After wading their way through the crowd, the three imposing figures of Caerabor, Arlik and Yotur followed the unkempt gnome up the road, finally making it to his tavern.

“What kind of a name for a tavern is the Beaten Broth? " Yotur snorted as he glanced up at the swinging sign above the door.

“Whenever you’re a beaten man, there’s nothing better than drowning yourself in an ale of alc-amber ,” the gnome replied with certainty.

“There’s a distinct difference between a broth and a froth,” added Arlik, who had taken an interest in the conversation.

The gnome waddled inside, looking much heavier than his small stature would otherwise suggest. He plopped himself on a wooden stool and activated a lever which propelled him up to the height of his customers sitting at the bar. There were no less than seven humanoids around the bar, all of differing appearances. Most were dwarven-looking, squat with billowing beards and robust clothing. There was a point-eared elf and a human nearest the door.

“Eroch,” the gnome addressed a tanned man sitting at the bar swigging from a tall ceramic mug. “Our friends here are unaccustomed to the brewing methods of the Beaten Broth,” continued the grubby gnome.

Eroch pointed through a large open door leading out to an extensive back garden where a mountain of freshly picked potatoes lay waiting for processing.

“They use potatoes as the base sugar, green-skin.” Eroch’s intoxicated breath blurted words towards the new patrons.

“Instead of a head of bubbles, the brew is more opaque and creamier,” the gnome finalised, as if everyone completely understood.

“What is your name, purveyor of potato-ale?” Asked Caerabor wishing to know more of the citizen who went out of his way to seek them out.

“Kerben.” His small hand grabbed a mug and drank heavily. The brew left a foamy after-mess on his small lip, not dissimilar to the residue of over boiled potato water.

Kerben continued, “You need not suspect me of ulterior motives, friend. I clearly know adventurers when I see them. You were not here specifically to save those children, but their father will appreciate it immensely. With the recent activity in the Glade, we are certainly in need of warriors equipped to deal with those who wish us evil.”

Eroch interjected, “All you equipped to deal with danger in the interests of saving our pathetic lives seem to have forgotten those souls still on the street. Why drink ale with a stranger when you could be helping the blacksmith or those hooded elves?” He stood up, beaming at Caerabor.

“We aren’t equipped to heal. We did what we could. Besides, it appears your town has its own healers.” Caerabor replied coolly through her razor sharp teeth.

“You don’t intimidate me. You try to make us humans feel like we’re incapable of taking care of each other here in the town." Eroch's tone was deepening.

"How much gold do you want for your bravery, you treasure hunter?” Eroch, spat his words out into the face of the drago-reptilian warrior.

Caerabor was completely nonplussed by the threats of the man. Without even looking at him, she lifted her newly poured brew, and begin to pour the liquid into her mouth from above her head, amber liquid trickling over her dark tongue.

Eroch’s face was flushed with a mixture of anger and intoxication. He gritted his teeth as he lifted a wooden chair leg that was propped up against the bar, initially hidden beneath the eyes of the visitors. He swung down hard and brought the timber down to bear on top of Caerabor’s organically armour-plated head. The noise could be heard from outside the tavern as the crack echoed across the street. As it impacted, the wood met it’s match and splintered into a million pieces of kindling, showering the room. When the echo dissipated, Caerabor flicked her head spines upward to dislodge the remaining debris from between her eyes. In one motion, she stood up and grabbed Eroch by the collar of his shirt. Without even looking eye to eye, she simply walked toward the door with the man in her arm, opened the door and flung him outside like middlings to the pigs.

“I think you need to check your customers for arms, Mr. Kerben,” snuffed Caerabor.

“I think you mean he should be checking for legs,” chortled Arlik.

Nick.

All content is original.

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Acknowledgement

Cover Art