Zenyth Bloodstone scrutinized the smoldering remains of the rural tavern. Watching the thick gray smoke rise to the overcast heavens, the shrouded drow wondered how things could have gone so wrong, so quickly. The recent turbulent events rattled inside his hooded head.
When Zenyth entered the meager tavern twenty minutes ago, the stench turned his empty stomach. The odor of sweaty humans, pungent pipe smoke, and stale mead filled the stagnant air, stinging his tapered nose.
Boorish louts surrounded wooden trestle tables, bragging about their latest trifling conquests. Exaggerated tales of vanquished kobolds and routed goblins echoed through the squalid pub. Tarnished armor and bloodstained weapons clanked and rattled each time a patron moved. The drow's pointed ears ached from the cacophony.
Only Zenyth's crystalline orbs received a slight reprieve, for the dark tavern seemed more like his subterranean home than the glaring, offensive outer world.
With his hood draped low over his furrowed brow, Zenyth garnered sparse attention entering the noisy establishment. He strolled across the moist dirt floor to the bar rail, his flowing cloak dusting the liquor-soaked earth. A fat, balding human stood opposite him, wiping a pewter stein with a soiled rag. Before the dark elf uttered a word, the startled bartender cut Zenyth short.
"Don't serve yer kind here," he said, a hint of fear trembling in his voice.
Zenyth's cold eyes held unblinking, and the tension grew palpable.
"I won't linger then," Zenyth replied icily, employing every ounce of restraint he could muster. Turning gracefully from the bar, the slender drow glided through the crowded tavern to a vacant corner table. With a gloved hand, he pushed open a greasy window for some fresh air.
Zenyth scanned the drunken crowd, looking for someone remotely suitable for his daunting task. The drow intended to recruit mercenaries to assist his cause. Zenyth hated the aboveground world, and figured a greedy band of humans were better suited to this unseemly mission.
He looked at the men, strutting with pride over their guerilla strikes on hapless wilderness denizens. Hack and slash looting of dim-witted humanoids had become all the rage. Ogres, orcs, gnolls--if a creature collects trinkets, the humans will hunt it, kill it, and loot it, he thought.
And the humans even drug the demihumans down to their level. Zenyth spotted a few dwarves and halflings among the crowd. Even an ignoble half-elf. Zenyth bristled.
Upon inspecting the ragtag mob, he scoffed and admonished himself. How could I expect to find any worthy hirelings in a hovel like this? If I want the job done right, I'll have to do it myself, he resolved.
As the willowy drow stood to leave, a hulking brute in rusty chain-mail blocked his path. His matted red beard wet with ale, the brazen human burped loudly, adding more foul gas to the atmosphere.
"Excuse me," Zenyth replied. The hulk stayed put.
"Lookin' fer someone?" he asked, his courage fueled by alcohol.
"Apparently not," the drow responded, waiting for the cumbersome oaf to clear the path.
"Me band and I are available fer hire. If ye're lookin' for a hearty bunch of adventurers, I got an axeman and a couple archers. And one o' me boys gots nimble fingers--if ya know what I mean."
"You have experience then?" Zenyth asked. "I imagine you've completed many an important quest," the drow replied sarcastically. "Retrieved a lost magic gizmo for an idle-brained noble? Killed giant rodents in some poor townfolk's basement? Guarded a priceless shipment of thingamajigs for a paranoid merchant? Well, then, you're probably over-qualified for my menial task," Zenyth snapped, his patience evaporated.
"Listen, ye arrogant piece o' shite," the brute growled, reaching for his bastard sword.
Before he pulled the dull blade from its sheath, Zenyth sent him tumbling backwards with a quick shove. The drunken lout lost his poorly-protected balance and tumbled his cronies behind him like wobbling dominoes.
As the inebriated mob struggled to their feet, Zenyth completed a dimension door spell and vanished. Dumbfounded, the angry bunch swiveled and craned, looking for the insolent drow.
"Look!" the wet-bearded swordsman cried, spotting Zenyth through the open window, "he's outside! Let's kill the bastard!"
Recognizing the war whoops within, Zenyth immediately cast another spell, wizard-locking the tavern door. Without hesitation, the dark elf prepared a third incantation, and aimed toward the corner window he opened only minutes ago.
He heard the banging on the magically-sealed door, and knew the rickety structure would not hold much longer. The fireball shot from his fingertips and roared through the open window, exploding like a white-hot sun inside the seedy tavern. Within seconds, the entire establishment was engulfed in flames.
Then, the frantic shouting halted for good.
"What is this world coming to?" Zenyth asked the wind, and turned from the charred remains.
