Careful to temporarily put the imperfection from his mind, he crossed to pick up the jar of fireflies that sat atop the hearth. He regarded them only momentarily as he opened the lid of the jar before carefully removing one. Then, jar closed once more, he flicked the insect into the fireplace.

The firefly exploded with a light pop as it collided with the stone in back of the heart, igniting the ash-free wood of the previous night’s fire once more. Carefully Martes layered a few more logs overtop the fresh blaze, and then stood up to cross over to the bar.

Setting himself on the high stool that had been his place for many years, Martes took in the room that surrounded him. The patrons would be arriving and, late as usual, the cook would soon be there to prepare that night’s meal.

Surveying the tavern she saw only one other customer (an unusual sort with some kind of elven heritage) sitting on a stool near the bartender. She walked straight toward the bar, bumping into several stools on her right side on the way, and sat down so that the other customer was to her left.

She glanced at the other customer out of the corner of her eye, as though hoping for him to do something for her.

"What will be your pleasure this evening," he asked, pushing the bridge of his spectacles higher on his face. "A Pickled Griffon? A Gnome Juicer? Sparkling Bootwax? Dwarven Stout? Actually, I don't know what any of those are so you'll have to order something else. Except the Dwarven Stout, of course. What kind of bartender doesn't know his stout?"

He turned to regard his first guest. "I'm certain there's still a bottle of Deurisan Crimsburry around here somewhere, milord. If your tastes run towards something stronger I'll be happy to oblige, though if you come only for the company there's a bottle of sparkling cider in the wine cellar I was saving for new years. And Milady..." He paused to face Lana, who was nervously examining the counter in front of her. "Best you stick with the Cider, I think.

"I do believe this is the first I've seen your faces around here. My name's Martes. I was once a great slayer of dragons and men, wielder of might and magic, until one day my powers were stolen from me by..."

Off in the distance the door coughed twice, interrupting the tale. "Coughliarhrm"

"Of course, I'm sure you such stories would only serve to bore you. May ask of your names?"

She pointed to the patch that covered her right eye. "That's how I got this. Some guy didn't like me delving into his business."

She turned her dark eye to the bartender's expectant face and, with a sigh, dug into her pocket and slapped a coin on the counter.

"I'll take whatever's cheapest, unless our friend here wants to pay for it," she said, turning to the customer beside her, "in which case I would like something a little stronger."

He wasn't the only person in the room. A young...elf? and a woman who looked to be in her thirties were at the bar. The woman was talking to the bartender; Roger noticed her jerk her head in the elf's direction.

As she did, he noticed she had a patch over her right eye. This struck him as odd; raised in a noble family, he had never known women to be involved in fights.

He started to walk towards the bar, taking great pains to keep himself unnoticed.

He reached into his white coat and pulled out a black satchel. He then proceeded to pull out ten silver coins and placed them on the counter.

"I'll have whatever's strongest that this'll pay for. Oh, and one for...Lana, was it?...as well," He said, smiling.

She put the coin she had slapped on the bar back into her pocket.

"So what's your story? Not many will openly admit to pickpocketing. I prefer a legal profession, myself, but if it pays... why begrudge a few coins to the man who so generously bought me a drink?"

She turned to lean against the counter and spotted a young man with two huge swords strapped to his back walking quietly toward her.

The woman turned while she was still speaking. They stared at themselves for a moment.

He was suddenly very conscious of her eye patch, and turned instead towards Angel.

She wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered.

She instead settled for staring at him intently with her interrogation expression, a knitting of the brows and an eye that didn't blink. Many people had been unable to resist that expression that told them to say something, either in confession of guilt, self defense, or just to break the stony silence.

"And you are?"

He regretted it.

She had the most penetrating stare he had ever seen. It was almost as if she was staring right through him.

He realised his lack of etiquette and cringed inwardly.

"I'm Roger Kingsworth" he said. extending his hand. He suddenly wondered what his parents would have thought of his manners if they were still alive.

Had he changed so much in two years?

"I'm Lana Crane, and my friend here is Angel Macleod." She jabbed a thumb in Angel's direction. "Sit down and join us for a drink."

She patted the empty stool next to her, and the look she gave him brooked no arguments.

"Pleased to meet you Lana. And you, Angel" he said, nodding in the halfling's direction.

"So...what brings you to these parts?"

He then eyed the man's zweihander blades.

"You seem to be quite a strong warrior to wield those huge swords. Are you a mercenary?"

"I wonder if you have noticed any strange happenings of late. My village was attacked by a couple of trolls, the thing is trolls don't usually come this far south of the great border" He spoke with the air of a man discussing the weather.

"I haven't seen a troll in two years. Not till now at least, they kept a low profile after they lost the Great war"

Thumbing the strap of his harness, he continued. "Something is definitely afoot, I also ran into some gnomes while crossing Pyranor wood. I barely escaped"

He wasnt sure why he was revealing so much about himself. He felt he could trust these people, well the halfling at least.

"It's been a long time since I've been out of the city, so you'll have to forgive me if I know very little about outside affairs. Where was this? How long ago?"

She settled her intent stare on Roger again, but tempered with an eagerness to know, rather than the cold annoyance of earlier.

She DID look genuinely concerned, but that could just be a ploy as well.... Still, why not trust her, she wasn't a troll.

"I'm not from around these parts" he said. "I'm from the land of Mindrel, and the war I'm talking about happened two years ago"

"The land is divided into two parts; The thunder-goblins, gnomes and trolls live in the mostly barren northern half. The southern half is occupied by us humans".

"Each half generally avoided the other; until a dark mage, a former druid lost to darkness, began to rally the trolls"

At this point Roger ordered some wine, fresh from the press and unfermented.

"The trolls became restless, and began to slay humans. My family, one of the last nobles in the land, decided to patrol the Great border"

He shook his head, remembering. "I was only seventeen at the time, was lacking experience in battle. They ordered me to remain at Kingsworth Hall".

He heard a noise and turned. A tall dark-skinned man had just burst through the door as though a legion of soldiers was after him.

"It seems we have a visitor," he told Lana and Roger. He then fixed his gaze on the new face.

"Oy! You there! What's with the panicked look?" He asked him.

Roger suddenly understood; the man had obviously been shocked out of his skin by the talking door.

A weak smile crossed his face. No sooner than he opened his mouth to call out to him did another man walk in.

Without so much as a glance at him, Lana, and Angel, the man walked up to the bartender and requested the strongest drink available.

He was old, Roger looked more closely at him; he looked slightly fatigued but other than that his expression was difficult to read.

With a measured hand he poured five drops of the liquid into a thimble, and handed it to Dr. Emrys.

"There you go, good sir. Don't worry about the name; I don't think there's actually any dragon's blood in that. Never can be too sure though. Best be drinking that down before the thimble melts. Not all in one sip though, of course."

"Darnakian Dragonsblood, eh? I've heard that's the strongest stuff around. Of course, it's just a rumor, and not all rumors can be believed." He shrugged, and then turned his attention to Lana.

"What's my story, you ask? Well, it depends on where you want me to begin," he said, smiling.

The man who had burst in was obviously disturbed by the talking door. Someone who hadn't been around magic much or had had a bad experience with it.

The old man seemed quiet, but something about him disturbed her. He was TOO quiet. There was power there... A wizard perhaps?

The woman was extremely easy to figure out. The twin swords, the confident stride, the ability to pay for the strongest drink in the house and the ability to gulp it down... A mercenary. Definitely.

"Oh, at the beginning, of course, unless that's boring. In which case you should start where it gets interesting," she said in response to Angel's question. "I have a feeling that your story gets rather interesting pretty quick, though."

As casually as he could muster he headed toward the bar where the others seamed to be gathering, sitting as far from the center of commotion as he could while still being in ear shot.

"The house speciality, please." He politely requested.

"Your pleasure, sir?" Martes asked him, setting down a foaming tankard before one of the patrons.

"Nothing of that sort. I'm here for a meal and a room, and then I must move on, I'm afraid."

"Ah, yes... but it seems the cook is missing this evening. If you'll wait a moment, however, I can prepare you a room."

Rem frowned with disappointment. "I'm sorry, but I haven't eaten since this morning. I'll be on my way then. I'm sure there are other meals to be had."

"Ah, but if you'll only wait a moment, I'm sure the cook will be along shortly. I'd hate to turn you out just as the night grows cold"

Reluctantly Rem agreed, before moving to the table closest to the hearth and turning one chair around on which to sit while warming his hands.

There was a rather diverse group hanging around at the bar and Mezzik's grin became wider. He rarely had company in his home and any callers that came to visit were always hostile for some reason...

He strode over to the bar next to the woman with the two swords and leaned over the counter, spilling her second drink all over her in the process.

"Bartender! I would like a Frosty Yeti, please!" he called.

"Remind me to burry that before it goes rogue," he said to no one in particular. "I do hope Mrs. Foeslayer had the foresight to wear armor that doesn't corrode easily. Now let’s see... Frosty Yeti, Frosty..."

Martes turned to the liquids at his back and set a thick pewter goblet on the counter. From his shelves he removed two glass bottles, filling the goblet halfway with the first. "Everyone holds your breath," he told the bar. A few of the patrons looked towards him with puzzled looks, and Lana ducked below the counter.

The beverage exploded momentarily as the second liquid connected to it, loosing a thick cloud of red smoke. Those who hadn't held their breath chocked on their drinks as the vapors met them, and a few of them caught fire to loose hairs. Mezzik inhaled deeply, grinning.

When the smoke cleared Martes came out from behind the counter, and sprinkled a trace of salt into the center of the goblet. The outside of the pewter chilled and a thin sheet of ice formed at the edges of the drink, while the center boiled and caught fire on the surface.

"PFEW!" Martes's breath exploded from his lungs. "One Frosty Yeti," he announced, cautiously pushing the base of the goblet towards Mezzik so as not to freeze his hand to the side.

"Thank YOU, sir!" Martes exclaimed, scooping up the gold.

Mezzik turned to find a seat at one of the tables, but noticed everyone staring at him.

"Your health," he said raising his goblet to them. He took a swig and exhaled with a frosty sigh of satisfaction.

The customer he had doused with her own drink glared at him murderously.

Roger was sure a fight was going to break out soon. It was only a matter of time, and drink.

He believed a brawl was in the making when the old-fashioned gentleman spilled the mecernary's drink. He didn't offer so much as an apology.

Roger sized him up; he was quite tall and would definately win in a contest of strength.

The man then dropped a golden coin on the counter. Roger blinked; the man had'nt dipped his hand into a pocket or pouch, just...conjured it.

Maybe he was a wizard, but Roger sensed something more. The man's eyes had a slightly reptilian look to them. He decided to look away before he was caught staring.

"Well, you do appear to be genuinely interested, so I'll start from the beginning," he said to Lana. "My parents were killed two years after I was born. I was then found by a band of chivalrous half-elven thieves, who called themselves the Phoenix Clan. I was raised by this clan and I got to like everyone there, especially the leader, who was like a father to me. We had many adventures and stole a lot of money. We gave three-fifths of what we stole to the poor and the homeless, and the rest was divided amongst us evenly." He then paused, as if waiting for a reaction from Lana.

The mercenary was not happy with this stranger because he had spilled her drink without even an apology. A fight seemed about to break out, though Lana wasn't sure what the new arrival would do. His grin was constant and she couldn't read him at all.

She did her best to measure the distance to the door in case a fight DID break out. No use getting yourself killed over a spilt drink.

She turned her glance back to Angel as he said more about himself, and nodded when Roger asked his question.

"No, they're not. The last robbery that we ever did was on an infamous baron that was very well-known in the region I grew up in, whis is quite a ways west from here. He was especially well-known for his contempt towards half-elves like myself. We had successfully robbed him of what money he had, but we didn't know that he'd get revenge by sending a legion of his soldiers and mages on us.

"You see, where I grew up, half-elves were treated like dirt because of the society's 'pure-blood only' theory. They saw my kind as dirty-blooded insects that had to be cleansed from the world. Some use half-elves as slaves, while others killed them on sight. My parents were both half-elves raised in secrecy, and they were lynched a short time after I was born.

"Anyway, this baron figured out the location of my clan's secret meeting grounds, and when he found out that the clan was composed of half-elves, he became even more enraged. You see, he brutally murdered half-elves, sometimes for no reason at all. But he did so indirectly; his legion of soldiers and mages did the dirty work. So my clan died, but not before putting up a fight. I was the only one able to get away...but not before they left their marks on me..."

Angel then proceeded to pull up the left sleeve of his white coat to reveal his bare arm, which was scarred beyond reason; jagged red marks lined nearly all of his arm, criss-crossing this way and that. He then pulled up the sleeve of his right arm to show that it had been scarred as badly as his left arm. He paused.

From the looks of it, most of the patrons were either staring, or going about their business. Not wanting to risk any sort of fight of any sort with no weapon, he stood and cautiously made his way closer to the woman. In as least threatening a way as he could, the man asked, "Are you in need of a shirt, even if it is a man's?"

Their pasts were slightly similar; both had suffered tragedy twice. Yet he felt Angel's experiences were far worse as he had suffered loss at such an early age.

He sympathised with the death of the clan, but not their actions. Afterall, stealing was stealing. Still, he was very impressed that Angel had grown up with a seemingly balanced attitude. Something told him the halfling wasn't as young as he looked, but you could never tell with elves.

He decided to display some tact and leave Angel in Lana's company. He had a feeling the woman would be able to cheer him up in no time.

He looked around the room and spotted a warrior who had a shield slung on his back, a shield bearing a blue-painted Great Bear, probably the sign of some noble family like his.

"See you" he said to Lana and Angel before hitching his harness back into place and walking across the room.

"Good day, sir" he said, sitting next to the man. "What brings you to these parts?"

Something felt foul about him. He struck Rem as being well aware of his surroundings, yet too caloused to pay them heed. Worse, he seemed to be enjoying himself. As Mezzik moved towards the tables of the tavern, Rem worried that he might sit close by and cause another disaster. The other seated himself far away from the fire, however, and Rem relaxed.

As Rem saw it, there were two other dangerous persons in the room. The first would be the older woman, who struck him as being a bit more meddling and inquizitive than he could handle. The other was the mercenary. Civilians, by their nature, would never question the most quiet person in the room, nor would they know enough of millitary ways to realize just how far out of his territory Rem was. The mercenary, on the other hand, would have long since learned to pick up on such details as a mater of survival. If she could control her temper, of course.

"Why would he be interested in Lana?" he thought to himself.

"Roger Kingsworth" he said, extending his right hand to the warrior.

Hmph. Clothing of all sorts, typical things, weapons, boring. Clothes were an annoyance while flying, and Eldarath had never felt ashamed of any part of his body, to need to cover it up. A quick glance of the various patrons brought about an equally speedy assessment of the threat they posed should they attempt to assault him: Generic Bartender, nil. Generic Thief, negligible. Generic mercenary, negligible. Generic warrior, slight. Wizard: medium. Addled old man: nil. Generic merc number 2: slight. Generic warrior number two: slight. Disguised dragon: high.

Stay away from the dragon, Eldarath's brain prompted him. Obeying his desire to stay alive, he did so, sidling away from the table Mezzik was seated at. The Black Flight generally wasn't on very good terms with dragons and Dragonkin of the other flights, for obvious reasons. Arriving at the bar, Eldarath found a low stool that he might sit on the be on level with the bartop, tucked his tail under the seat and laid a scaly, clawed hand on the counter, careful not to come into contact with any of the spilled drink that he absolutely hated.

Perhaps something had happened earlier on, but Eldarath didn't know what it was, and had no desire to find out. One didn't make a living in his line of work by cramming one's mind with useless facts. Then again, considering the stained female, that would mean...too late. Oh well, one more useless fact to rid his mind of, he preferred prospective mates to have bright eyes, gleaming healthy scales and claws, and possibly a pleasant roar. Aside from being intelligent and kind, that is.

"A drink," he said calmly, trying not to let his teeth show too much. "Please," he added as an afterthought.

"No Darnakian Dragonsblood for you?"

"I don't think something named after the slaying of thousands of my kind would appeal to me. Do you? Am I not scary enough to your eye? Don't worry, I'll not make trouble here-unless someone else makes it and sends it over to me, compliments of their table."

"And how will you pay?"

"I'll cough it up. Literally. Do you want me to show you now?" The human bartender simply shook his head and sidled away, presuambly to pour a drink.

[small portion of this thread deleted due to sheer ridiculousness]

After a few moments he turned away from the bar and walked towards the front of the tavern.

"DOOR!"

"What?!?"

"There's a dragon in my tavern, that's NOT pretending to be human!"

"I know!"

"How did it get in here?"

"I don't know!"

Martes turned back towards the bar, muttering threats of splinters an firewood, before seating himself back at his barstool and gesturing towards Mezzik.

"Do you want what he's drinking?" he shrugged.

"These swords are family heirlooms I managed to save when my home was attacked by trolls. I have never used them save for the odd wild beast, carrying them is wearisome enough you see".

He looked at Reman's longsword. "You look like you have seen many battles though, you have a war-weary look not unlike my late uncle's".

He was interrupted by a deep voice which was blatantly failing at being quiet: "A drink...please".

Roger glanced round and almost fell off of his seat.

"Is that a dragon?!" He asked Reman.

"Angel Macleod is my name," he said, smiling. "And this is Lana Crane." He nodded in Lana's direction. "And forgive me if I bring surprise to you, kind sir, but I do believe that there is a dragon in the tavern."

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