrified about the terrible situation they were in. A sudden cheer burst out as if the whole room had been holding its breath. Patrons clapped and whooped, pounding tables. Olivia reached over and high-fived him. Despite the tension, there was a small smile that disappeared quickly. [color=8FBC8B]"Just hang on,” [/color] Liv whispered softly to the group. [color=8FBC8B]"We will get out of here soon enough.”[/color] Roman gave Kazumin a respectful nod at his ability to gulp down a drink. He would fit in well at the taverns back home. From the Captain, there was a similarly reserved response. Her nod was not so much a sign of respect, but simply confirming that things were starting well. For a moment just before he had downed his tankard, Kazu had blanked as Charlotte’s words of concern rang in his ears, and as did the lack of optimism among the group. His body had acted without thinking, brought back to the run-down dingy of a bar where tankards were chugged almost non-stop, and fights were a daily occurrence. A risky and hectic atmosphere, but most often carried a fun time, where outside problems no longer mattered, and beefs were settled with fists and booze. But here, all he felt was suffocating dread and demoralizing despair. A sign that they nearly had full control of the room. Something he simply could not sit back and abide by and downed his tankard, visualizing drinking with the boys despite the burning liquor going down like bile down his throat. The thunk of the empty tankard snapped him back in time to see a hand flying towards him, and he reacted with a high-five in response, instinctively recognizing his best friend’s intent. The unexpected bout of applause worked as a cover to drown their quick action. Settling back in his seat with an acknowledging nod to Roman and Stratya, though, he wasn’t sure if they were all nodding to the same thing, but he went with it, satisfied at having given the crowd a brief respite with the hopes of showing they hadn’t won yet. Garran’s head turned, and the cheer drowned out immediately. He lifted a hand, and the room shrank around the gesture. [color=#997657]“Shut. Up.”[/color] Garran snapped. His gaze traveled around the room, lingering until every last grin died. A satisfied smirk etched his lips briefly, seeing Garran have a wrinkle in his twisted fun. How he longed to see the smiles wiped from their smug prick faces; they chose to play dirty, so it was only fair to play in kind. When the little opportunity presented themselves that is and turned to give the rest of the table a quick thumbs up. Next, Olivia lifted her tankard and began chugging alcohol. The memories of being on the streets refilled her mind. The old familiar guilt that haunted her dreams and nightmares had been worse than the hangovers she had endured. When she was done with her tankard, she slammed it down and stared down Garran and Ox. Pain in her mind began to pierce through her skull, and she gritted her teeth. White-hot anger burned through her worse than the alcohol. Her mind buzzed from the magic effects, fury, and desperation, and then the readmittance of guilt. Poor, innocent Drake. The fury burned brighter inside of her until it would become an inferno. Her hands began to tremble from fear and fury, and she could not stop her legs from bouncing. Every muscle, ligament and tendon was taut and ready to spring into action. A few people clapped from somewhere near the bar. It came reluctantly after Garran had shut them down last time. Still, it was impressive that the first two who had drank had succeeded so well. A man on the balcony gave a low whistle through his teeth as Ox’s attention sharpened fully onto Olivia, shoulders squaring as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to move. Then he gave a nod to the man once more and said, [color=C1E04F] "No pain for the damsel in distress just yet, Merrill."[/color] Pride and a hint of concern were in his eyes, seeing Olive down hers with little struggle, to his relief. Not that he ever doubted her, but while she could always drink like the best of them, the trembling rage was palpable. A miracle she managed to hold herself back, though feared that wouldn’t last long. [i][color=8FBC8B]"Yes, focus on me, you bastardly ugly looking punkass troll.”[/color][/i] [color=limegreen]“ Easy, no sense getting them riled up with you. Temper that fire with thoughts of breaking Ox’s fat troll nose.”[/color] The cowlicked Kazumin whispered with a tightening grip of his tankard, thinking of watching that hideous face bleeding like a faucet. Captain Durmand found it too early to celebrate. The rest of the tavern did not feel the same weight on their shoulders, the same responsibility over the situation, even lasting this long. She desperately wanted to act, but knew she could not conquer the entire room herself. With only a ragtag band to fight alongside her, she needed a plan and coordination. None of her allies here were her soldiers, ready and trained to fight, or even lay down their lives. Worse, they were nobility, even high nobility. She [i]could not[/i] lose them. The one death was enough. She’d seen the change in Roman’s eyes. Could she let him cast again? It had been some time since Stratya last chugged a pint like this. She was out of practice, it showed. Despite what might be thought of her starting too quickly, she was more keen to enjoy her drinks, nobility weren’t usually the type to drink this way. That was another reason Stratya wasn’t celebrating. She was happier that Olivia had done so well, presenting yet another surprise. That noble girl could drink, swear, and fight, apparently - though she’d yet to see the last from the lady. If only she were the only point of concern. By the end of her chug, Stratya had found the flow of it, her vessel returning to the table with a conclusive thunk. Still no additional marks for Drake. They just had to hold the line. The pint felt heavy in his hand; it wasn't just the weight of it, but what it would mean to fail this drinking game. To fail them. The guilt any of them would feel from being responsible? No, he wasn't going to think about that. Drinking was part of his culture, and he would not disappoint his ancestors. He just hoped that by the end of this game, it wasn't just going to be Stratya and himself left standing. He hefted the mug in his large hand and, like a well-practiced strike, gulped it down with little effort. The taste and the smell did little to distract him from his goal. Outwardly he was stoic, hiding any look that might give away the fact that he was planning something. His fingers rhythmically tapped across the table, a fast pace that began to slow with the next round. Ariella squinted at the tankard as if it had personally offended her. [color=slateblue]“Oh. My turn?”[/color] she slurred softly, blinking once, twice, as if the room might come back into focus if she gave it time. It did not. Instead, the fire leaned sideways, the faces doubled, and Garran looked like he’d grown an extra chin. She choked back a giggle at the sight of it. She wrapped both hands around the mug anyway, knuckles whitening. The beer sloshed dangerously close to the rim. She squinted back down at the tankard as if trying to size it up before conquering it. [color=slateblue]“Well,”[/color] she murmured to no one in particular, tilting the mug,[color=slateblue] “this is already the worst family game night I’ve ever attended, so let’s not half-ass it.”[/color] She drank. A sharp, traitorous inhale caught in her chest, and suddenly the beer went the wrong way entirely. Ari’s eyes went wide. She coughed, nearly choking on the beer [color=slateblue]“Okay..”[/color][i]cough[/i][color=slateblue]”...okay, hold on,”[/color] she wheezed. [color=slateblue]“That one tried to kill me. That’s not on me.”[/color] She took another large sip. She choked again, louder this time, face flushing red as she tried to suck in air and failed for a horrifying second. Tears pricked at her eyes, half from reflex, half from sheer indignation. She finally managed a breath and laughed immediately after, hoarse and unsteady, even as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She visually became more intoxicated as she nearly fell out of her seat. The sound of Ariella’s choking had pulled the attention of the tavern. Around them, bodies stilled in the same flinch. A few patrons looked away, not out of pity, but because they already knew what came next. The scar-mouthed man, Winston, near their table came to stand behind Ariella. One hand clamped her shoulder and held her upright in her seat with a possessive grip His gaze slid to Drake bound at the post, then back down to Ariella with satisfied cruelty. [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“There it is,”[/color] he murmured, as if she’d proven a point for him. [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“All that name and breeding and you couldn’t even manage your brother’s safety.”[/color] His mouth twitched, and his fingers dug in hard enough to bruise as he bent to her ear and sneered, [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“Some sister you are. You nobles are [i]pathetic.[/i] ”[/color] Ox turned like the verdict had already been decided, and swung his bulk toward their table and let one word drop. [b][color=khaki]“Fail.”[/color] [/b] A ripple went through the tavern: chairs creaked as people shrank back. Burning fury rushed through Olivia. At first, it was as though a train had roared by. Liv did a doubletake to glance around, but there wasn’t any. Her hands trembled with rage and she clenched her fists. How dare they? She was clearly intoxicated. She breathed in and out of her nose slowly while her anger pulsed through her. Drake’s foot stomped loud enough to draw the attention back onto him. [color=greenyellow]”The only pathetic ones are the ones ganging up on a drunk woman like yourselves. My safety is not hers to manage.”[/color] His eyes narrowed at Winston as he man-handled his sister by the ear. [color=greenyellow]”But forgive me. I forget that you all don’t know the first thing about proper familial etiquette. So bring on the bloody ‘punishment’.”[/color] Drake’s eyes turned to the person holding the iron rod with a rare look of rebellious fury in his eyes, and the man stared back emotionlessly as laughter roared from those around them. At first, things had been going well with both Roman and Stratya handling their chugs with no problem. Hardly surprising, a man of his size could handle his drink, and one he would delight in challenging to a drinking game under better circumstances, while Stratya demonstrated a skilled yet controlled manner, such as the manner soldiers drank in. But Ariella..she was already in a pretty drunken state, but no mercy or understanding was given, even when it was clear she was barely in any state to continue drinking. Seeing her choke and gag after that initial windpipe start was torture to bear; a reminder of his first days of drinking, the awkward choking and humiliating laughter. His face burned with fury at the scar-mouthed man who appeared behind the woman; his cruel words and bruising grip were uncalled for, treating a lady in such a shameful, harsh way. The hand gripping the tankard caused a few cracks, and his legs twitched with the urge to stand. A surprised stomp echoed out, making him flinch, killing the urge to stand, instead directed towards Drake’s direction, hearing the man demand that they get on with it. He frowned through gritted teeth, resigned to what was about to happen; gulping with a nervous twitch of his nose, respect momentarily held for the man in his furious gaze. The man with the poker then made his way toward Drake, only to be paused mid-step by Garran lifting his hand. The gesture was a lazy halt of two fingers, but it froze movement again. He nodded once, in the direction of Charlotte Vikena—who still had her face buried in the tankard, her head only slightly thrown back. Charlotte had lifted her tankard the same moment others did, because she had meant to do it right. She’d even braced herself as the others had: shoulders squared, chin tipped back. But the first swallow had been unsuccessful, as if a wall had formed to block the liquid. The lingering aftershocks of her earlier panic were still tormenting her body. Things had only worsened when Ariella choked; Charlotte’s stomach tightened so hard it made the next swallow impossible. So she did the only thing her body would let her do without betraying her: she kept the tankard over her mouth, face buried in it, head thrown back just enough to sell the motion, while she let the smallest trickle slide in at a time. She disguised her sip as a chug while the others had drunk, hiding her pauses behind the rim. She forced herself to swallow, then forced herself to swallow again, eyes stinging. The tankard was still too heavy, and it was taking too long. Garran noticing had been inevitable. [color=#997657]“Lady Vikena,”[/color] Garran regarded her mildly, [color=#997657]“you’re takin’ your time.”[/color] His mouth curved in a way that promised nothing good as he observed her. Charlotte’s throat worked as she tried to push another swallow down. [color=D0B4EC]“I—”[/color] she managed too softly to be heard, and then her breath hitched as her body refused the next gulp. That was when Winston leaned in from his spot, and before Charlotte could even lower the tankard to speak, his free hand slid over the rim. Then he simply [i]tilted[/i] it, forcing the mouth of the tankard up and the beer down. Charlotte’s head tipped back with it, trapped by the angle. The liquid surged faster than her throat could manage, and her eyes flew wide. A cough jerked her body. [i][color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“Chug,”[/color][/i] Winston snapped, [i][color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“like you mean it.”[/color][/i] Charlotte gagged, and foam slipped past the rim anyway, streaking her chin as she fought not to choke. More tears sprang hot from her eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer panic of her own body betraying her in front of them. Winston let the tankard drop back into her hands as if he’d been “helping.” His mouth twisted with satisfaction. [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“There,”[/color] he said, louder now, so the nearest tables could hear, [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“that’s what happens when snobby nobles try to cheat a working man’s game.”[/color] [color=greenyellow]"Awfully rich to talk about ‘cheating’ when you’re the ones making all the rules.”[/color] Drake hissed as he witnessed the twisted game play out. Ox turned like the verdict had been waiting in his throat all along. [b][color=khaki]“Fail.”[/color][/b] [color=#997657]“That’s two burns for Lord Edwards.”[/color] Garran flicked his gaze to the man with the poker. [color=#997657]“Give him hell.”[/color] Olivia’s hands nearly hit the table with rage. All she could see was red. Liv bit her tongue so hard it bled. A few sparks nearly emitted from her hands. They fucking dared to do that to Lottie? Liv couldn’t breathe for a moment. Murder was all she could see. She eyed the knives on the tables, and then slowly glared viciously at Winston, and began imagining stabbing him repeatedly in her mind’s eye. She was shaking from head to foot, not with fear, but with rage. The alcohol burned, but her anger burned brighter, like the sparks that burned down her mother’s bakery and her home. The urge to react was almost impossible to ignore, yet she knew she had to keep her wits about and remain healthy enough to fight. Across the table, the heat of anger burned differently for Stratya, kept contained and under pressure. The frustration that she could not shoulder their drinks, that she yet sat and played along, and so many layers of outrage burned bright in her chest. Her muscles yet itched to strike. Her mind kept cycling through the night’s victims. Drake, and the injured. And the dead. These people were proving themselves no different to bandits on the plains. Unlike the Black Rose Company, however.. these ones came right out in the open. They were right there, waiting to be crushed. To be forced to see Ari mistreated had been difficult enough for Kazumin, yet what Winston dared to do to Charlotte was wholly abhorrent, all while the sick bastard reveled in torturing the two for their twisted amusement. Before it was a struggle, but now he was trembling like a heated bean ready to pop with a burning face to match. Such cruelty should never befall any women and they dared to lay hands on Charlotte.*[b] [color=limegreen]Hrngh….manhandling Char like that…just you wait…..by night’s end you’ll be choking on your own rotten blood.[/color][/b]* Bloody murder, the cowlicked blonde scowled. Crack! Beneath his crushing grip, the tankard shattered in his hand, leaving a small gash along the lower palm, though he paid it no heed; the anger and beer pulsing in his veins dulled the sensation. A pain that vastly paled compared to what Drake would be forced to endure. Meanwhile, Roman’s posture did not betray his inner thoughts or the anger threatening to envelop him. His hand, however, did. He paused its ever-slowing thrum to dig his fingers into the table—a gesture he released as quickly as it came. He would not give in to rage, no matter how much that voice pushed him to kill them all. The red wake would not stop at just these brigands or the occupants of this bar. Instead, he shifted his focus inward—into his thoughts, into his magic. Deep breaths pulled and released. He let himself gather his magic, letting it call to him, letting the voices of the gods be heard. He felt the pull of the magic around him, the strings of the weaver taut and loose. Swirling shadows licked at his boots, and magic pooled in the air like a thick, humid day. Then the poker pressed deep into the skin on Drake’s back, and there it stayed—hissing as it burned through the cloth of his jacket until the smell of scorched flesh filled the air. It was unlike anything Drake had experienced before. The bravado he showcased earlier took a backseat as the searing iron pierced through layers of cloth and then skin–a sickening sizzle hissing through the air as his body tensed against the post. For a moment, it felt like his joints might give way to the force of his futile attempts to escape the pain. And then the man twisted the tool, ripping the outer layers of Drake’s skin as he branded him fiercely. Somehow, the retreat of the red-hot poker was even worse than its descent. After what felt like an eternity, Drake’s lips parted, and a guttural and piercing wail filled the tavern. Every ounce of air in his lungs escaped in a primal shout of misery, his eyes rolling up and his body slumping back against the post. Drake dared not rest his freshly cauterized wound against the wood and began breathing heavily as he saw the man sink the iron tool back into the coals. That brief pause gave him the reprieve he needed. Kalliope’s words from earlier flashed in his mind. Drake played a loop of sentimental thoughts as he felt his focus fade. He thought about his family and the legacy he had to uphold. His mind flashed to think of his friends throughout the city, and the values he needed to protect. A smile graced his face as Drake imagined Thea, the woman he loved so dearly. The soft way her hands had touched him made him gently flex his fingers against the conversely rough and uncaring ropes that bound him. Then he felt a laugh crawl up his throat. A defiant laugh, that slowly built as he saw the poker raised again for its second sting. Garran's brows furrowed in displeasure as his gaze snapped to the bound man. [color=greenyellow]”Ahhh. I forget myself sometimes. I just realized the funniest thing.”[/color] Drake took the moment to stand up properly, his posture fixed from the wracking pain from earlier. [color=greenyellow]”You can take all the skin you want off my back. It won’t change anything. I’m just a man.”[/color] Drake paused, his voice dropping into a more sinister tone. [color=greenyellow]”But so are you. So enjoy this power grab while it lasts. Because once this tavern realizes they outnumber your motley crew about six to one, you won’t seem as scary anymore. Then the good guys get to make [i]their[/i] move. And you know what’s scarier than a crooked man with a knife?”[/color] The poker was raised and pressed against Drake’s hip, another scorching sizzle filling the room as he grit his teeth. He barely pushed past the pain as he spoke through clenched teeth. [color=greenyellow]"A good man who's been pushed to his limits.”[/color] Drake sucked in his breath as the heat burned through his clothes and seeped into his core. His knuckles turned white from clenching his fists fiercely. He let the burns take shape, and did little to resist the poker’s trajectory–for he had made his peace with this fate of his. As Drake spoke, Ari had looked into the bottom of her cup as the last of the liquid started to slosh around the bottom of the stein. She was completely oblivious to the situation as the smell of flesh singed the air. She looked around the room, confused as the world around her continued to spin. Her attention drew back to her brother, [color=slateblue]”Why is Drake strapped to that chair?”[/color] And what had reached Kazumin first was the smell…The horrid and stomach-gurgling stench of burning clothes and flesh. He could only help but gulp as some of the red drained from his face, forced to relive all the animal brandings. The sound of their whimpers and cries, the sting of stinging fur intermingled with burning flesh, which had been unpleasant but tolerable. Where the room once reeked of piss and booze, it now smelled inhumanely pungent with burning human flesh, and the thought of it being Drake nearly made him hurl had he not once again shown his immense bravery and strong heart. His inspiring words, despite the overwhelming pain. It broke his heart to see the man having to fight alone and working so hard to keep a brave face for them. “ [color=limegreen]And there’s no man finer than you are right now, Sir Drake! Now, someone replace this flimsy mug so I can continue to drink to his good name![/color]” Kazu said, slamming the broken tankard against the table with a renewed grin, wanting to back him up, disregarding any potential blows his little stint may earn him. Meanwhile, there was something disturbingly familiar to the captain about the odor. The little bit off the mark might have been all that spared these bandits from early wrath. What was it with brigands and burning things? Did the kind of people who only knew how to consume see themselves in it? Different though it might have been, it was still repugnant. Stratya was glad not have food in front of her, though perhaps she would be gladder to have yet eaten, instead. Just nearby Stratya was Roman Ravenwood, the color drained from his face as that stench hit him. That burning smell of flesh, the sound of hot iron against skin… the screams. In his current state, he couldn't push the memories out of his head fast enough. Instead, they nearly consumed him, threatening to throw him back into that abyss. His shoulders sagged, and his head dropped, nearly breaking his concentration; he looked as though he were going to either hurl or pass out. The memories came back in flashes: first smells, then sounds, then everything else. A village burning, the dead and slaughtered—men and animals alike, young, old, and everything in between. The streets ran red with blood. Just him in the middle of all of it… just him and his bloody sword. He would not let that happen here, not again. He would not let himself give in to the red wake ever again. Anger steeled his resolve once more. He raised his head, his yellow eyes locking with Olivia's as the gears turned and his plan shifted. [color=f26522][i]“Burn the witch,”[/i][/color] he mouthed slowly to her. With a slow blink, his eyes shifted to Kazumin, then to Stratya. [color=f26522][i]“I’ll get Drake.”[/i][/color] It was hair. Somehow, Roman had reminded Stratya of what was missing. Perhaps the image, in her mind, however brief, of the woman burning had brought the thought to mind. Burning hair was not part of the odorous cocktail assailing them, and she did not care to add it. It was understandable that their emotions would be riding high, but decisions made so rashly often did not make the most of a situation. She mouthed in response, [color=peru] “[i]Burn later.[/i]”[/color] [color=slateblue] “Hey! Let my brother go.” [/color] Ariella suddenly nearly leaped out of her seat as she swung her stein towards the men, thinking it was nothing more than a simple prank, and Winston roughly yanked her back into her chair by the hand he had on her shoulder. [color=lightgoldenrodyellow]“Not so fast. Took you long enough to care about him, stupid girl."[/color] As those at the table reacted with revulsion, so did their red-haired barmaid of the night. The hiss of the iron hadn't been just a sound; it had crawled straight into Kalliope’s bones and set up camp. The stink followed, thick and nauseating: scorched wool, roasted flesh, the kind of scent that made most people retch. For Kalliope, it was something else entirely. It was a key, old and rusted, grinding open a lock she’d tried to bury deep. She stood with her fingers locked so tight around the brass tap that the metal bit deep, leaving little half-moons in her skin. For a split second, the tavern vanished, swallowed by a hungry, orange blaze. The air thickened, turned to choking soot, and the scream in her ears wasn’t Drake’s. It was her own, younger, raw and useless, before she’d learned to turn fear into a weapon. She remembered the heat peeling her cheeks, her nails scrabbling at a door that refused to give. [color=#8D3B72][i]“Kahrem!”[/i][/color] her mind howled into the black. [color=#8D3B72][i]“Kahrem, get out! Please!”[/i][/color] She dragged in a breath, the air thick with Drake’s pain, and let it burn through her, locking the beast in its cage. Not yet. To steady her hands, she took inventory: the six-inch stiletto snug in her boot, the curved spine-blade pressed against her back, her favorite dagger riding her hip, and the blackened steel bodkin masquerading as a hairpin, just waiting for a skull to split. She swept the room, cold and methodical, tallying up the makeshift arsenal: the iron-bound oak tray for a buckler, the leaded-glass decanter for a mace, and, if she could reach it, the little jar of tanner’s lye tucked low on the shelf. That one was for Marius, a promise of liquid fire to the eyes. Her grip eased, one finger at a time, until her hands moved with that old, dangerous precision. She poured the next round, eyes flicking everywhere. She saw Maelen’s sway, the crossbowmen lounging in the rafters, and the exact distance to Ox’s throat. Nothing escaped her. [color=#8D3B72]“Round two,”[/color] she whispered to the rising foam, her voice a low, vibrating promise of ruin. [color=#8D3B72]“Let’s see who breaks first.”[/color] [/color]