"Oh, you," the poorly clothed barbarian said, or attempted to say, at which Darmariq twisted his lips with disgust. "Man is hurt because Kodor hit him with a table. Kodor is good at hurting things."

Before Darmariq could decide whether to waste his words, an object burst through the door with blinding speed. [i]Splack[/i]. The projectile broke into pieces against the wall. He squinted at the mess, and when the making of it was discerned, he relieved the tension in shoulders and let his face fall into a flat expression. Food, he thought with incredulity.

"Attention, peasants!" a feminine voice cried out. 

A young, petite woman with short argentate hair ambled into the tavern. She wielded a broom, a quaint artifact indeed, and an abundance of confidence. If certainty was a spell, her name would be an incantation. After striking the unconscious soldier in the head, she took a seat and began prattling on, until she said something of importance, something that only angered him.

"You've got a dragon on your hands," she said. "Wounded, spitting fire, royally pissed and headed towards this very establishment as [i]we[/i] speak... I assume that last bit's the fault of this idiot currently bleeding to death all over your floor."

Darmariq buried his face in his palm and snickered. The one person who might have held useful information, dead and no one concerned about his reason for being there, and to be chastised for questioning the wisdom of their [i]mob justice[/i]? Truly a brilliant bunch, he thought, sighing as he approached his bag. If a dragon was headed towards the tavern, he did not plan to welcome it, did not plan to expend his magical energies to help [i]them[/i]. He slung his bag over his shoulder and stormed towards the ruined door, every sinew in his frame intent on finding the nearest town or city.