Julian had never faced a werewolf who kept his distance like this. He was growing rather frustrated with it. Let alone the fact that he wasn't going to give him his name. It wasn't like Julian was going to bind him or anything. He just wanted to know the man's name. That way he could put it to the face but he sighed as he figured it probably didn't matter that much.

When the cutlery came flying, Julian just shifted slightly to be missed by the fork that was somewhat close to his arm while reaching out to grab the knife before it hit his chest but before he could grab the knife, he felt a tingling in his legs that turned in a burning then agony.

Julian looked down at his leg, the dynamite finally going off in his pocket. The look of confused shock turned to horror before he was consumed by the explosion. His wings curled inward as he began to slide along the floor from the force of it.

It was as if time came to a halt as Julian's mind took the time to process and figure out the next step. He could see the flames and power from the explosions blasting out from his hip but he feared if he didn't do something, then everyone and everything in this damn place would be charred broken bodies.

The pain was still rocking through his body as the explosion reached its apex, ripping apart the lower half of him and starting to eat into his upper torso. He pulled his wings in around himself, calling on his control of flames to stifle the explosion as best he could. He was a goner. He would just have to regenerate after this mess but if he could keep this place from being destroyed, then he can keep his new little hang out just a moment more.

"Damnit," he cursed through pain gritted teeth as he grabbed a hold of the flames with his claws and redirected them back inward towards him. He used his wings to guide any flames he couldn't reach back into the makeshift ball he was making of himself. He did this over and over again, feeling the heat from the flames picking at his face and chest. The pain was excruciating but he was a phoenix. He had been through worse.

He kept this up as the explosion eventually died die. What remained of him plummeted to the ground in a heap. "Ow," he whispered before his body began to slowly turn to ash, leaving a small hill of it on the ground in his place. But he had managed to at least contain the explosion as best he could. Nothing he could do about the gory sight of it though. After all, before he turned to ash, there were pieces of his lower body strewn about from the explosion. It was not a pretty sight.

BOOM!

Mordechai instinctively leapt under a table and covered his head at the sound, squeezing his eyes shut-

But strangely, there was no sudden, terrible, incinerating heat from the explosion that usually signaled an attack from one of the Kaftos tribes. He opened his eyes to see the winged man curling around what seemed a ball of fire, for licks of flame kept trying to escape through the cracks. But then they were guided in again by his wings.

Mordechi could see the man’s skin bubbling under the heat, quite similar to how he had seen many comrades fall before. The man was going to die, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now, nor did he need to. Though, the winged man was dying of honor, and Mordechi respected that; dying to protect his comrades.

But wait- no. Mordechi wasn’t his comrade. The newcomer most definitely wasn’t his comrade. Was then the winged man insane? Or was he just moving on instinct, like Mordechi so often did?

He didn’t have much time to ponder, though, for suddenly the man disintegrated before his eyes.
Where the man was curled a moment before sat only a pile of ash.

“What?” he spoke aloud without meaning to. Then, meaning to, he asked the newcomer, “What the hell?”

After the release of the cutlery, Clay continued his momentum, the hissing of the fuse had stopped, there was no time left. In that final second he redirect his hand to crash down on the nearest table and tip it over creating a small barricade. He would have liked to have ducked behind it but that foolish patron was still standing there so he just had to turn and put himself between the man and oncoming explosion.

It never came...
Sure there was the noise and a slight conclusive force, a little bit of heat, but no blast... was it a dud?

Turning back he just caught the last of Julian's impressive implosion. He let out a scoff and then a chuckle. "Mate, I hope you know that wasn't even me. I don't know who else you've been picking fights with but someone really didn't like ya."

He casually strolls over to the Phoenix's smouldering remains as he draws a new cigaret to replace his last one that he lost somewhere. Looking down at the mess he shakes his head then crouches beside the body, poking it with his cigaret and lighting it off the embers. "Bet that hurt like a ****, Maybe we can try again when you pull yourself back together eh?"

After the werewolf lit the cigarette in the smoldering ashes of Julian's form, there was a shift to the ashes. There came a quiet little chirp from within the pile before a little bird of red and white feathers stuck its head out of the largest mound. It looked around at the all the people around it before he began to flap its wings, trying to claw its way out of the ashes. After a few good flaps, it had pulled itself out of the heap and was slowly shook off what ashes it could. The bird hopped once or twice on the ground before it looked up at Clayton.

It launched itself off the ground and straight at his head. It chirped and pipped loudly as it grabbed a hold of his hair and pulled, thrashing its head about side to side as it did so. The little bird worked itself up into such a fever that it accidently got itself tangled in his hair and was trying to pull itself free while chirping loudly at him.

He alternated between pecking and pulling at the hair that had tangled around his tiny little foot and peeking at Clayton's head. Eventually, he grew angry and a little bellow of smoke rose from his feathers before he ignited into a little ball of flames, still pecking at Clayton the whole time. It squeaked and chirped loudly until it grew tired and the flames went out. Little, newly revive Julian still didn't like Clayton.

the raccoons heard it from their room.
"WHAT. THE. FUCK."
rookie sat there in shock.
"i stuck a stick of dynamite in whatshisname's pocket." ("ahhh, ok, ok.") ("YIPPEE!")
they ran down the stairs.
instead of the weird guy, they saw... a bird? and the strange guy?
once they figured out that the bird was JJ, they. got. PISSED.
immediately, Rummage ran towards the bird, snatched him (ripping out a few of the werewolf's hairs,) curled him up... "this is what you get..." and CHUCKED him at the wall.
"...FOR MANHANDLING MY BRO!" the wall BROKE OPEN, and before Rufus could apologize to the stranger, Rookie ran up...
"YOU WANT MY ORB? TAKE IT!" and SMASHED THE ORB AGAINST THE BIRD'S HEAD!
After a few apologies, (and a few bribes,) the raccoons got back to their room.
"SO THAT'S WHAT VIOLENCE FEELS LIKE!"
"yes it DOES!"
"i'm just glad you two are..."
"SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!"
(wait, what about the orb?) (hooooly shiaaaaa-)
THIS IS LIFE FOR THE RACCOONS (no I will not hear my comfort oc swear)

But the newcomer didn’t respond, just went to light a cigarette from the ashes. Though, before he could, a bird emerged from the ashes, lept into the man’s hair, and promptly got itself completely entangled.

“Hell to this.”

He sighed and turned. As he did, he heard the screeching words of the animals again, and a few loud thuds. He chose to pretend he did not hear those sounds, instead walking toward the stairs that hopefully lead to some sort of guest sleeping chambers. The Abyss had nothing of the sort, of course, but he had read that Upperworld inns were known for rooms patrons could spend the night in.

As he paused at the bottom of the stairway, he called, “Mistress or master of this manor, if you do not mind, I shall sleep in one of your guest chambers tonight. I shall pay whatever fee you require at sunrise.”

At that, he clomped up the stairs, opened the first room he saw with a door ajar, planned an emergency exit route (as usual), checked for hidden traps or ambushers (as usual), and then promptly fell asleep on the softest bed he had ever felt.

When the barmaid left, there was a semblance of peace, when she returned upon hearing a ruckus, her emerald green eyes found only chaos.
Julian was gone, Clayton had returned, there was a smouldering pile of ash on the floor and the raccoons were hurling a bird across the room.

The bird hit the wall with all the audible and apparent force one might expect from a wooden wall. And while visually that's what all would see, that is not what Julian would feel. The tavern recognised his earlier actions and its responsibility for his condition. None of the force from the impact was felt by the little bird.

The rest was up to the barmaid. An intense focus and a sharp flexing of her fingers protected the small helpless creature from every blow of the orb, by surrounding the small creature in a thin skin tight magical barrier. It did t protect it from everything but would greatly lessen the blow.

@Triantafyllo "The room with an open door is yours, your food will be brought to you when it is ready. Sorry for the commotion. I hope you rest well."
The barmaid glared at Clayton and then rushed over to the assaulted little bird. Her use of magic to protect it had exhausted her and she was breathing heavily.

Julian was so caught up with trying to free himself from Clayton's hair, he had not noticed the raccoons until ones grubby little hand coiled around him and ripped him out of the Werewolf's hair. He let out a chirp of surprise and pain as he found himself being crumpled up into a little ball. But Julian would not go down lightly. He peeked and peeked, flaring up once more with red hot flames in the raccoons grip.

Hadn't these little buggers done enough already? His body, his clothes, all of it lay in ashes on the ground and he was the size of a doorknob, all his glorious splendor reduced to this.

Julian was surprised to find that the contact with the wall wasn't painful at all. He peered up at the wooden paneling in relief but that relief was short lived as another raccoon came at him with the very magical orb he had tried to get his hands on previously. He tried to get out of the way but he was exhausted. It takes a lot out of someone coming back from the dead. He was pretty sure that if this orb made connect and killed him again, he wouldn't have the energy to come back. It was would be a permanent death.

He closes his eyes and just accepted his fate. This is what he got for taking the blast himself and keeping the tavern from turning to ash. Well, it was a good life anyways.

The orb came crashing down and even though he felt the pain from the impact, it didn't crush him like he had expected. Again and again, the orb came down to only meet a glittering shield around his body. Eventually the raccoons ran off and little Julian slowly fluttered down to the ground, breathing heavy and in pain but alive. Amelia appeared before him and he let out a quiet cheer before he settled on the ground in a heap.

Again the tavern door swung open, admitting another chilly breeze to sweep in unannounced. This time it smelled of the harvest, a distinctly autumnal air beckoning some few stray leaves past the threshold. Stepping closely behind, his boots making a distinctive 'thump' against the wooden floor, was the one who'd let them in.



Standing a few inches over six feet, his lithe frame loomed a moment in the doorway, unnaturally scarlet eyes attentively tracking the barmaid as she rushed to the aid of some small bird. A white feather graced his somewhat worn cap, while two weapons hung in plain view from his belt. On the left hip, rested snugly in its scabbard, was a saber with a gently curving blade. Its swept hilt took a gracefully winding form, the metal polished to a silvery sheen. On the other hip, sitting in its holster along the wearer's thigh, was what could be recognized as a firearm to those who knew them - a pistol in particular. A flintlock design with an unusually long barrel, its frame was housed in all metal rather than wood. An intricate embossing of winding, thorny vines graced nearly the whole weapon, and it was polished similarly to the hilt of its owner's sword.

The tavern's newest visitor was already a bit on edge, even as he quietly shut the door behind him to deny the breeze further entry. It seemed to him as though he'd walked in on the aftermath of a brawl, or something worse. The distinctive smell of burnt flesh had reached his senses the moment he set foot in that strange establishment. There was an upturned table, a pile of ash on the ground... he could even make out a distinctive pattern of striking red haphazardly splattered across blast-charred floorboards.

Add to all that, a bird had somehow gotten in, and was now occupying the attention of what appeared to be the only barmaid. He'd never seen such a striking plumage before...

Well... it wasn't his business, the man had to remind himself. Whatever had happened, the rest of the tavern seemed remarkably untouched. No raging fire, no ruined furniture scattered about, no screaming patrons riddled with wooden shrapnel. The lack of collateral damage was almost unsettling.

Reasoning that this strange scene was mostly safe, probably, the black garbed visitor didn't hesitate too long before making up his mind. It didn't seem like the sort of situation that would interest a man like him anyways. He was no constable. Long strides carried him over to, then all the way down the length of the bar, passing by another man who was suspiciously close to that pile of ashes. The newcomer's piercing gaze focused on him for a long moment, a gloved hand instinctively going still near its holstered weapon.

There was something off about that man, and it wasn't the inexplicable smoke wafting from his hair.

The thought passed quickly, as did its thinker, and his arm resumed swinging normally in pace. Maybe it was just the demeanor that put him off. The man seemed an unruly, wolfish type.

Reaching the very end of the bar, claiming the very furthest bar stool as his seat, the slender man in his off-black coat sat such that his body faced out towards the rest of the room. It gave him peace to have a clear line of sight on the other patrons... and a solid wall to his back. Sitting sideways to the counter he rested an arm on its surface, turning his head to patiently peruse what drinks were on display across the other side.

Clay let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl. His lip twitched in frustration as the wolf in him wanted to snarl in frustration. It writhed ever so subtly beneath his skin, beneath the burns and scratches on his scalp. Hungrily healing his injuries as if feasting of the violence that befell him. But still it couldn't bring back the patch of hair that was torn out.

He took a short moment to eye the newcomer, then turned his attention back to the barmaid and the bird. With a shrug he stands and says.
"Had it coming anyway." With that he turns away and makes his way behind the bar to help himself to some fine looking shelved scotch.

He turns to the newcomer. "Can I get you anything?" @DrabberRogue