Side Quests of the FoLD

One last drink, on the house.

"I think it's nearly time to set up the glasses," the old voice of the bartender said to no one in particular. A wizen man of years far older than almost any patron of the Lair's Dragon could remember, and some could count millenia in their lifetimes. He had an old grizzled face that was covered mostly by a dark brown beard that had spots of grey along only the fringes of it and a bald head sporting a pair of small bear like horns colored a more russet brown. He dressed the part of a classy bartender with rolled up sleeves of a white button-up beneath a nice vest and well pressed pants that all showed the titan the man was. Burly and tall as a any proper Rusarian would be. At a glance, it might even be intimidating until one came close enough to see beneath those thick caterpillar brows the soft amber eyes that almost resembled flowing ale and soothed the soul.

He was cleaning out one of the last of the ale mugs for a small band of travelers that had passed by, seeking a way to commune with death itself. Supposedly, a member of theirs had a spouse that was ill. He chuckled to himself when they came on. He would have to tell his oldest patron later of the story. Instead of what they had asked for, he had directed them to a cure, though he may have been less than honest. Sometimes, it was better to let them figure out things that way.

The torches were beginning to lay low as the mana switches prepared for closing hours, and he smiled as he started to pick up the glasses to put them away from the bar. Its old treated oak material gave the soft scrape of glass across it as he skillfully scooped up a half dozen mugs in a single motion, dipping them into the sink behind to soak for a little. That was when he heard the creek of the door.

"I suppose one last visitor couldn't hurt," he mused softly as he began to turn. He caught the scent of the young fighter he had seen about a week ago and smiled at the thought of their party returning. They were frequent flyers here. A rowdy group with a young hero at their helm. They had a clear love of this career, of adventuring. What was more or less modern, morale mercanary work that helped younger folks exersize their energies without the need for misdirected violence.

They had a young human priestess to Lilith that had a clear crush on their roguish ally, a quick handed sharshia woman with heavy black dread. The two women were quite inseparable. The hero himself didn't appear to have any romantic interests, while his right hand flirted with anything that had a visible bicep, the unquenchable little sorcerer he was.

It was a warm feeling that quickly was crushed by the overwhelming smell that followed of blood and the lack of any of the others' scents. His gaze soon rose enough to find that young hero, quietly holding the priestess over his back with his remaining arm. His once royal blue tunic was now caked in dull brown red. His black hair was gone, only the fringes of burn skin visible beneath his hood, and his shining green eyes now only had a single dull hued orb left to see. Though, that eye did light up just a little at the sight of the bartender.

"Rogue... wanted to make sure... heh...I paid our... bill... " he muttered quietly with a slow limp towards the bar. His broken and burnt boots scrapped haggardly across the mahogany floors as the bartender rushed around, catching him as began to tumble. "Her girlfriend... wanted one last... drunk..."

The bartender didn't have the heart to tell him that she felt cold as ice. That he could feel the holr going from her back to her stomach that surely laid misplaced entrails against his back. That she likely had been gone for a very long while. That from the feeling of how icy cold he was, so should he.

With a slow and steady hand, he led the young man to a stool and settled him into its soft leather cushion. The old black material crackled a little with a few age worn breaks that weren't helped by the splash of blood that now watered them, but the material was replaceable. He quietly rubbed his back across the hero's back, having managed to remove the body of his friend. He doubted he even felt the change in weight.

The hero slowly tried to untie a small satchel from his belt, only for the bartender to silently place a mug on the table.

"One last drink. On the house."