A knight, a priest, a goblin wolf-rider, a barbarian and a young girl.  That’s what this group is made up of.  How the hell would these people end up together?  Logically it would be a stretch at best.  But the Gods of Chaos hold eternal sway over all Nerdium Reginum, so what can be said?  And of course they are all in a tavern.  I know, I know.  The girl is too young to be there.  The priest is too pious to be there.  The knight is too noble, the barbarian too ignoble and the goblin is, well, a goblin.

But hey, all the really good nerds get their stories made into books and movies.  The rest of us just get lots of interparty fighting.  It’s not like there’s a paladin, a necromancer, a thief, a samurai and a psychotic berserker dwarf with fiery red hair and +7 to damage sitting together.  That’s a different group.  They didn’t last long.  Does that surprise you?  It did them.  Go figure.

Where was I?  Oh yes.

The local inn had a roaring fire with a boar spinning slowly as it roasted on a spit, its juices dripping into the coals with a delicious sounding sizzle.  The air was thick with fragrant pipe smoke, music and laughter.  Stout oaken furniture was crammed with cheerful and un-historically hygienic peasants in gaily colored summer clothes chatting and drinking together in harmony.  A merry wench with rosy cheeks and a bosom that barely fit into her corseted dress flitted too and fro holding more frothy mugs then most men could realistically carry, singing a pretty peasant tune about something sweet. The portly innkeeper looked on with a perpetual grin, for times were good.

Of course, this wasn’t one of those places.  There’s one just down the street, but they wouldn’t let the goblin in, so this motley group had to settle for the old man tavern at the bottom of the hill.  It had a name, but no one remembers it.  It’s just referred to as ‘the hole.’  It used to be run by a good-hearted but sorely alcoholic dwarf who drank himself into an early grave.  No one is quite sure who actually still owns the place, though there is no doubt about who runs it.  One of the oldest drunks at the end of the bar named The Cockroach does.  But then, only the ‘real’ regulars know that.

They have a fireplace, but it hasn’t roared with flame in years.  A filthy blanket was stuffed up the flue to stop some of the drafts.  If you look closely enough, you can see a bit of it dangling into the fire pit.  It’s quite charred.  Some nitwitted drunk tried to light a fire there a few months back in winter.  All that managed to do was smoke everyone out of the place for a few hours.  There are no pretty wenches to be found at ‘the hole,’ but the place has its share of haggish barflies.

The bartenders are usually local thieves who last a few months before they are run out of the tavern, or run out of town, whichever comes first.  The only thing that disappears faster then the bartenders is anything deemed of value that happens to get left unattended.  The regulars are people who go there because they can stand the sight of their wives even less then they can the miserable cretins that frequent it.

No music plays in that dark place, the only sound being the vicious whispers that flow like venom between the regulars.  Most were now looking at this odd assortment of travelers who were invading the sanctity of their private hell.

“I like this place.” said the goblin, as they sat down at a table set up against the wall.

“Are you serious?” Replied the priest, “How could anyone, even something as lowly as you, possibly like such a diseased bastion of subdued pain and broken dreams?”

“Hey priest, the next time you pray to your god, ask for the spell Detect Sarcasm.”

“That’s not in either of my Spheres.”

“You have a pair of spheres?  That’s not what I heard.”  The goblin laughed.  Well, more of a broken cackle.  It seemed strangely appropriate here.

At that moment, a tall, waifish looking man with bad skin and a pronounced overbite stumbled in through the door, accompanied by a large seedy looking fellow behind him.  Many of the regulars yell out “Bronny!” before going back to their drinks and their miseries.  Bronny pointed both of his index fingers at no one in particular and said “No worries!”

By his stumbling and slurring, it was obvious that he was already quite drunk.  The two men walked to another table and sat down as the bartender plopped down their drinks.

“Get a round for the bar!” Bronny yelled out, at which there was a cheer.

“Th’ whole bar?” The bartender asked in a low voice, as he looked at the companions.

“Yeah, yeah, I got money.”  Bronny pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket and dropped the pile onto the table, many of which rolled to the floor.  His larger friend proceeded to pick the coins up, and even returns a few of them to the table.

The bartender made a mental count of the people in the tavern and took some of the coins back to the cashbox.  He is then swamped by those at the bar who were all clamoring for their free drinks, asking for the expensive stuff they are all too cheap to pay for themselves.  He finished with the regulars and then sat back down next to the Cockroach lighting his pipe.

After a few minutes the barbarian got up and wandered over to the bar.  “Oi, tendah!  ‘Ow abut dem free drinks?”

“Oh yeah.  Whachew want?”

The barbarian peered at the bartender.  By his looks and accent, the bartender was probably from the same eastern tribal lands as he himself is.  That made him trust the fellow even less.

“Whachew gaht?”

The bartender pointed at the three taps poking out from the center of the bar, two of which had tankards placed upside down over them.

“Uh, we gaht grog and uh…yeah, grog.”

The barbarian looked over to the old man sitting next to the bartender who was busy lighting his own pipe.  He spotted a small shot glass filled with a clear liquid next to his tankard.

“Wut’s ‘e drinkin’?”

The old man, still lighting his pipe, looked up at the barbarian and says “We’re outta that.”

The barbarian’s eyes drifted over to the table behind the bar with the cashbox.  A green glass bottle labeled “Menthol Liqueur” sat next to the small chest.  It was half full.  The barbarian looks back to the old man, who met his gaze with steely blue eyes.  The old man’s bearing denoted a military life, or at least one in his youth.  But he was old and thin now, frail, like an ancient twig long since dried out.

At over six and a half feet in height and 350 pounds of muscle, the barbarian felt confident he could snap the old man as easily as the twig he resembled.  But the steady, unimpressed iron in the old man’s eyes told the easterner that he would likely make the barbarian do it before sharing his personal stock.

“Grog it is then. Five.”  The barbarian smiled and nodded to the old man, then went back to his table.

The bartender got up and grabbed some tankards from the shelves under the bar then proceeded to fill them up.  He looked over to the companions table.

“Five eh?”  He muttered under his breath spying the pretty young girl.  She caught him looking at her.  He wasn’t really all that bad looking to be honest, perhaps even cute in a greasy “get back at daddy” sort of way.  That was until he smiled.  For any poor sap who may not be aware of this already, it’s generally not considered to be a good idea to flash a toothy grin if you happen to be missing some of your teeth.

But the girl made her appropriate bluff check and convincingly managed to suppress a shudder of revulsion, smile noncommittally back and conveniently have her attention pulled to something that someone in another direction happened to say…

The barbarian returned and informed the group that he had gotten their drinks.  The knight then turned in his chair to face Bronny at the table behind him.

“I say, you have my thanks for your kind generosity, good fellow.”

Bronny looked up from his drunken stupor and turned to the knight, pointing both his fingers at him in what seemed to be his trademark gesture “No worries, Marcus!  I wouldn’t forget a buddy from the old days!”

The knight looked confused for a second.

“Ah, you must be mistaken, I’m not…”

Without any other outward movement, the goblin kicked the knight’s leg under the table.

“uh…been gone that long, have I?  My, how the time flies.”

The knight turned back around and was about to glare at the goblin, but the little wolfrider beat him too it.  The knight was taken aback, wondering how it was that he was the one receiving the evil eye.  He looked over to the priest for support, but the clergyman just rolled his eyes and looked away, refusing to get involved yet again.

After a few minutes the bartender wandered over with the companions drinks.  His eyes never left the young girl, and the thoughts behind his smile were read easily enough.  This time the girl wasn’t so deft at hiding her disgust.  She smiles weakly and quickly looked away, looking like a rabbit that had just smelled wolves.  The smile on the bartender’s face disappeared as he took the hint.  He dropped down the tankards a little harder then was appropriate and stomped off, muttering something in his native language.

“I say, that was quite rude.”  The knight looked at the barbarian questioningly.  “What did he say?”

The barbarian looked at the girl briefly.  “If ah admit to being understanding heem, honor would demand ah start the fight.”

“I know what ‘e said.”  Chirped in the goblin.  “I’m fluent ‘n Scum.”

“Oh?” quipped the knight.  “Do tell.”

“He called her a beech.”

The knight was struck with confusion.  “He called her a tree?”

“No, you moron!  A beech!”  The goblin cupped his clawed hands in imitation of breasts. “Beech!”

The knight’s eyes went wide with understanding, and his face contorted in rage.  Reaching for his sword he began to stand.

“SIT…down.”  The knight immediately sat at the command of the priest, who spoke in the imperious tone that only kings, grandmothers and the clergy could ever get away with.

“But…”

“I told you before,” The priest interjected.  “I will not spend my last bit of coin bailing you out of the jails yet again.  Save your anger for that dragon we are after.”

“Dragun!?” said the barbarian in an alarmed voice.  “I thut we were being aftah the wyvern?”

“Whatever.”

“No whutevah!  Thar is being big difference atween th’ two!”

The priest stared the large barbarian down till the latter looked away and peered into his grog.  There were no priests in his culture, but there were shamans, and the two seem similar enough that the burly easterner didn’t dare continue the argument.  Spirits, he thought to himself, tha be two old men ‘oo being hammerin’ me down tadae.  He looked furtively back at the priest.  Ah hoop ah ‘ave such power o’er th’ young when ah am being the crusty ol’ fart!

“Anyhoo,” continued the goblin, “couda bin werse.  Coulda called ya a slut!”

“Grink!” growled the knight in a low but extremely menacing voice.

“No, let him finish,” the girl said, “I want to hear this. HOW exactly is that worse?”

Both the barbarian and the knight stared hard at the goblin, just waiting for him to slip up and present himself as a scapegoat to vent their suppressed angers.  The goblin smiled, happy to be allowed to impart some of his wisdom for once.

“A slut is girl ‘oo sleeps wit anyone.  A beech,” he turned and pointed to the bartender, “is a girl oo’ sleeps wit anyone but heem!  HA HA HA!”

The knight desperately wanted to bash the goblin’s head against the wall, and only refrained from doing so because he was pinned to his seat by the priest’s unblinking stare.  The barbarian, for his part was doing his best not to burst out in laughter.

The girl just sighed, waving off the knights pleading eyes.  “I asked.”

Bronny stumbled up from his table, leaning heavily on the bar as he dug out more coins from his pocket.  Dropping another pile on the bar, he waved an arm in a sweeping gesture and yelled out “Buy a round for the bar!”  A few more cheers.

Cockroach cut off the jubilation with his voice. “Damn it Bronny!  What have I told you before?  How many of these pricks ever buy you any drinks?”

Bronny threw up his hands.  “OK, OK, if you don’t want my money, I’ll go spend it somewhere else.”

“No, no, iss ok, Brunny.”  Replied the bartender, who continued to try and smooth things over.

“No, really, I know when I’m not welcome.” Bronny turned to go, already forgetting the coins on the bar when he tripped.  A regular caught his fall.

“Whoa there, Bronny!” The regular’s gravelly voice had a volume that could fill an auditorium with ease. “Come on Roach, he’s just trying to be nice.”

Several other regulars made noises in agreement.  Another voice laden with repressed anger yelled out from somewhere. “Yeah Roach, when are you gonna buy the bar a round?”  To which there was a murmur of agreement.

“What tha bloody ‘ell!” Roach yelled as he threw up his hands.  He turned in his seat as much as his creaking old body would allow.  “I already bought you two today!  When are YOU gonna buy the bar a round, Gregory?”  The crowd murmurs in agreement once again.

“Yeah Greg?”  someone said.

Laden with sarcasm, Greg shot back “You didn’t by any rounds, the house did.”

“I AM THE BAR!  And don’t you forget it!”  The Roach retorted with imperious finality.  Gregory chortled but said nothing more.  The gravelly-voiced patron helped Bronny to his feet.  The waifish drunk pointed to the bartender, but he is so intoxicated it looked almost like a wave.

“Gimmie a grog.  And buy the bar a round on me!”  The crowd cheers.  “I got money.”  Bronny dug in his pockets for more coins.

The bartender looked at the Cockroach, who just nodded as he sipped his menthol.  “But only grog from now on.” He says as the bartender sifted through the pile of coins.

The bartender understood what his boss meant.  He took enough coins for the expensive stuff but only gave out grog.  Most went into the cashbox.  Well, some did.  The bartender filled up a number of tankards, then remembered to get Bronny’s drink.  Bronny, however wasn’t there anymore, just his first half-finished tankard was, sitting next to his second pile of coins.  The pile looked smaller then the bartender remembered it being before.  He made a mental note to grab his ‘tip’ before it disappeared altogether.

He looked around for the drunk and saw him standing, swaying really, at the end of the bar next to a fat old hag.

“Hey, little one.”  Bronny said to her.  The hag smiled through rotting teeth, curling her gnarled finger through a lock of matted hair.  The bartender shivered in disgust.  She was at least twice his age, and Bronny was no spring chicken himself.  But then, Bronny was never known to be very picky.

“Soo,” the barbarian said after a bit of awkward silence between the companions.  “abut thees dragun.”

“What about it?” asked the priest in a tone that conveyed that he could care less about the barbarian’s question.

“Be it having with th’ four legs or th’ two?”

The knight looked over to the barbarian.  “That is why we hired you.  You are the dragon expert.”

“Yes, yes, am being known this. But it is this small detail am wishing to be known.”

The priest sighed.  “What difference does it make how many legs it has?”

The barbarian regarded the group for a moment before answering.  “Apart from fact that I was being told we are hunting the wyvern, it is being like this.  Methinks this group as it is here can easily manage th’ two legs wyvern.”

“And?”

“And th’ four legs dragun is being such that it can be easily managing us.”

“Oh.”

“So ah ask again.  Is it being with th’ four legs or th’ two?”

The priest hesitated for a moment.  “I…don’t know.”

Now it was the knight’s turn to stare at the priest. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I never actually saw the creature with mine own eyes.  The Archbishop asked me to deal with a beast that was terrorizing the Summit parish.  All he told me was that there were reports of a large red, winged serpent that was burning houses and flying off with cattle.”

The barbarian sighed deeply as his face fell into one of his large hands.

“What?”

The barbarian looked up at the priest, not speaking for a minute, staring at him like a man would stare at an uncomprehending child.

“Th’ wyvern is ne’er being th’ red in its color.  Nor is th’ wyvern e’er being with the fiery breath.  Only th’ dragun are with those two things.”

Silence.

At this point, the goblin chirped in, “Hmm,” he mused as he looked at the priest. “I theenk I’m gonna be needing th’ full advance upfront.”

With his eyes never leaving the barbarian, the knight reached over to his side and backhanded the goblin.

“What?! I meant for extra weapons and stuff!” The goblin glared at the knight as he nursed his jaw.

“So,” the knight asked, “how many more men will we need then?”

“If this dragun be carrying off with the cow?  That is meaning he is being adult, at least.”

“So how many?”

“50. At least.”

“50!?” The priest shrieked as he bolted up straight.  “I can’t afford 50! I can barely afford all of you!”

The bar erupted in total silence, and suddenly the priest could feel the weight of all eyes upon him.  Except Bronny.  He was way too gone.  The barbarian waited for the priest to sit down again before continuing.

“Well, if it being helpful, offer to pay men after dragun is being kilt.”

“How will that help?”

“Most won’t survive.”

“Aah!” squealed the goblin, who was still rubbing his jaw, “That’s pretty clever, that is!”

Without turning to look at him, the knight backhanded the goblin once more.

The companions continued to drink in silence as they regarded this new information about the viability of their current quest.  Well, the barbarian and the goblin drank.  Neither the knight nor the priest deigned to touch the swill of the common folk.  As for the girl, when she noticed something floating in her grog, she decided not to consume anything from this place.  When it started swimming around, she decided never to come anywhere near this place again.

Suddenly, the girl was seized by an indeterminate unease.  She looked up to see the goblin staring at her.  With his severely sloped forehead, thick brow line and short stature, all she really saw were two beady little eyes and an exceptionally long, green nose peering over it’s empty tankard at her.  A clawed finger popped out from under the table, pointing at her mug.

“Yous gonna drink dat?”

Without saying anything and putting on her best ‘no, I’m not really all that disgusted by your existence’ expression, she pushed the clay tankard towards the goblin.  His eyes went wide with the realization of yet another free drink.  He slurped the grog greedily, pausing only to chomp on the erstwhile swimmer with a soft crunching noise.

“Mmm.  Chewy.”   With night coming on, the companions decided to take their leave.  The priest was especially urgent in his desire to depart with haste, lest he be forced to deal with a dragon underprepared, or worse, face “the hole’s” night crowd.

The last thing the companions heard as the heavy front door closed was a sudden exclamation: “Buy the bar a round!  What?  I got money!”

As they headed towards their respective mounts, the knight walked up along side the wolfrider.

“I say, Grink,” he said to the goblin.  “What’s the difference between a simpleton and a fool?”

The goblin ponders for a few seconds.

“I don’t…OOMPH!”

The knight, holding a plate-mailed helmet in his hand, raised his arm in an exaggerated fashion as he put it on, clipping the poor wolfrider under the chin with a loud ‘CLANG,’ sending the uncouth creature tumbling backward into the dirt.

fin

S.E.F.A.