Hark pushed open the door to the tavern and walked in headed for the innkeeper to get himself another drink. He hoped the innkeeper would just give him a drink without much trouble even though he had been kicked out earlier for challenging another drinker to a knife throwing competition which had ruined one of his daughter’s, Beth, paintings. He set down two coins on the counter, one for the painting and one for the ale, “Here you go now hopefully you can forgive me and fill my cup.” Hark said to the man but it was clear the words had passed right over his head as he was looking out into the crowd which Hark didn’t notice at first. There was the usual lot and then two apparent knights, the plainsmen which Hark wasn’t fond of, and a tiefling.

Hark rapped the innkeeper which seemed to break his trans, “The hell is going on here?” The innkeeper just sighed and rubbed his Broward pulled out a jug of ale to fill Hark’s cup, “That young fool of a knight there just challenged damn near half the bar to a fight.” Hark raised and eyebrows and waited for his cup to be filled before he took it and turned to the crowd again. It always puzzled Hark why these young knights always seamed to be so eager to start fights. For the time being though Hark has just sat himself back in the seat and waved to Beth who was positioned rather awkwardly in the middle, “Yeah Beth you might want to wait over here with me.” He said to his childhood friend who slowly backed away from the confrontation and moved over to Hark.

---

Norton felt overwhelmed by the chaos that began to manifest throughout the tavern and found himself gripping his sword tightly enough to turn the tips of his knuckles white. His teachings from fellow worshipers of the goddess of order rang clearly in his head, compelling him to act.

His eyes focused on the plainsman. "By the teachings of Lumen, settle down with your disorder." commanded Norton, suddenly regaining the courage to resume being the same stickler for rules he always was. He didn´t care that they were outnumbered, mainly out of a strong sense of faith. Tristan offering to fight alongside him furthered his beliefs that this had been meant to happen. He turned to Tristan and acknowledged the knight, convinced by his armor alone that he could be trusted. "I don´t approve of this conflict, but I will fight alongside you if it means approaching a more just conclusion!"

"Quickly, get to the town! We'll be s-"

An arrow tore through the man's chest, taking both his breath and his life away as two other younger men immediately ran off, the weight of their cargo slowing them down. Downtrodden men who have taken the opportunity to plunder an abandoned farmstead, who have done no real wrong beyond theft. But it was more than enough of a reason for Orchid to fire upon them without warning; who would extend their pity for a common thief? Granted it's not as if she had any intentions of returning their stolen goods; the spices and grain they took would make good money in town, and maybe a better meal than foraging for mushrooms and roots in the forest.

The two young men tried their best to avoid open spaces and ran between trees. Against a common archer their methods would be wise as a constantly moving target was more difficult to hit when they were running such random patterns. But Orchid was no common archer, and their efforts to be evasive just meant they were slowing themselves down and tiring themselves out. Drawing back her next arrow she waited a moment as her beast lurched forward through the woods. When she released it the arrow would tear off the arm of one of the young men. It left him crying in pain and agony, bleeding on the forest floor. In that moment his companion turned down and looked at him in horror. This was his mistake as Orchid and her beast caught up to them. Her vargr went to finish off the now dying looter while Orchid pounced onto the horror striken human and pressed her thumbs against his eyes, his hands too full of the bags of grain to protect himself. He shouted for mercy from gods and anyone who'll listen as Orchid took a moment to crush his skull; she normally could do so fairly easily but she's been without a proper meal for a while, so she was weaker than usual. She had to settle with snapping his neck instead.

The vargr feasted upon the corpses as Orchid gathered up the bags. Two sacks of barely, one sack of salt, another with cumin. They had small iron knives and a few coppers in their coin purses, but aside from that they didn't have any notable treasures or loot. It would make sense, they're mere peasants after all. Not even worth making trophies out of. Sighing Orchid piled the sacks onto her beast and rode towards town after he finished eating. With any luck perhaps someone at the tavern could make a soup out of this stuff. She hoped they had some meat; the only meat she ate was a couple of fishes she found at a farmstead, and she didn't eat all of it since it might've been spoiled. It certainly gave her vargr a bad case of gas.

"And who are you to command us paladin? You have no jurisdiction here." Brakes stands up, drink in hand. "This is a bar, holy man. Not one of your temples. Why should we listen to you? Because you had to go crawling and pleading to a greater being for every scrap of your power?" He smirks, putting a hand on the hilt of his blade. "Oh no, we have a holy beggar among us! We must all submit to his borrowed powers to bring "order" and "harmony" to a bar full of drunks." He points at him with exaggerated fear and respect. "What glory this will bring you! Defeating a room of drunks with "brave, and noble acts"." He scoffs. "You just want what can never truly be yours." He looks out across the bar, grinning broadly. "Anyone disagree with me?"

A timid half-elf with a lean build looks in shock at the unfamiliar demon born race and the chaos it's caused. He steadies himself after a moment, then retreats from his quest of refilling his ale to his table where a group of more elves, half-elves, and dwarves sit around a bulbous brute that looks far too large to be dwarf. When the giant man slams his mug of beer on the table after roaring with laughter due to a joke, the half elf whispers something with a sly expression into the bear of a man's ear. In response, a large grin spreads across the bearded face belonging to the giant man. The man stands up from his table, beer still in hand, and walks over to the bar, chest extended to meet the teifling's gaze. He promptly shoves his mug toward the bartender, not breaking eye contact with the half demon.
"The name's Borthric," the bearish man bellows. "I've been to plenty of taverns, and won plenty more drinking challenges. An' I suppose any voice that boisterous deserves to be met with a competitor such as m'self, even if 'e be half devil. You boys can stop the fight. I'll have this fellow out-drunken in no time."
Borthric leans down, his thick brown beard inches from the teifling's blueish grey chin. He cracks his knuckles, intent upon teaching another foolish tavern-goer a lesson. "So, what'a ya say, hellchild? 'Ya ever been in a drinking contest with a Werebear?"

He laughs heartily. "I've drunk with the demon lords of the underworld. I've drunk with an army of orcs. I've drunk with a great red dragon. Never had the honor of drinking with a lycanthropy. You think you can out drink a devilspawn?" He grins, and downs his ale. "Bring it on, Borthric. Lets see how you handle your liquor. Another round, bartender! The strongest you have for me and Borthric!" He smiles, demonic eye glowing. "Lets see if your Elvin companion was right about you, my friend." He licks his lips in anticipation of the challenge.

"Well, you're as persistent as I anticipated!" Borthric says, his delightment in his new task apparent. "Don't be alarmed if ya start feelin' nostalgic, cuz I'll give ya hell an' twice more, horned one!"
Borthric downs an enormous gulp from his oversized flagon, unflinching. He wipes the residue from the alcohol on his furry arm, then resumes a playful sneer at Brakes.
"You seem like quite the drinker - what was your name anyway? I'd like to have bragging rights and an extra something to discourage other fools who challenge me once I win. I'm sure it'll be quite something to a boaster's ear when 'e hears I've out-drunk the ale devil himself. That is, if you really are that renowned. Or, if you beat me - and yes, I'm acknowledging the possibility - I'll still have a story to tell, and I'll know who to rematch!" Borthric's luscious beard gets splattered with a few golden droplets as he downs his second mugfull.

He grins. "Brakes Demoneye. You think you can match me? Bring it on, bearman. Let's see what your stomach can handle." He downs a yet another glass. "How many have you had so far? I'm up to two so far." He finishes his glass, and his tail begins slithering back and forth on the wooden floor. His confident smirk and arrogant stance unnerve others around him. "Another round for me and Borthric! Let's give these "good" people a reason to remember this night!" He looks at the holy men and laughs. "You boys just gonna sit there and watch, or are you gonna participate? Surely your gods will protect you from intoxication!"

Borthric looks almost disgusted for a moment, but soon reverts to a calm expression. "Would you really insult a priest and mock an entire audience?" Borthric chuckles. "And how many taunts are you going to make before you learn humility can do you good?" Despite Brake's efforts to enrage him, Borthric remains peaceful in his questions, thwarting the devilman's desire for violence and avoiding tension.
Spirits unaffected, he gulps another pint and playfully reminds, "That was number four, devil dick. Now let's keep this contest to you and me. Sure, this'll be a good tale to tell, but I like my tavern-toils best left one-on-one."

He smiles, and downs another. And another. He stares the werebear in the eyes, never losing his smile, downing glass after glass. "That's six for me. Agreed. I can't wait to see the look on your face when you lose." He drinks a eighth glass, and chuckles. "You're good, bear. But the nights not over yet." He waves for another refill, and runs his hand across his horns. "You'll have to drink a few more gallons to beat me, I'm afraid. This ale isn't a strong as the drinks I'm used to."

Borthric seems unaffected by the ale as he reaches his eleventh shot.
"Agreed. It seems you're only just starting to get tipsy, Brakes," a flat but cheerful grin spreads across his bulging red cheeks that match his round drinker's nose. The grin soon becomes a smirk. "Hey bartender! You wouldn't happen to have any Sailor's Spirit in stock, would you? We're gonna need an upgrade if we're gonna finish this tonight." Leaning back to face Brakes, giant fist laying on the bar, Borthric resumes his playful inquiries. "You heard of Sailor's Spirit, Demoneye? I'd presume not, since you're not from around here. I've tried every brew from coast to coast. I know what fills up the cup."

He smiles, licking his lips. "You've never tried a denomic brew, I presume? It would literally knock you off your feet. Probably because it's half spirits, half black magic, but still. Nothing like a little taste of home." He grins, and gestures to the pack on his back. "I brought some with me. If you think you can handle Hades Fury." He reaches in his back and pulls out his travel brewery. The smell coming from the barrel alone is enough to knock over lightheads.

"Of course I can take it! Do I look like a halfling to you? My soul's as sylvan as my bear form is. C'mon, Brakes! Step it up!" Borthric playfully jeers. "Do you really want to get beaten at your own game by a hu-"
Borthric suddenly stops, biting his tongue. His smile fades, but he downs another mug of ale in the silence.

He smiles, draining another glass. "Betten by what now?" He chuckles softly. "You really think I'd discriminate? I'm a devilspawn, it doesn't get much worse then that, bear boy." His eyes are glowing slightly, but aside from that he doesn't seem that effected by the massive amounts of alcohol he's consumed.

Borthric chuckles. He ends his reminisce early, resuming his unfaltered stare at Brakes. "Oh, you'll never get me drunk. And when you said `bear boy', it made me think how I might be a better drinker in my bear form, but you'd call me a cheater, and I'm sure the bartender'd kick me out." Borthric knows this is a lie, but persists anyway in an attempt at intimidation. He keeps a deep, menacing tone throughout, complimented by his heavy eight-foot body, only faltering slightly at the end of his sentence.

He grins. "Werebear. I thought so. You'll never out drink me, shifter. Although it would be funny to see a drunk bear shambling down the street. I'll keep an eye out for you. Another round!" He smiles broadly, and raps his gloved hand on the table. "I am curious, what brings a lycanthropy all they way out here? Doesn't seem like a usual thing for your kind." He seems strangely happy, although that might just be the massive amounts of drink he's been chugging. "What were you about to say? Human?"

"Are you forgetting things, demoneye? I already told you that I was a Werebear!" Borthric's tone remains calm as he leans back, letting himself fall into a seat at the bar. He simply ignores Brakes, clearly having no interest in answering so many questions all at once. "And you do realize that you can't shove ale down yer gullet while yer lips are flappin', don't ya?-" Borthric seems to cut himself on, as if just now realizing something. "Hang on, is it weird that I like you less when you're happier?" Toward the end of his sentence, he trails off into a chuckle, which soon expands into a full grown boisterous roar. He throws back his head, scrunching his eyes shut with his bulbous cheeks, lodging his beefy hands on his belly, and bearing a massive grin through his beard in a mountainous laugh. Though the laugh is heavy, it seems to have no malicious intent. It is unclear whether the bear is laughing, or the beer.
Borthric recovers from his moment of hysteria, coming back to his previous position. "Bartender, don't bother with another round. I want this round to be special..." Borthric smirks as he reaches the end of the sentence. He pulls out a pair of four-gallon tankards. "Whoever's too drunk to finish chugging from their tankard loses."

He smiles, his eyes glowing with pleasure. They literally glow, shining like tiny red stars. "Accepted." He finishes his drink and gives a lopsided grin, and there's a pulse of something in his eyes, but it's gone in an instant. He laughs, a short, strange sound, like a strangled scream. He suddenly sits up straighter, and everything, from the tips of his horns, to his eyes and hands, down to his tail, freeze in place. There's a sudden warmth coming from his body, and it vanishes just as quickly. He then sighs deeply, relaxing, and picks up the tankard. "Where did you get these monstrosities?" He seems to ignore the question about his happiness.

”Oi, behave! Gunna get us sumthin ta eat!” Orchid tells her beast as he was chained up to a tree. He snorted and merely laid down, relaxed, and burped. Hauling the sacks into the tavern the place seemed rather lively if somewhat foreboding. But that wasn’t unusual to Orchid; if people weren’t afraid of orcs then there was usually some other troubles weighing in their minds. Regardless the green girl went over to whoever seemed to be the tavern keep and set down the sacks of grain, salt, and spices.

”Got some goods ere, figures we could barter sumthin. A sack ol grains get some good roasts, maybe make a soup outta da barely, got sum salt and spices too sure that’ll be a pretty penny. I’d say around twenty gold, eh?” Orchid said with a jovial but gruff tone. She had no real idea how much any of these things costs but she expected somewhere around her asking price. She at least knew salt and spices were expensive.

Borthric jerks back just a bit in his seat, slightly disturbed by Brakes's infernal abnormality. "You a Warlock or somthin', Demoneye? Or are you just drunk?" Borthric leans back an howls. The ale seems to have gotten to him, though he shows no sign of wanting to back down. "Well, let's 'ave a go, then! 'ese tankards aren't goin' ta drink themselves! And I doubt you're gonna be able ta drink them either. I'd say you'll only get through about one gallon! Oh, and don't worry, bartender. I'll pay for the eight gallons. Fill er up!" He gathers both of the tankards in one meaty fist, holding them under the cork hole in the barrel of ale after clinking three gold pieces on the bar as payment for the drink. He looks back at Brakes and clerifies the rules: "Well, I don't suppose we'll be able to down it in one breath, least not you. Let's say we can stop for breaths while chugging, just our penalty be wastin' time."
The tankards are almost full by now. "Watta' ya say, Brakes?"