A majestic forest sprawled the center of the continent of Leum as far as the eye could see in any direction; a good full days trek from perimeter to center if one didn't run into any unexpected complications. The diverse leaves, flowers, and plants were vibrant and full of life; not imposing at first glance yet still more than capable to ending a careless adventurer who finds themselves lost within the trees. It was a land that was claimed by no kingdom, despite best efforts in the past, but was instead the home of various monsters and passing adventurers or other travelers who wish to use it as a shortcut.

In a particularly large clearing a quarter of a mile in length and slightly less in width, housed a welcoming building called the Adventurer's Inn. Smoke bellowed out of it's chimney. It's roof was a patchwork of different colors and materials scavenged from other sources, and the rest of the building appeared to be of a similar state. Most of it's structure was bricks with wooden projections and accessories, likely taken from the nearby forest and added to the foundation at various points in time to keep up with the increased size.

A diverse group of people came and went through it's four large creaking doors facing each direction, made of solid oak large enough to allow for a troll to pass through should one desire a drink and a rest. Likewise there were many smaller races as well, some small enough to bath inside a mug of frothing mead. Nearly everyone was loud and in good cheer, unaware of the trouble brewing to the east as that area of the forest grew more silent.

A young, handsome black haired man shambled into the clearing, a large bloody gash on his right shoulder; blood trailing down that limp arm and dripping from his fingertips into the healthy grass. He had other smaller cuts and bruises as well, revealed under torn black fabric and smashed and split open silver armor plating. The Inn saw wounded adventurers with some frequency, given monsters that inhabited the surrounding forest, but the face and wounds of this man showed that this wasn't an average situation. Other people eyed him suspiciously or curiously, giving him some room as he, as hurriedly as he was able, made his way through the open eastern door.

The older individual behind the bar, a dark blur furred wolfman who stood at least 8 to 9 feet, eyed the man for a second, his expression quickly turning into a horrid scowl.

"We don't sure you imperial dogs here! Not after the Fildren Massacre just last harvest!" He barked, drawing attention to the emblem of the Martross Empire adorning the right of the wounded man's breastplate. It was a brilliant, light purple crystal crossed by two swords. Half of it was covered in fresh blood.

"I come not for a drink. Please, I have important-" he began to speak, but an angry mob of individuals quickly began to surround him, chanting threats while blocking his possible escape routes. The Martross Empire was quickly and violently expanding it's borders. A dangerous threat to the entire continent; few so far could stand against them. This man's armor had clearly once been quite fancy before taking such considerable damage. A higher up in the military for sure. Whatever he was doing here, it probably wasn't good. Some eyed him hungrily. This was the perfect time to bring one such as him down.

The man showed no signs of trying to escape, but he was too weary for such attempts regardless. Instead he looked around himself with worried, pleading eyes, trying to get his voice heard above the commotion. Failing in this endeavor.

Kodor looked up from a pile of assorted roasted meats, a turkey leg still hanging from his maw, with meat-greases dripping onto his chest, giving it a vital shine. Normally he did not concern himself with much outside of meats and ales and whatever hunts he was assigned by the strange animal-man, but this was a strange event. A tribesman from the great conquerors had arrived. Kodor only knew a little from the stories he'd heard, but as he understood, they were not a part of his tribe, and therefore, trying to conquer him. Kodor did not like this. No man had the right to establish his law over Kodor's mind or Adonis-like body.

The barbarian gripped the heavy, oaken table between thick fingers, each digging into the wood. He lifted the heavy, ten foot long chunk of wood into the air, the food and drink of other patrons sliding off. With a mighty roar, he brought it down onto the Imperial soldier's head, no doubt an attack he couldn't block with his injuries, or dodge without entering the crowd.

Looking at the pile of splinters before him, Kodor turned to the crowd and gave a toothy grin and a thumbs up.
"You're welcome."

Today was shaping up to be a good day for Geoffrey. For starters this particular pub, unlike other pubs, didn't try to argue with him bringing his livestock. It was always a hassle when the tavern staff had some complaints about him bringing sheep and a pig into the bar. Hell, this tavern even had livestock working at the counter! It made sense that if they were fine keeping this domesticated animal indoors, it would be no problem for others to bring their own.

But more to the point, this was a good day because of that fancy-schmancy feller who walked into the tavern. Of course, Geoffrey had no idea who this man was. All he really knew for sure, was that this was the only beacon of civilization in this forest, as far as he could see. But the peasant did know one key-fact that separated that guy, from all the other weirder individuals who would wear strange looking things. And that fact was that man was not welcomed. Plus the noise made a good cover for the shrieking coming from the burlap bags slung over his shoulder.

For some reason or another, this man was hated by most of the patrons of the bar. Geoffrey grinned as he heard loads of commotion. He didn't listen to whatever the reason behind this was. No, Geoffrey focused on the important thing about this. There was a mob. This mob was angry. And this mob wanted justice. Geoffrey stood up from the floor where he was sitting and pushed his sheep forward. With a baleful baa, the complied and moved a bit forwards.

With his pig held underneath his right arm, Geoffrey pushed on the pig. As the peasant did this, his pig immediately came back into consciousness, as it began flailing its head and feet about. "SOOOOEEEEEEEEEE!" cried out the pig.

"Tha's right! GUILTY!" Geoffrey eagerly declared to the mob, ready to inflict traditional and time honored mob justice. "IT'S TIME FOR A HANGIN'! GET OUT THE ROPE, TONS OF HANGIN' TREES WAITING FOR A HANG-!"

And that was when Geoffrey noticed he was a tad late, as the Barbarian slayed the man who opposed the will of the mob.

"Also works." Well, at least justice by the mob was still done.

Addis quietly lurked a long ways away from the Adventurer's Inn. Not only would his imposing presence unnerve the small men around him, but he would be far too big to fit between the doors. The Cutting would not find much in the way of edible fare from the tavern's keeper, and the privy outside was dug far too deep for The Cutting to be able to extract any nutrients from it.

As Addis watched the inn, his suspicions were roused at the strange wealth of visitors it was getting. An inn in the middle of an unoccupied forest flourishing so much was preposterous, especially considering how no roads linked to it. The arrangement of the inn-- four large doors on all four sides-- was inexplicably different from any other inns Addis had seen, and seemed devoted entirely to ensuring the maximum number of people could reach it at once. This inn's existence was, to put it bluntly, an impossibility. Where were all these people coming from, and why did they traverse such a dangerous forest to visit such an inn? How did they figure out where it was?

Addis reached an obvious conclusion: it was enchanted. Enchanted to seize the minds of travellers from across the continent and force them to march all the way there. But why? Why would the owner enchant it to do so?

Was it a trap by the fair folk to gain a bevy of mortals for their eldritch celebrations? Was it a trick by some demonic force to collect the souls of dozens of mortals whose presence would not be missed? Concerned and curious, Addis sent The Cutting to the inn, to watch and investigate.

The Cutting stood on the tips of its roots as it peeked around the easternmost door's frame. Sure enough, it looked like a crowd of disheveled patrons had been whipped into a froth and set against one of their own. The Cutting watched in horror as the man the crowd surrounded was quickly struck down and crushed by a particularly savage-looking rabble-rouser.

Witchcraft was afoot, and Addis knew it. He knew that he could not fight off such a powerful curse as the one laid upon this inn. The Cutting began hastily shuffling back to Addis, desperate to avoid the corrupting influence of the inn.

Enior sipped upon his mug of ale, leaning backward into his chair and placing crossed legs onto the table. The elf's hood was pulled behind his pointed tan ears, and a veil hung precariously from the collar of the hood. He exchanged stories boisterously with the fellow adventurers at the table, not to be outdone in his own right. Slamming the table, pointing at the patrons, kicking his chair legs and likely falling out of his seat more than a few times. The large fellow at the head of the table was beautifully simplistic in his way of understanding, which Enior was all the more appreciative for. He would rather drink with simple folk than haughty nobles or scholars any day of the week. The elf balanced on the back two legs of his chair, leaning to and from the bar table filled with meats, cheeses, and alcohol for all.

Lost in the merriment, Enior had gone past the point of no return. A dopey smile spread across his face, and the room spun slowly unless he focused on a particular point. The wild turns of his heads lagged, vision having to catch up to the speed of his movement. Still he continued in the storytelling, never to be outdone, always part of the crowd culture. Abruptly, an off switch to the party: some armor-clad hooligan believed he was to stop their enjoyment. Just as Enior attempted to stagger in protest, the table rose from underneath his legs and sent him flying backward toward the wall. The drunken elf was caught balanced on the back of his neck, feet against the wall and arms hanging to either side.

He performed an awkward roll sideways and sat up, shaking his head violently. Enior discovered the showstopper had been slammed by the powerful barbarian! The elf gave Kodor an emphatic thumbs up, then pointed to the guard underneath the splinters of wood that remained. "Ho! A celebration then!" Enior said. Pushing himself up with his hands, Enior allowed gravity to drag him towards the fallen guardsman. Hands drooping and looking sporadically about the crowd, Enior began to perform a sort of river dance about the fallen guard, surrounding him like a shark in water, laughing all the way. "Here's to the people!" Enior said, body swaying to the festivities of alcohol.

Lisa wandered about in the woods, looking a very poorly-drawn map up and down. The seller had promised her that, if followed correctly, the map would lead her to a most magnificent mace. One that had been wielded by paladins of Lilith before her, and increased their abilities ten times. It was a mace that could bring justice even to the most powerful of sinners, and it was a mace that Lisa wanted dearly.

Lisa, however, had started to suspect that the seller had not been completely honest with her after she had passed the 'very large tree' on the map for the third time. And passing it a sixth had snapped her already thinned patience.

"Japery," Lisa hissed as she started to tear the map, before realizing that it would have to be in one piece for her to reasonably expect a refund. Instead she pocketed the defective product, and observed her surroundings carefully. After continuing on for a while in the direction dictated by a stick she had imbued with the wisdom of her goddess (at least she hoped she did), Lisa came upon an Ent, who she knew to be a good creature in general, if a bit xenophobic.

"Hello, wise Ent of the forest," she called to Addis as she approached, "why do you stare so affixed into the woods? Is there something of interest there? Perhaps a divine mace of great power?"

Lisa smiled at Addis with a subdued hope. Her belief in the inherent goodness of people leapt with joy at the thought that the map was just really bad, but the sentiment behind its creation was genuine.

Those big light brown eyes and large curls forced Darmariq's mouth into a smile. He ran his finger across her cheek, feeling as if her innocence lessened the weight his shoulders bore, wanting to press his lips against her visage with the foolish hope that he could hold her once more, travel through the scroll and flee the wilderness that surrounded him, and with that lapse in the present moment, his respite was rendered transitory. A creak cut through the air and a draft hit his face. He sighed. Why he tortured himself so, he did not know. He rolled the small drawing of his little niece and placed it inside his backpack.

He glanced up at the newcomer, a young and dark-haired individual clad in armour, and faintly familiar. Silver and ornate, not common of rank, he suspected. As Darmariq was about to look away, the soldier advanced and betrayed his condition with a limp. Darmariq narrowed his stare and caught a glimpse of blood covering his hand. A healer at heart, Darmariq tensed and straightened his posture, though he did not rush to his aid. He could have been paranoid and startled to strike. Thus Darmariq waited, not so eager to cause every commoner to demand he cure them of their private aliments either.

"We don't sure you imperial dogs here! Not after the Fildren Massacre just last harvest!" barked the towering lupine fellow, the snarl ever telling of his heritage.

The attendants' faces suddenly shifted from merry to murderous. It was a wonder they did not inadvertently conjure a demon. If anything would do so, it would be a symbol of the Fildren Massacre standing defenseless before them. Darmariq knew little of the ordeal, but what he knew was nothing short of barbaric. Empires are bloody things, he remember his mother telling him. As will be this tavern, he responded inwardly.

"I come not for a drink. Please, I have important-"

The gathering crowd interrupted the young man, throwing their fists in the air and screeching like hawks.

"Behead the fucker!" one short woman proclaimed.

"Martross dog!" said a hefty, balding man as he pushed his way through the crowd.

The soldier held the expression of an individual painting the floor with his making. Mob justice, Darmariq thought with disdain, the biggest oxymoron of them all, and as another commoner was advocating a hanging, a muscular brute who appeared to lack an appreciation for armour hoisted a table in the air, sending an individual reeling, and brought it down on the young man's head, shattering the wood into dozens of pieces. No attempts to detain the young man. No attempts to interrogate him. Nothing.

Darmariq grimaced, but it was more a wince of pain from a lack of reason, not that sympathies were absent. The young man would be fortunate if the strike had not shattered a portion of his spine, or ended his life, and before the mess was cleaned, the same staggering individual began to madly prance around the soldier. Darmariq grunted and stood from his seat. He slammed the bottom end of his bladed staff—a circular brass—on the floor.

"So," he said with a hint of condescension, removing his hood and revealing his young, soft-featured face and tied curly hair, "did anyone pry from the man the source of his injury? Such information may prove useful."

Nariana watched over the scene from a terrace on the second floor. In the room behind her, her former employer - the leader of a caravan that was overflowing with booze meant for the upcoming giants vs dwarfs drinking competition - negotiated for the sale of the transported goods. She was still a bit skeptical as to why the competition was being held in a forest instead of in the mountains, but hey, she was only here to protect the caravan, and her job was technically done. As such, she'd been looking down at the adventurers in search of a new employer or a party worthy of her presence.

As she idly wondered just how many mugs that silly elf had downed, a monster burst into the building. The gear it carried was weathered and bore markings that would surely get the wearer killed in any civilized land, let alone an inn full of wandering warriors. No drops worth the effort, Nariana decided, though maybe worth a bit of experience. Before she moved, though, she saw a large table rise into the air moments before crashing down upon the monster's head, likely killing him in a single attack.

Impressed, Nariana leaned back in her seat, noting the barbarian who had turned the massive table into a devastating weapon. There was a man she'd like to work with. A strong man, quick to act, and most importantly, doesn't ask intrusive questions. Simplicity is beautiful, after all, she mused. Certainly much better than that man who's been staring at that scroll all day.

As if on cue, the man stood, hiding his scroll away before attempting to be taken seriously. The aggressive move would've been a strong one, had he not been seriously outclassed by the barbarian's attack only moments before. After his failure of an intimidation attempt, he asked a question that anyone would've known the answer to were they paying any attention - obviously the man was too busy stroking his staff to that scroll instead of remaining aware of his surroundings.

Now Nariana was too amused to sit idly by. In a single smooth motion she leapt from her seat, swung over the banister, and dropped silently to the floor below. She spared a moment to adjust her hat before approaching the idiotic man. "My, my, were you perhaps too entranced by the wiles of a girl far too young for you to give your surroundings any thought? Nobody asked any questions, as no answers were needed. Those of his kind would say anything to spare their lives. You stand in an inn in the center of a forest full of dangerous beasts and adventurers, any of whom would be quite likely to have caused that wound. Seriously, think before you speak."

The Cutting froze mid-step. Addis carefully turned to face whoever had been talking to him.

It was a small man. Perhaps smaller than The Cutting was, but still a small man. Addis didn't quite understand the difference between a young small man and an old small man; to him, one was simply smaller than the other. They had no lithe, green limbs, their leaves remained the same color and consistency almost all their lives, and their voices were altogether too fast and high-pitched to differentiate between one another. To Addis, a small man was a small man.

This small man was vaguely interested in what Addis was looking at. It seemed to be genuinely unaware of the potential danger the nearby inn posed, but was fortunately not enthralled by it. Addis spoke calmly and clearly, as if looking to ensure no single syllable would offend the small man.

"Wychcraftery," said Addis in a booming accent so old it had fermented, "goeth forewarde notte, Son of Mann. Heed me, lest thy Harte be consumenned by daemon and peery folke alike. Forwar' lay a gay board-home, hidinge Danger Most Foule. Manne and Wo-manne falle 'pon each and other, and slaye country-menne like dogges!"

Confident that his message had gone through, Addis turned to watch the inn again. The Cutting continued his journey back to Addis, pointedly ignoring the troubling sounds behind him.

Before anyone could answer, a fair and flaxen female, elven if her pointed ears were any indication, hurdled over the banister with grace. Intriguing, he thought. Females of athletic form and ability were few in his kingdom, even fewer in his province, and thus they were alluring. He preferred human, uneasy about the races mixing, but she appeared human enough. His curious nature soon took on another form. Perhaps she could tell stories of her people—their histories and beliefs—and maybe magic, and then she spoke, slaying all interest. He stared at her with those critical eyes of his. Apparently her mind is not as nimble as her frame, he said to himself. He sighed, smirking even, and rubbed the stumble on his face.

"I have to shave this shit," he said softly. He turned his attention to the crowd and continued, "So, a man with grievous injuries enters hostile territory and no one is the least bit curious? Very well."

Suddenly, a small, underripe pumpkin rocketed into the tavern, blasting a chunk out of the door and embedding itself into the bar with a mighty CRASH.

"Attention, peasants!"

Ludmilla Van Valkenburg strode confidently into the tavern, holding her broom in her left hand as she examined the manicure job on her right.

"I am Ludmilla Van Valkenburg. Before you ask: Yes, THE Ludmilla Van Valkenburg. The impossibly rich and talented one. Anyway, enough about me, onto why I'm here- ye gods, this place is filthy!"

She walked over the body of the apparently deceased guardsman, giving him a swift kick in the back of the head for good measure.

"I was looking into the life cycle of the rare Ulludrian Forest Squash- botanical research, I don't expect your kind to understand the significance- and while flying between my sample sites I came across a very peculiar sight."

She plopped herself down on a barstool, positioning herself to face as many of the bar patrons as possible. This accomplished, Ludmilla steepled her fingers and put on her very best "grave and serious" face.

"...You've got a dragon on your hands. Wounded, spitting fire, royally pissed and headed towards this very establishment as we speak- I assume that last bit's the fault of this idiot currently bleeding to death all over your floor. Ugly bloke. Now, I know you people aren't the sort what's cut out to handle such a task- It's no fault of your own, really, you're just not capable- but I fear there are some very important specimens in that forest and at the rate things are moving I fully expect said specimens to be ash come morning. So, I make a proposal: Kill that dragon and I'll pay you each, er... I don't know, some shiny buttons or animal teeth or something. Whatever it is poor people use for currency. Deal?"

"Huurah!" belted out the peasant, as the festive mood was returning back. The clanking of mugs in celebration, and the dance being done stirred the chickens into action. Both of his chickens made a loud squak as they were moving their heads back and forth rapidly. Geoffrey grumbled as he gestured his sheep to move closer to the fallen man. As he was moving closer himself, his pig continued to rumble about.

Quickly the peasant balled up his free hand in a fist and struck the pig on the noise. "Oi, wouldst thou shudit!" Geoffrey grumbled out, as the pig did not take the lesson to heart. Rather it continued trying to struggle out of the peasant's grasp. With a grimace the peasant grasped the pig even tighter as he made his way to see the scene. After all, he needed to be sure mob justice was done.

With a firm smile, the peasant eyed the scene where justice triumphed. But, there was something wrong. There was something very wrong with this scene. Geoffrey spotted something truly horrible, he felt something truly horrible near this corpse of a man. His mouth was agape as he felt something was off, something that a truly dead man wouldn't have.

A thick-sweat was running down Geoffrey's brow. Those stories he heard in his youth, they were true. These people needed to know exactly what was going on here.

"OI!" Bellowed out the peasant as he pulled upon the tail of his pig to get it to squeal out loudly once again. "THAR'S A PROBLEM O'ER HERE! A BIGGUN." Swiftly the peasant gestured towards the man. "THA FELLOW NAUGHT SIMPLY A MERE MAN, NAY HE BE A VAMPYRE IN RISING!" Geoffrey grabbed a hold of the pig and flailed it to point at the man left-behind by the barbarian's assault. Of course by doing this, the pig attempted to squeeze its way out to freedom, but Geoffrey managed to pull it back in. In the process of doing so, he stumbled backwards, but managed to keep his footing.

"IF NOT BURNED FULLY, IT WILL RISE AS THE VAMPYRE!" Geoffrey pointed towards the Barbarian, "Willst thou help me get tha blasted thing outta here and burn it?!" Before waiting on an answer, the peasant grabbed ahold of the person's arm and started to drag it out of the tavern.

But that is when he paused for but a moment, when the peculiar woman started speaking of something else that was bound to threaten them. "A D-DRAGON!?" Geoffrey's entire being shuddered at that thought. He knew damn well what a dragon was wont to do.

Thinking quickly, Geoffrey made a new declaration. "IT MUST BE APPEASED WITH THA OFFERINGS OF THY VAMPYRE'S ASHES, AND OTHER WORTHY TITHES!" The peasant knew there was much work that needed to be done if this inn was to be saved. First they needed to depose of the vampire, and then to gather an assortments of valuables to appease the dragon.

Lisa's hopeful smile fell, and was replaced with a look of sheer horror and disgust as the wise Ent described a damned den of occult means and evil nature. Where she had searched for a tool of justice, she had found a fetid hole of inequity. Ironically, however, both of these things called out for the touch of a good paladin.

"Blackguards," Lisa cursed, throwing an intense glare in the direction of the evil inn. Obviously no good could come from such a place in the middle of the woods, far from holy ground. She could only imagine the sin in which ignorant folk partook, far from they eyes of the good gods. Evil rites, rituals, and black magics in addition to the fornication and murder of which the Ent spoke.

"Worry not, good forest folk," Lisa announced, grabbing at her mace, "I am a paladin of Lilith, warded against such evil glamours. I will smite the evil before it blights these woods further. If you are worried about corruption, I can give you a douse of my holy water before I go to confront the heathens."

Russ Trelyat was a fairly cold blooded and exceedingly practical man. He was a foreigner in these lands, unaccustomed to their ways, their language and whatever issues it was they dealt with. The only reason he was even in the building at all was that he had gotten lost and had managed to get his poor horse killed along the way. He was completely uninterested in the wounded man and the anger of the patrons, and he simply stared from a table in a corner, back against the wall and Nat handy of course, as the new arrival was first mobbed, then bashed to death by a mostly naked man to the great joy of the crowd which celebrated the deed in ways only the savage did.

It was all very strange, very frantic, and none of his business. He had seen worse, done worse and he was enjoying his drink. It was not the drink of his homeland, it lacked the bite and the strong smell, but it was good enough that it did the trick and so he was happy. So much so, in fact, that he chuckled under his breath and uttered a less than flattering word in his native tongue as a hooded man decided to intrude and be holier than thou at a lynch mob, one that had just killed a man and celebrated it. Russ Trelyat did not suffer fools gladly and this man was clearly some sort of fool, so he eagerly waited to see the crowd's violent reaction.

Before anything could happen, however, some kind of a witch broke into the establishment first posturing about her supposed position then talking about a dragon. Now that was a universal word, something he had reason to involve himself with. Ignoring the ignorant, smelly peasant's diatribe about burnings and offerings, he mechanically unwrapped Nat from its coverings and began checking that everything was in place and working correctly. It always was, its craftsmanship was exquisite, but it didn't hurt to make sure. He hoped he could gain something valuable from this all, or at least a way to leave this bizarre place in the middle of nowhere.

Kodor placed a firm, fatherly hand on Darmariq's shoulder, the greases from his earlier meal leaving moist, visible stains on his robes. From here, he could feel the psion's thin, bony shoulders.
"Oh, you..." he chastised, like father to son. "Man is hurt because Kodor hit him with a table. Kodor is good at hurting things."

He was considering giving the mage a few pointers in proper smashing technique before a small girl dressed like food came in and declared that there was a dragon. She didn't seem particularly concerned, which meant one of two things.
One, she was lying. This was normal; children did enjoy games of pretend. But this was also unlikely, as most children would make themselves heroes.

The second and more likely option was that she was brave, or at least had no preservation instinct, which is basically another kind of bravery. This was very good. Kodor would investigate later. If he was satisfied, he would teach her the way of the axe.

But the more immediate matter was the dragon. Normally the girl's offer of shiny things alone was incentive enough; the half-beast offered him shinies in exchange for murder, which could then be used for food. However, Kodor had never once eaten dragon.

Wordlessly, the barbarian withdrew his hand from Darmariq's shoulder, and took up his massive battleaxe in both hands. Slowly, his lips spread apart, revealing a wide grin that showed so many of his teeth. He would try new things tonight.

Well, it appeared that trying to gather help from the savage was a nonstarter. Oh well, Geoffrey supposed that was to be expected in all honesty. After all, the armorless savage jumped the foul vampyre-on-the-rise, instead of properly waiting to join the mob in lynching the thug, and then stringing him up on the trees.

As such, the peasant appeared to have the duty to drag out the monster-in-waiting, out by himself. Oh well, labor was labor. Geoffrey dragged the body, leaving a distinctive blood-trail on the planked floor. While engaged in this labor, the peasant noticed that his sheep were staying in place."Uugh." moaned out the peasant as his other assorted animals were continuing to cause a ruckus. Well, his sheep would surely be fine just meandering about in the tavern. Probably. Geoffrey didn't plan to take long getting the body out to where the cleansing ritual could be done.

"Lesse..."The peasant mused to himself, as he shoved the pig to open one of the massive doors. While compliant, and still kicking, the pig's face served as a fine door-opener. Now with the door opened, Geoffrey fully pulled the man who was not quite a vampire yet, outside into the forests. "Moved tha vampyre's body." Geoffrey took a moment to look down and confirm he left the body out far enough from the tavern. As he glanced upon where he left it, Geoffrey decided it would be best to move the body a little further. So once again the peasant grabbed onto the arm and pulled it further from the inn.

Now satisfied, Geoffrey glanced towards the tavern."Now got t'grab things fer fire..." As he paused in thought, his pig continued to squeal and try to escape. Once again, Geoffrey smacked it as he headed back towards the tavern. The first thing of importance for this, was to gather the materials to help start a fire. The peasant grinned as he saw a man who was collapsed upon the table in a drunken stupor. Well not for the fact that the man was out, but the fact he had a mug of some strong liquor, a rag, and a candle.

Not one to waste supplies, the peasant snagged the rag and placed it on-top of the mug, and then placed the candle still in the holder on the rag. Geoffrey took some care to balance the items, before walking out of the tavern. But of course, before he exited with these items the peasant made a quick request. "Wouldst one of thou be kind and fetch wood an other such things, fora stake?" While he wasn't sure if anyone would help, it certainly would save him a few trips back and forth.

Geoffrey exited the tavern and returned to the discarded body, with his sheep deciding to follow him this go. The peasant placed the mug with its stack down next to the not-yet-a-vampire, and moved the candle off, then the rag. Some brave soul had to keep the vampire from rising, and it looked like Geoffrey was going to be that man.

"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. Splack. 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 we 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 mob justice? 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 them. 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.

Fear felt good. Fear felt glorious. Welt hadn't felt fear in a long, long time. He had forgotten how alive he used to feel. "We are most alive when between life and death," his father used to say before their first battle together. Now Welt is dead, and dread is the only remainder, albeit a poor one, of the boiling blood that gushes through the veins of a man alighting on shore, ax in hand, wind in hair.

He rode as fast as he could through the forest, not stopping for any lurking creature, foul or fair. His robes, its edges burnt, swirled around him, showing only sheathed ice on his belt and glimpses of armor. Headstrong he went onward, glancing only sporadically behind to see whips of flame licking the darkened sky, and tree tops shaken by mighty wings in the distance.

Then his horse came to a violent stop. He looked around, calm and used to this kind of feeling. He then picked a flower from a nearby tree, and seeing how it didn't wither in his damned hand, he knew someone with a divine blessing was near. And it was none other than... "A noble Macelady of Lilith," he said from a distance, only a chill seen rising from his mouth; "In such a monstrous land, with ent-folk. You women are brave indeed." His rotten horse neighed, disturbed by her holy presence.

What a grave mistake that was. Turning one's back on another without so much as a word is never a good idea, especially in a place where a man had been crowned mercilessly mere moments ago. Nariana let him go; he was sure to get himself killed by pissing off another patron.

Instead, she found herself far more interested in what the pork peasant was promulgating. That soldier, a vampire? Nariana guessed it made a bit of sense. That empire was so full of bloodsuckers that it was only logical that a soldier would be one as well. Nariana wanted to help the commoner end the vampire, but with all the word of fire and burning, she decided against it. She assured herself that the villager could handle things himself.

Suddenly, foodstuffs furiously flew across the room, followed by a witch with word of a wounded dragon. I guess it's time to face the fire, Nariana thought. I can always slip into the forest if things get too hot. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the man she'd addressed earlier skittering for his bag, obviously in a hurry to leave. Disrespectful and cowardly to a fault, I see. Perhaps he should be educated.

As Darmariq stormed toward the door he took a solid hit in the side as Nariana seemingly attempted to walk through him. Two hands immediately grabbed his shoulders to steady him, while behind him the muted jingle of a coin pouch hitting the ground rang out behind him. "My, my, I hadn't seen you there! I'm afraid cowards like you are beneath my notice. Now scurry away so you don't get in my way again."

Darmariq hated people grabbing him without his permission, especially strangers. He glared at the impudent pointy earred woman, despising everything he saw. "Do that again," he replied, and then something familar claimed his thoughts. He unclenched his fist. His throat tightened such that the air was too stubborn to swallow and too craven to leave his mouth. He glanced at everyone and back at her.

"I will not die for you people," he finished before leaving the tavern.