Open Drunken With the Fishes

[Malachi Tiderunner]

6th Night of Autumn, 519 AV

The Drunken Fish

Malachi slowly strides around Baroque Bay after experiencing just another night in Sunberth like many others: a wild ride out at sea; experiencing residual haunts that want to tear your flesh - the usual. He glances at the four tiny entry wounds where the apparition's fingernails dug and shakes his head, muttering several curses in Fratava. Several dock workers are managing their vessels, loading and unloading cargo. Loud raised voices echo over the vast waters negotiating prices and quantities of merchandise. As Malachi rounds a bend, several sailors are enjoying a bawdy joke while tossing back some drinks and smoking. His nostrils flare as he walks up to one of the guys, gesturing to his smoke. "Hey, mate - you wouldn't mind givin' a weary traveler a smoke, would ya?" The drunken sailor nods his head in approval as he reaches into a breast pocket and pulls out a leaf-wrapped tobacco stick and hands it to him. Malachi nods his head in thanks and leans in towards another sailor who is gesturing a flint and tinder to him. The sailor strikes the two items together causing a small spark to ignite an ember at the end of Malachi's smoke. he takes a deep inhale of the sweet herbs and exhales with a huge grin, nodding his head in thanks. The sailors continue on with their jokes, waving goodbye to Malachi as he continues to make his way over towards one of his frequent haunts, "The Drunken Fish".

Making his way up to the front of the large establishment, the hustle and bustle of the crowd would be over cumbersome for the average bloke, but this is a Svefra. Malachi eyes down a pair making their way drunkenly out of the establishment, sloppily pouring booze on one another as they begin to ravish one another in the streets, unable to wait and make it to a dark alley. He lets out a light scoff, shaking his head as he pulls the wrapped-leaf from his mouth and blows the fumes into the air. Upon encroachment, there are individuals from all walks of life sharing a story, a song, or an argument. Several shady looking individuals eye Malachi up and down, observing not only his sopping wet attire but a steel cutlass that he holds sheathed to his hip. Malachi would slow his momentum and look at them out of the corner of his eye to acknowledge their judgment and to not show fear. He is anything but a victim. This can also be viewed as standoffish, but he'd rather be considered cold than a coward.

A pair of twin redhead females scantily clad in sheer materials and smelling of alcohol and intimate musk press themselves on to him. One of the girls brings her face right into his, batting her green eyes seductively as she utters "Hi handsome - care to ride these crimson waves?" She brings her hands to Malachi's face and begins to caress his jawline. Her sister runs her hands down his shoulders on to his waist inching for what seems to be his waistline. Malachi quickly realizes the woman to feel him to be a mark and latches on to the carousing hand. He brings it up so both sisters may look upon it and shakes his head, "Ladies...I assure you that I am not the one you wish to 'entertain' this evening." The first sister glances over to a corner towards a group of men who are secretly conversing. One, in particular, is sitting at the 'head' of the group eyeing down the entire interaction. The woman grits her teeth and stares Malachi directly in his eyes grabbing her sister's snatched hand by the wrist and pulls it free from his grip. She then drags her across the tavern to the direction of the man. He and Malachi lock eyes for a brief moment tossing daggers at one another. The man leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as to make it abundantly clear to Malachi that he is looking at him. Malachi keeps a stern expression before slowly looking away from him, continuing his strong gate over to the bar.

The patrons of the bar surely paid the interaction between Malachi, the girls, and the unnamed man no mind going about their own affairs. The tavern music chimed off of its wooden walls, and the carousing continued. As he approached the bar he noted the backs of several individuals all giving him the once over on their own time before looking back toward their conversations.

He took note of the woman behind the bar sloshing drinks down and back over the tabletop. The strawberry blonde woman gave Malachi a once over and beckoned him closer with her head. He looked over either shoulder before bringing his wrapped-leaf to his lips, holding it within his mouth and dusts his hands off. He finds a nook that's opened within the side of the bar and rests his elbows upon its top. The woman walks right in front of him and rests her hands on the countertop, "It's been a long time, Malachi." Malachi takes the wrapped-leaf out of his mouth with his left hand, blowing its fumes over his head. His eyebrows raise and lower briefly before responding, "You seem to be doing good for yourself, kid. You look good." He places the stick back into his mouth as she shakes her head, grabbing a small glass tumbler and sets it in front of him. "Leave the bullshitting to me, Malachi, you were never too good at it." A snarky smirk rides his lips as he retorts, "Is that a formal complaint, Cira? You've never voiced complaints before." The smirk curls into a Cheshire smile, smoke rolling from his teeth like a dragon. She rolls her eyes, with a chuckle. She grabs a green bottle and removes the cork with the teeth. Malachi's eyes trace her mouth before moving back up to her eyes. Cira begins to pour the juniper smelling substance into his glass but is halted by a pause gesture with his right hand. He quickly takes the glass and slams back the first fill, placing the empty container back before her and gestures a nod to continue. With raised brows, Cira looks to his forearm observing the nail marks as she pours. "Back in the crow's nest I see..." Malachi's head tilts in question before taking note of his nail marks in his forearm. His face remains stern before taking hold of the glass, bringing it up to his lips. "Long story..." his voice solemn as he speaks through the brim of his drink before taking a sip. Cira's face grows slightly red as she pushes through, acting as if it doesn't bother her. "There was a spice trader who had recently made his way through here some 10 days ago. He told me that I was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Said he wanted to wife me up. He had quite the load of mizas - but I had to turn him down. I couldn't leave Father Manowar's ass to run this place on his own: he'd have it burned to the ground without me." Same ol' Cira story, Malachi thought to himself as he puckered his lips in approval and nodded, "Naturally... he responded before taking another sip. Cira continues spinning her web, yet Malachi gives her his undivided attention.

Word Count: 1,235 | Total 1,235

[Baelin Holt]

To say that Baelin didn’t like taverns was putting it lightly. They revolted them. Even if his youngest years hadn’t been spent living in one, he’d still probably find them unpleasant. The stale stench of ale in the air, with drunks both boisterous and sullen; unfamiliar faces and those who spent an inordinate chunk of their wages on maintaining a buzz. None of it was Baelin’s scene.

But. It was the scene of both sailors and dock workers. And that made it worth venturing into.

Even now, over the chattering din on nothing important, Baelin could catch little snippets worth hearing. She’s sailing out tomorrow, Zeltiva and back, was the gossip for a ship named Marnie. Some captain named Holden was a demanding bastard. And…there: I hate Sahova drop offs, that harbor is straight spooky.

Baelin stiffened, and slowly turned his ear towards the chattering deckhands. But their conversation had shifted away from Sahova and into an actual ghost story―something about a farmer’s wife and missing sheep―and he was left without any more information on Sahova and its harbor or trade.

This was impossible. Baelin resisted the urge to beat his forehead against the table, but it was a near thing. There had to be a better way to get intel, but Baelin was at a loss for how to go about it. So far all he knew about Sahova was that its harbor was “spooky.” With a frustrated breath pushed through clenched teeth, Baelin picked up his mug and took another sip of ale. He grimaced at the taste―too much like his father’s brew―and set it back down. Maybe he should call it a night. He’d already been here a half-bell, and staying any longer was just increasing the odds that something would go wrong. So far he’d been paid little mind, but that could change with just one drunkard’s erratic interest.

A few of the others at the bar did quick glances over their shoulder as someone new approached, and Baelin followed suit. He blinked, surprised at the Oceanus mark flowing over the newcomer’s arms. With his bright blue eyes and beaded braids, Baelin was convinced the newcomer was Svefra. And while Baelin was certainly no regular to the Drunken Fish and didn’t truly know whether or not Svefra pods liked to frequent it, he for some reason had it in his head that they wouldn’t. Why go to a tavern when you could instead tie your boats up together and party amongst yourselves?

The Svefra man chatted with the bartender―with familiarity, if Baelin was any judge―and puffed on a stick of tobacco. An exotic and expensive habit, that was. Baelin watched as the conversation turned towards scratches on his arm, and then circled around towards the bartender’s personal life. Cira and Malachi, he logged away, in the event that it was ever useful.

Whatever the Svefra’s story, Baelin doubted it had anything to do with Sahova and its undead occupants. It would seem that tonight had been a bust, and it’d be best for Baelin to leave before it got any worse. He pushed his unfinished ale forwards and moved to get up.

A hand clapped on his shoulder. Baelin froze. And, slowly, twisted to see who it was.

A barrel chested man―the skin of his face weathered and crinkled by both sun and wind―shook his head, looking utterly bemused. “Hey now, you can’t leave before finishing, I’ll be out a copper.”

Baelin frowned, not following for a tick. But when one of the man’s companions pumped the air in a display of victory, and the others began to laugh, Baelin slowly put the pieces together. They had made a bet on whether he would finish his ale or not, hadn’t they? When the barrel chested man jabbed his finger in the direction of Baelin’s abandoned ale, an obvious indication that Baelin should go pick it back up, he was sure he had it right. Baelin must have looked so out of place, that they couldn’t help but make a bet on him.

Well, he wasn’t finishing that damned drink. Baelin didn’t even like ale. And with this petcher telling him what to do? No way. Petch that. He gritted his teeth and glared bloody murder at the barrel of a man. The man―Barrel, Baelin was going to call him―seemed utterly unfazed and reached past Baelin, snagging the mug and scooting it closer. “C’mon, now,” Barrel urged, “Be a good man and finish your drink.”

WC: 748

[Malachi Tiderunner]

6th Night of Autumn, 519 AV

Malachi continues to listen as Cira drones on and on about her exploits and stories of grandeur since they had last spoke. She takes an elbow on the countertop, gesturing wildly with every tale she tells. He continues to sip on his gin, trying to take in everything she is saying. He always wonders if her stories are as elaborate as she makes them out to be , but she tells them so well he wouldn't know the difference. Either way, she has his undivided attention; he giving a grunt or random comment to reassure her that he was following.

As their conversation continued Malachi could not help but take note of a large, barrel chested man who was approaching the bar. For the slightest of moments he believed that the man was going to encroach upon his conversation. Yet, he stopped to a guy a couple of patrons over from him. He had taken note that it was one of the guys who eyed him down when he had first approached, but paid him no mind at the time. Cira continued on with her story as if Malachi never turned his head; so he would try and take another sip of his drink.

As his focus drew back to Cira and her stories, the nearby conversation slowly begin to convert to white noise backdrop. The words "...you can't leave" knifes through the chatter and pierces into his ear like a serrated dagger. A visual cringe contorts his facial expression causing Cira to furrow her brows, tilting her head at him "Why are you making that face?! It was only three sailors! Albeit, at the same time but... Malachi waves her off with his left hand, bringing the tobacco stick back up to his lips and takes a deep drag of smoke into his lungs.

As he inhales, his focus can not help but go back to the conversation with the large man who had just approached the stranger. If there is one thing that a Svefra hates, let alone this Svefra it is somebody attempting to control their free spirit. They are a footloose society and refuse to be tied down by any person or ideology. So the thought of someone barking an order to not move at him caused Malachi great agitation. The words keep to yourself - this is not your fight kept chanting in his head like a never ending mantra. He was staring at Cira's lips and going through his regular functions of smoking and drinking, yet he kept the chant going.

Malachi briefly closes his eyes and shakes the thoughts from his head causing him to snap back into reality. The loud presence of the night's patrons blast back into his ear drums, as well as Cira. He notes her hand gesturing towards his glass, her left brow arched curiously. "I'm sorry...what did you say?" he asks in a confused tone. "I asked if you wanted another drink. You've been blankly gripping that glass tumbler for the past couple of minutes. He nods his head and uses his fingertips to slide the tumbler across the wooden countertop toward Cira who deftly catches it in her right hand and turns around to grab a rag from the back counter. She wipes down Malachi's cup before putting it in a tub of soapy brown water. Cira then tosses it into a near by tub of clean water to have it rinse off.

Malachi begins to feel a little more like himself rather surprised that the comment held so much weight to him. His eyes trace over her shapely frame as she turned from him, a smirk begins to crest his lips. He turns his large frame around, resting his back along the bar so he can look out amongst the patrons of the Drunken Fish while Cira prepared another drink for him. He scans some of the same faces that he would see on a regular basis out on the piers. Even some faces that he has had dealings with in the past as far as trading glass-wares and his sea catches for mizas. Even though his true love is the sea, on this night he needed a break from Laviku's rough waves.

Out of the corner of his eye he took note of the current happenings of the barrel-chested man who was trying to press the random patron. He brought his arms before his chest and crossed them, tracing his left hand up to his lips as to inhale his tobacco stick, leaning his left ear to eavesdrop slightly. His glanced took to the floor so that he may not bring attention on to himself as he hears, "Be a good man and finish your drink.” Malachi's head would shake from side-to-side in disapproval. Hoping the lad will stick up for himself, he raises his eyes as to trace a point-of-view trajectory toward a table of haggling men all staring directly at the confrontation.

His ocean blue eyes jump from face-to-face observing the men seated. One was of average height and build. He had dark brown hair that only wrapped around the sides of his head and was bald at the top. His dingy white shirt had seen better days, baring large alcohol spills both old and new with rips around a stretched collar. The sleeves were tore off from their original stitches, exposing slash marks which seem to have been acquired from previous scuffles. The second man was rather large and bald with a long thick mustache that ran down to his jawline. He bore no shirt, but was covered in nautical tattoos. The third was the loudest bloke; short in stature but large in girth. His white bloused shirt was untucked and his blonde hair unkept.

The small overweight man began calling over to his barrel chested compatriot at the bar, "I tol' ya the lad was all brawn, no balls! Gimme my damn Mizas!" His friends begin cackling loudly, the mustached man chortles and nearly chokes on his alcohol, causing it to burst from his mouth and nose. The other two at the table began laughing so hard that their faces glowed as red as the sun. The mustached man begins to slap the table several times as he is choking on his own laughter, bellowing out a deep chuckle before he finally takes in a deep gasp of air. "O'fuck, come now! I almost died on this shitty grog laughing at this fat bastard!" The balding man tries to wave off his friends to be silent, all the while laughing so hard that tears are pouring from his eyes. In a high pitched squeal he pleads, " Please - stop - I'm crying! Just pass the mizas out or buy the next round of drinks!

A large cloud of smoke wafts around Malachi's head as he slowly eyes down each patron at the table. He looks at the "ring leader" of all the nonsense at the table, noting his small arms and girth. That one lacks reach and is too wide around to shift his center of gravity. He's all talk because he can't back it up with his hands he thinks to himself. He then looks over towards the balding man. He doesn't seem like much of a man when it comes to fist-to-cuff, but he bares knife wounds on his arms. I can't see it from where I am standing but I'm sure that he's wearing a concealed knife or two. His eyes then fall to the last of the three individuals at the time, his mind continuing to surmise As for the large one, he is obviously the biggest threat at the table. Though with all of that mass he is probably reasonably slow. His thoughts continue to fight-analyze the individuals at the table. Neutralize the knife fighter, move the fight away from tubby, and handle the large one simultaneously. Malachi's training with the cutlass provided by his father always had him size up his adversary before a fight. Even though he, frankly, has nothing to do with the situation he can not help but always stay prepared just incase of an encounter. He analyzes every new person he meets in this manner, never knowing who you can fully trust.

He pulls his eyes away from the group of men and sets them on to the confrontation to his left, openly observing what is happening at this point.

Word Count: 1,410 | Total 2,645

[Baelin Holt]

People were watching. Baelin could feel eyes on him, and it wasn’t just from the trio that Barrel was with. If he was smart, he’d find a way to deescalate this. Swallow his pride, get out of here as fast as he could, and leave this all behind him. He had plans for tomorrow, after all. Plans that he wanted to be rested and in good shape for. Baelin just couldn’t afford to get into a dispute here.

He really should let this go.

That was definitely the smart play, he tried to tell himself.

But then Barrel picked up the mug; possibly intending to offer it to Baelin. Or maybe he intended something more forceful, like trying to manhandle Baelin into drinking it. Baelin would never know what Barrel’s intention had been, because as soon as he picked up that mug, Baelin snapped. He lashed out and knocked the mug on the ground. It clattered as it fell, and its remaining ale spilled out on the already sticky floor.

Baelin hadn’t really meant to knock it down. His split-moment intent had been to snatch it from Barrel and shove it far away on the bar, well out of his reach. But with Barrel moving one way and Baelin going another, all he managed to do was dislodge it from Barrel’s grasp.

Barrel blinked at the dropped mug, looking more surprised than anything for a tick. Then he narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and pointed at the spill. “That was unnecessary,” he chided, “First you don’t finish it, and then you spill it all on the floor for dear Cira to clean?” He clicked his tongue, like an adult disappointed in a child’s behavior. Barrel took a step closer, his already immense chest puffed out even further with the threat of violence, “You’ll clean it up, won’t you?”

Baelin didn’t dare look away from Barrel, but he thought he saw movement from the trio. The big, shirtless one with the mustache, he thought, had stood up. And that shape moving next to him might have been the balding, sleeveless one. Mustache and Sleeveless, come to back up Barrel. Whatever Fatso was doing, Baelin couldn’t catch with only his peripheral vision.

Again. The smart play: deescalate.

And again. Petch that.

Baelin drew himself up to his full height, pulled back his lip, and snarled, “No.” He might have been the one to knock it on the floor, but Barrel had started this mess. If the big man had just stayed in his corner, then no ale would have been spilled. And there was just no way Baelin was going to clean it up when the petcher was acting as if this was somehow all Baelin’s fault. Not unless Barrel begged with a Please, sir, could you clean it for me? and a Thank you very much when he was done. Then maybe he’d reconsider.

But with Barrel acting like some high and mighty, self-righteous prick? No. All day, no.

Baelin thought he saw the forms of Mustache and Sleeveless coming closer. And was that Fatso with them? He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t afford to look. With the bar to his back and Barrel right in his face, any glance away would likely be a sign of weakness at best and an opening at worst.

Barrel stared at him as if Baelin had just told him the most curious and odd thing. “No?” he repeated, as if tasting the word.

Baelin had been so focused on Barrel’s upper body―waiting for a punch or an attempt at a hold―that he hadn’t been paying much attention to Barrel’s legs. So when the kick came, Baelin didn’t even see it coming. He felt a sharp jolt to his shin and had just enough reaction speed to throw his arms out so he didn’t break his fall with his face. He landed hard on his forearm―the dull throb of all his weight landing on it arching up through him before he was able to shift back to his knees.

“Oh, good,” Barrel said lightly, “I’m glad you decided to get down and clean it. No need to make messes, you know.”

Baelin hissed through clenched teeth. Then turned his body. And lunged for Barrel’s knees. He’d grasp on, throw his full weight into it, and take this petcher down to the ground with him.

WC: 730

[Malachi Tiderunner]

6th Night of Autumn, 519 AV

Malachi's curiosity continued to get the best of him. Cira had to of been mixing up quite the concoction behind the bar or had gotten distracted by another patron because she had not returned since last she set off. He would place the tobacco stick in his lips as to free up his hands, leaving his arms crossed before his chest.

The man being affronted had finally made some kind of visible acknowledgement towards Malachi. So, in return Malachi had gestured his head in a downward nod of solidarity before turning his gaze away from the situation. Damn this is escalating quickly he had thought to himself. Good on this guy for not taking all that shit. SMASH SPLASH - the sound of a mug crashing into the hard wood floor and splintering had erupted over the laughs and conversations at the bar counter.

Most of the patrons including Malachi's heads shifted over toward the scene, most pulling their attention back towards what they had been doing. Malachi's eyes remained glued to what had happen, his emotions dead-pan as he listened to the back-and-forth between the affronted and the aggressor.

His eyes shifted over toward the table with the other guys who had been hackling the large-chested man about money ever since he had walked up. When they rose up to their feet, Malachi's brow arched in curiosity.Wait...so their drunkard dead-beat friend can't make good on a bet, yet they want to take it out on the younger guy for not finishing his drink? He watched as the sleeveless man walked over from the table. The guy begun fixing his trousers pulling them up at the waist.

Heh...and now here comes the sleeveless chump. Is he going to pull his drunk ass friend away or is he going to escalate the situation? Malachi watched as the man approached his friend and remained at his 5 o'clock. He shot a glance over toward the large man with the mustache yet he seemed to have kept his distance and remained standing so he had a better of view of what was to come. The one of large girth just kept laughing uncontrollably. Malachi was not sure if this were a nervous laugh or if the fool is so blindly drunk that he had not realized how dire the situation had become.

Cira made her way back over to Malachi, a full mug of black ale with a frothy top in hand. She looked at Malachi and noted where he had been observing and followed suit. "This does not look like it's going to end well. Here's your drink, hun. Hello...Malachi..." Malachi finished his tobacco stick, exhaling fumes over the head of a hear by patron still affixed to the going-ons of the room. He flicks the remaining butt of the stick on the ground and nods his head, glancing over his shoulder at Cira, "Yeah...and now these other blokes are going to stick up for their drunk friend."

Cira's brows furrow as she looked at Malachi in a bit of a shock, "And since when did you care? Who are YOU?" She laughed and shook her head as Malachi paid the comment no mind and reached back for the tankard that had been set out for him. He took a deep swig of its strong contents, a bit of the frothy head remained on the top of his lip before he wiped it away.

Malachi winced as the man took the shot to the knee and collapsed on his forearms. He shifted his weight deeper in to the bar, shaking his head in a bit of disbelief as to what is happening. His eyes widened as the guy launched his full weight in to the shins of his assailant and took him down to the ground.

"OH YEAH!" Malachi would jeer out as both combatants clamber on the ground. The patrons at the bar rose up and turned to watch what was transpiring behind them, cheering out for blood-shed or cursing at them for causing them to spill the drink. Their were several large shoves as the massive shoulders of onlookers would smash into one another to obtain a better view. Once the bar had turned its attention, much of the back of the tavern had now realized what was happening and began clambering back to witness.

Malachi adjusted his position so that he may get a better view as to what would happen. Surprisingly enough for a bar-room-brawl it looked to be one-on-one, but he did not trust those odds. He kept glancing over toward the sleeveless one waiting to see if his assumptions about him 'carrying' were true.

He anxiously anticipated the further escalation of the combat, the more he imbibed of his beverage, the more amped up he became. His body begun to jitter slightly, causing him to pace back and forth, shoving the occasional person in his way to make better observations of the whole affair.

Word Count: 831 | Total 3,476

[Baelin Holt]

OH YEAH! A shout from the bar. Other shoots, cheers, and jeers rose around the pair as Barrel fell hard on his back. Baelin clambered over him, trying to get at Barrel’s arms. But once the brawny man recovered from his initial fall, it didn’t take him long to scoot back and kick out.

Baelin grunted when the heel of Barrel’s boot caught him in the gut. Dull pain rocked through him, stunning him for a tick. Just long enough for Barrel to clamber back and get some distance, but not long enough for him to actually get back up. Baelin recovered quick enough to surge forward again, arms reaching in an attempt to wrap around the other’s oversized torso and squeeze the living daylights out of him. Try as Baelin might to think more cleverly in situations like this, he always seemed to revert back to instinct. And instinct was screaming at him to Squeeze!

And so he did just that. Baelin wrapped around Barrel and squeezed with every iota of strength he had.

Barrel swore, but it sounded more like annoyance than the kind of desperate fear Baelin had been hoping for. Baelin tried to change his grip―maybe get one of Barrel’s limbs immobilized in his hold―but wasn’t fast enough before Barrel rolled. Baelin’s shoulder got pinned under the big man’s weight, and he snarled his frustration at the sharp stab of pain. Rocking back and forth, Barrel managed to loosen Baelin’s grip and then threw his elbow back. It caught Baelin right in his side, stunning him long enough for Barrel to pull free of Baelin’s poorly planned hold.

Not wasting the moment, Barrel stumbled up to his feet and backpedaled, getting some distance. Baelin had to figure instinct was kicking in for Barrel too, since the big man wound up also putting more distance between himself and his drinking buddies as well. With Barrel’s back to the bar, he had fewer people behind him. One of the guys at the bar scooted his stool to the side, trying to get out of the way of Barrel and Baelin’s potential path. Baelin saw the flowing waves of Oceanus just past Barrel’s bulk, but paid them little mind. He only had eyes for the brute before him.

Baelin slowly rose to his feet, eyes locked on his target. If you were to ask him right now why he was so fixated on attacking Barrel, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell you. The unfinished ale, the bullying behavior; all of it was forgotten in the tide of predatory instinct. Barrel was his. Baelin lowered his shoulders and slid one foot back, preparing to charge.

Movement behind him: a creak of wood, a grunted snarl, the quick rustle of fabric as someone rushed forward.

Baelin didn’t dare waste time turning around. He didn’t even try to figure out what was coming. He lunged. Barrel held up his hands―either to try and catch and hold Baelin back, or just as a defensive response, Baelin didn’t know and he didn’t care. He crashed into Barrel’s outstretched hands, and momentum carried them both towards the bar. Barrel stumbled backwards and Baelin kept pushing. To Barrel’s credit, he managed to maintain his footing. But it was at the cost of colliding into the people behind him. The guy who had scooted out of the way earlier had evidently misjudged his route and was absolutely still in Barrel’s path, barking a shout of dissatisfaction when his stool got knocked out from under him. And, from his vantage point below the crook of Barrel’s armpit, Baelin just managed to catch sight of the swirls of Oceanus rippling behind them.

WC: 614

[Gareth Serpenthelm]

6th Night of Fall

Gareth had yet again found himself at the hole in the wall that was this tavern. He had been idling away the time indulging in his favored vice for the past hour and was currently engrossed in what had to have been his twentieth mug of what the locals called ale, although he had his suspicions that the swill masquerading as ale contained sewer water. Regardless the drink did its job and Gareth was currently plastered. But a certain situation was definitely ruining his buzz. The locals were apparently engaged in some form of idiotic roughhousing and the commotion was starting to decidedly piss him off. He even had to scoot his seat to the side to avoid the fight that broke out which only further amplified the annoyance he felt. Until finally one of the larger men collided into him knocking Gareth's stool out from under him. Gareth fell hard to the floor on his ass and conveniently spilled his ale all over himself. "Hey! You fuckin serious right now? I've put up with you two assholes colliding into eachother and ruinin my buzz for a solid five minutes now, but I think it's time I made you answer for the sin of spillin another mans ale!" Gareth drunkenly shouted out at the barrelchested man as he stumbled to his feet.

Without turning he awkwardly reached his arm behind him and felt around the counter before making contact with something, he looked like a drunken idiot at the moment and for all intents and purposes, he was a drunken idiot. Finally, he made contact with something a nicely proportioned glass bottle. Gareth squeezed his palm tightly around the neck and lurched forward. He brought his arm back raising the bottle above his head in a highly telegraphed motion and brought it down onto the back of barrel chests head giving a loud and audible laugh as the bottle exploded off the back of his head sending shards of glass to the floor and likely embedding them in the man's head. A solid opener to a barfight that Gareth had used a few times now, the mythical glassing. With his hand still firmly wrapped around the now broken bottle he stumbled backwards hard to put distance between himself and his opponent who was hopefully stunned from the act of having a bottle broken over his head. "Still want to fuckin rough-house mate? Cause its going to get a lot rougher here in a second if you don't piss off out of this bar! He drunkenly growled at barrel chest as the adrenaline of the events to come started to set in. For dramatic effect, he slashed at the air towards the man a few times with his improvised weapon. Gareth waited for the man to make his move as he rocked back and forth on the ball of his heels, and move he did. The man charged straight for him like a bull seeing red. Although Gareth had attempted to prepare himself, the sheer force of being tackled into the counter caused his grip on the bottle to loosen sending it flying out into the crowd. "Ah shit yer heavy..." Gareth slurred out as the man leaned his weight into him moving his meaty arms towards Gareth's neck and attempting to choke him out.