• Graded • [Nidhoffnir][Mature] Let us drink, Let us punch

[Varthakh]

35th Ymiden 717

Fridgar approached his destination, shirtless. It had been a hot trial, but it was at last dying down to an end. After having explored the city extensively, Fridgar had gathered an innate sense of direction for the streets of Uthaldria. The streets themselves were designed with simplicity, making them easy to navigate. Not only that, but it made more sense to him than Rynmere or Etzos ever could. This, this was his element!

Nidhoffnir, a tavern renowned for it's rough, brutal bar fights. It was Fridgar's natural habitat. It had been too long since he last praised Ilaren thoroughly, he'd have to make up for lost time in the span of a single night. His paw would clench as he lumbered, taller than most. Lightning faintly crackled along the mark of Palenon as Fridgar half stirred the elemental manipulation ability of lightning. Totrial was going to be a good trial. What is more? Alistair wanted to come along, which was strange. In all Fridgar's tavern assaults, Alistair had not shown interest in drinking with him, that had changed just trials prior and the two agreed to meet at this fine establishment.

As he walked through the door, things were going about as a normal tavern for the most part. People were sat with friends, lovers, drinking merrily to their liver's content. A few brave folk passed him glances, not all of them friendly. No, most of them, if not all, were not friendly in the slightest. Fridgar's lips curled, though he avoided eye contact for now. The fellow Lothar would have what they were looking for; a brawl like no other. Countless taverns, Fridgar had smashed to piece from beyond the borders of Gauthrel. How would a Lotharen-made tavern hold against his ferocity?

Regardless of the nasty looks he got, Fridgar took his position against the wall. He stood out like a sore thumb on steroids, but that was just how he was, mutations and the blades of men had scarred and changed him into what could easily be mistaken as another monster from the plains. Admittedly, he fit in a lot easier with the Lotharen than the humans ever accepted him. What was more, the Lotharen didn't appear scared of him, not in the slightest. Where he used to spread fear and worry with every step in Etzos and Rynmere, nobody blinked twice here. And at last, he could take his shirt off and nobody spoke a word of complaint.

Fridgar wore his usual leather trousers and heavy leather boots above his chiffon undergarments. Despite being such thick, crude leather, the fabric still clung close to his form and hugged the definition of his musculature. Above the belt was his thick waist, built for strength and support all the way through, though still bared definition along the surface of his abdomen. A few broad, pinkish scars littered his abs, likely from where he'd been stabbed and somehow recovered. The talons of a large bird had also dug deep into his flesh to the left of his abs, the wound appeared deep, deep enough for the fowl beast to have gutted him, even. His chest was huge, each peck easily bigger than the head of a human, various claws marks and slashes lined his chest and shoulders, likely inflicted by sword and claws.

His arms were more interesting yet, one was completely washed in twisted, pink and white flesh; acid burns. while the other had the bites and claws of several large predators, lions and eagles included. Along the acid burns carved a barely noticeable mark of Palenon in the form of lightning scars. Finally, his face. Fridgar had tied his beard into two tails, of some sort and tied his hair back in a pony-tail, keeping it out of his mismatched eyes. One was a large brown iris on a darkened canvas while the other was completely black with white dots littering it like a starry night sky.

Not too many scars lined his face, mostly small lacerations from where the flesh tore in blunt force trauma, though a couple of slashed cut across his cheeks. When at last, the horrific giant had asserted his presence, he took a seat with his back to the wall and waited for his beloved. With Alistair by his side, he would dominate this tavern by the end of the night, but not before drinking until he threw up.

[Alistair]

Why did he decide to come along to one of his lover's bar-brawls? He hadn't the faintest clue. What one didn't know couldn't hurt them, but it was often what would end up killing them. Maybe not understanding the severity of the Lotharro's punching sprees would lead to him being widowed down the road. Maybe he actually sort of found the idea compelling, and wanted to take part.

Either way, he was here, and far from wearing his nicest clothes. He looked like any other common ruffian, a simple white cotton shirt that buttoned down until halfway down his pectorals, a pair of brown linen trousers beneath that. Alistair wore a golden necklace with the symbol of House Venora, a rose, which invoked laughter from the 'residents' of the bar, provoking a stern glare from the nobleman.

They didn't care. To them, he was just a human. He probably didn't even speak the tongue -- and they were right. He didn't.

"Fridgar," he called to his mate. "Don't kill anyone. Promise me," he requested, staring into his lover's eyes with some slight concern. Alistair being here was a problem, in truth. If anyone laid their hands on him, they'd likely lose that hand at best, from the fury they'd invoke from the burly man, who was fiercely protective of his lover. He would have to avoid getting into fights.

Instead, he stepped over to the bar, met by a particularly charming barkeep named Balfrik. Alistair immediately noticed that, behind him, there was a bottle of a vintage he recognized as his own. Venora Rose. "You sell that all the way over here?" he asked, genuinely astounded. Uthaldria was across the world from home -- he'd underestimated the vintners of his homeland. To think, their product was considered so grand that it made its way to a city like this, having surely to go through Hiladrith, Etzos, Ne'haer, Lysoria, Ironridge, Argos, Mac Adonnaigh, Faeron and other cities on the way here.

He remembered his family sailing off vessels known as Ships of Wine. He now understood that the term was a literal one.

"What?" the man asked. "I no Common. I Haltunga."

Alistair sighed, and tried to put Kaiserion's lessons to the test. "Eik fynn dau Venora," he said, curving his lip. It had to have been one of the only terms he knew, though the look in Balfrik's eyes said otherwise.

"Eik fynn dau?" he asked, clarifying. "Eir fynn dais Venora, is right," the man nodded. "Am from Venora, it mean. Very cool. Your wine for pussies," he said, snickering. Alistair's eyes couldn't have rolled any harder, though when they were done rolling, he tilted his head back and forth and nodded.

"True. My wine is for pussies. Must be why I like it -- I'll have a bottle." Dropping six gold nels on the table, he nodded at the man. Balfrik grinned.

"Eir kol shaedan," he nodded back. "Have bottle - eir kol shaedan."

Alistair repeated the words. He had to admit, the people here were quite helpful when it concerned learning the language. Perhaps it was a part of their adamant stance on integration, one that must've sprung as a result of the transformation of the Burial District.

With the bottle in hand, the barkeep held it down and opened it with a corkscrew. Alistair nodded in thanks, given a small glass cup to drink from - one he'd be expected to return. Pouring the wine into the glass, he took a sip and exhaled. "Hoomans drink frilly wine; hooman such pussy," the man next to him said, laughing with the other overly large and overly drunk Lothar beside him.

Alistair looked to them and whispered, "suck me off."

[Varthakh]

When at last his mate arrived, Fridgar grinned, perhaps the first in the whole time he'd been there. Asserting his presence was serious business, he felt he'd done so effectively. Everyone knew he was there, at least. They might not have understood his significance just yet, but all would be revealed in due time. "Don't be daft, I haven't killed anyone since the paw thief, and before that was Rynmere!" he'd gotten a lot better at being merciful, that much was certain. Carefully, Fridgar had trod through the cities of humans. No longer would he be careful when he came to face a fellow Lothar in combat.

"I promise, my rose," he spoke solemnly, returning the gaze that his lover offered. Looking about the room, he could already see the look in most Lotharen eyes as they gazed upon Alistair; desire. How could they not want him? He was perhaps the most beautiful man to ever walk through Gauthrel. He grit his teeth in irritation, seeing them lay their grubby peepers on his mate was annoying, but he could deal. Ilaren help whoever put a filthy paw on him. They could look for the short fuse that he was proudly known for, but one touch would see them broken.

Alistair, his beloved, went on to talk with the bartender, who, in turn, insulted Venora's wine. Not only that, but he called his claim a pussy. The bartender would bleed before the end of the night, Fridgar had decided. When he had collected a whole bottle for himself, he sat beside another Lothar or two, one of which was large. Fridgar flashed him a grin, making eye contact briefly before snapping his eyes away once more. Already, the effects of his corrupt eyes set in. Within the core of his being, furious anger had planted it's seed and had already sprouted. He would need to limit the amount of eye contact he made, or the night would be over very quickly.

Fridgar approached the bar and sat at about shoulder height to the standing Lothar behind it. "Gada," he demanded a single word; ale. Fridgar couldn't speak too many words of the language, though the one-word sentences were kind of intimidating if he said them with enough aggression. The bartender would nod, looking the hulking Lotharro up and down as he readied a tankard. "Renwa gor yit ceda?" the bartender asked a question. Immediately, Fridgar recognised Renwa as 'where' and Ceda as 'from'. 'Where from?' implied that the two middle words of the sentence were likely 'are you' or 'you are'. 'Where are you from?' he determined is what the bartender was trying to ask.

"Nordhoff, Uppsala." He spoke two words, improving already. Though in honesty, these were just places. Fridgar knew where he'd come from with some help from Kaiserion. A couple of the Lothar near-by looked at him with disgust before reeling in their aggression. "Nordhoff? Osken rah ben ja houltic hom," he spoke once more, though Fridgar recognised most of his sentence; 'Nordhoff? You're rah long way houltic home'. Fridgar mulled it over in his head, contemplating those two words to the best of his ability. Finally, he determined that the bartender had commented on how far Fridgar had come from his home; 'You're a long way from home'. He would nod, this time with some fire in his expression. "Gada," he demanded his ale once more. The bartender got the message and shut up before pouring Fridgar an ale from the keg.

When at last, the talkative Lothar handed over Fridgar's drink, he paid appropriately and took a whiff before turning up his nose in disgust. Fridgar would slide the tankard back over, unimpressed. "Mwy cryf," he demanded; 'more strong'. He was certainly pushing his limit with pretending to be able to speak the language, but oh well. The other Lothar looked down to his brew with concern before back at the giant. "Cryf? Wallut ga cryf yonar? Das?" The Lothar seemed confused. The giant had understood barely any of that, he was harder to understand while offended; 'Strong? Wallut ga strong yonar? Really?'. He could only assume that the man was affirming that Fridgar wanted a stronger brew. He nodded once, firmly.

The Lothar would shrug before reaching from beneath the bar to retrieve a bottle with a skull sculpture for a lid, it acted as a cork. Fridgar grinned, pleased with the look of the bottle. The change in alcohol, of course, invoked a change in price. Once Fridgar had put enough gold nel on the bar to satisfy the man, he was given the bottle of mystery spirits. Casting his eyes to the nel he'd coughed up almost stopped his heart, nearly fifty gold nel for the one bottle. 45 gn of his earnings, blown in one move. The drink had better be worth it!

Fridgar stood and approached the table that Ali sat at, hearing the insults of the other Lothar loud and clear. In one movement, Fridgar ripped the skull cork from its place and took a whiff of the rim of the bottle. Almost instantly, his eyes began to water and his nostrils burned - this was the strongest spirit he'd ever smelled, for sure. A sip from the bottle burned the insides of his mouth and lit his throat ablaze with stinging pain as the liquor warmed him from the inside out. He actually started to sweat from the sensation. Without realising, he grabbed the shoulder of the Lothar beside Alistair and spoke "Sumyd," another one-word demand; move.

Fridgar's eyes were dead serious, but the man laughed; apparently jolly. He wasn't nearly quite as Jolly when Fridgar shifted his grip to the back of the Lothar’s head before driving his face into the table at full force. The piece of furniture would jolt, knocking over drinks and making other pieces of cutlery jump with the impact. Fridgar took another sip of the spirit while he held the unconscious Lothar with his busted nose on the table. From there, he ripped the man back and threw him from his stool before taking his place beside Alistair. A lazy paw would wipe the small puddle of nose blood even deeper into the woodwork. He looked to the bigger Lothar after destroying his friend and waved, sarcastic and threatening.

"Alistair, my rose," Fridgar reached over the noble, hugging him over the shoulder. "Tonight's gonna be one for the books, I can feel it." He offered the noble a whiff of his most recent acquisition before taking another hearty gulp of it himself, easily more than he'd already had put together. Already, the giant was tipsy, the night would be over very soon if he kept up the pace he was headed on.

[Covah]

Bars weren't Covah's usual choice of entertainment. They were crowded, loud, and stank of both booze and men. All those people, in one space, all talking to each other at the same time; something about it raised his hackles. If he could avoid it, he liked to spend as little time in the tightly-packed building as possible.

However, with as much stress as Covah had been under lately, he felt the need for a good drink. Multiple good drinks, if he could afford it. Between his clan's call to arms against Argos, trying to get a handle on how his Blessing from Karem worked, his troubles establishing his name in the Bonde Path, and the dreadful events of The Ascension Festival, the young Lotharro felt as if the weight of his stress was beginning to overwhelm him. His world was begging to crack at the seems, and the man needed relief that only the bottom of a bottle could promise.

Which brought him to the door of the Nidhoffnir. He looked as ragged as he felt, clothed in a ripped white linen shirt and leather pants which had begun to fray and tear. His boots had seen better days, and the red bandanna which hung around his neck begged for a good washing. Covah had neither the will nor the means to dress better for the bar, he doubted the residents of this tavern would mind. The Nidhoffnir had a reputation for its rough customers, and knew he would most likely blend in well enough with its patrons. Strangely, that fact brought little comfort to him.

Sighing, he steeled himself to enter the tavern. A pair of orange eyes stared up at him with concern, and he could feel Taranis' thoughts press against the edge of his mind. Covah still wasn't used to that, having a giant black wolf constantly at his side be it in the animal's physical or spiritual form. Having that wold being able to talk to him through an unexplained mental link only put Covah on edge more. Thankfully, if he concentrated, he could shut out the animal's noise. It wasn't that he didn't like Taranis, or even appreciate his concern to an extent, but talking to the familiar would do nothing to relax the Lotharro. All this strangeness, all this change, Covah just needed a night to not worry about what weird circumstance the Immortals would drop on him next. He just wanted to relax, to cut loose, and enjoy a stiff drink. He needed to, in all honesty.

He swung the door open, and the tavern was just as crowded as he expected it. Stepping forward, he weaved his way through the crowd of Loths towards the barkeep. He sat down, and already he could feel the cold pricks of his anxiety flare up at the sheer number of people here. He didn't like crowds, or the noise. Didn't really like walls either, so tonight already seemed like recipe for failure. Even as he sat down at the bar, he could still feel the ethereal orange eyes of Taranis stare at him. The wolf's thoughts pressed forward again, the Omega determined to check in on his Alpha. Covah shook off the thoughts easily enough, and rubbed his temples as a headache began to ensue. Deciding he needed a drink, and quick, he caught the barkeep's attention with a flash of gold.

"Haven't seen your face here before. You new?" the Lothar, a man named Balfrik, asked in Haltunga. He leaned over the bar, casting an enterprising eye at Covah.

"No," he replied shyly. Covah wasn't here for long conversation or to cozy up to the bartender. He just wanted his drink, and to leave his less pleasant memories behind for a night. Sitting with his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, his face looked bereft of his usual cheerfulness. Covah carefully slid a single gold nel over to Balfrik. He felt bad about spending his meager savings this way, but he need something to drown out all the noise his life had obtained in this season alone. "Ale, if it's no trouble. Flagon, not tankard."

Balfrik's gaze lingered on Covah for a moment, but he nodded just the same. He ducked underneath the bar, and a flagon of ale appeared on the table before him. Balfrik was quick to grab the gold nel and exchange silver to make up the change, and Covah quietly slid the rest of the silver into his pouch. He stared at the dark colored liquid for a moment, before taking a greedy swig and downing half-the flagon as quick as he could. The tasted was bitter, but Covah wasn't really drinking it for the flavor. The drink did its work quick, and as the Lotharro came closer and closer to the bottom of the flagon, he could feel that cold wash of anxiety steadily be replaced by the warmth of intoxication.

He held up another gold nel, and Balfrik refilled his drink and gave him his change. Covah wanted to keep this feeling going for as long as he could manage it, this time taking the drink slower and savoring the buzz it fed into him. He was about half-way into his second tankard when the bar shook violently, spilling drinks and shaking cutlery from the table. The shaking was followed by a loud crash, and the explosion of noise only made the man's headache grow worse. The remains of Covah's flagon spilled over his already stained linen shirt, and he could feel a low growl rumble to life from his throat. He cast an angry gaze to see where the shaking originated from, only to spy the largest Lotharro he had ever seen, a fair looking human with dirty blonde hair and strange colored eyes, and two rough looking Loths glaring daggers at the both of them.

The giant Lotharro had turned to his human friend, speaking in Common. Covah could only catch a few words, not knowing the language well enough process the whole of what he overheard. Something about "roses" and "books", Covah didn't really understand. Honestly, he didn't really care. He just wanted for the noise to stop and for a drink to dull his headache. He breathed deep, trying to keep his growing anger contained. It wasn't like him to let a minor annoyance like this to rile him up, and he knew that. The stress of this season had taken its toll, and Covah didn't want to do anything drunk he would regret sober.

Then the shouting started. The two Lotharro, bloody and wrathful, began to toss insults at the giant and the human in Haltunga. Venom flew freely from their lips, verbal barbs dipped in vile anger meant to incite and enrage. Covah kept his head down, breathing steadily and forcefully through his nose, trying to power the noise and focus on what little drink remained in his flagon. However, he could feel the slow build of rage begin to boil his blood; anger mixing with ale and causing his lips to pull back into a feral snarl.

"Bred bastard!" called the bloodier of the two men at the giant, and white-hot wrath forced Covah to stand at his full 6'7" height. Even if the barb was not directed at him, he felt the insult cut through the meager walls which held back his anger. A season worth of stress had made his temper short, and now he had a target to focus on.

Taranis, feeling the anger ebb forth from his Alpha, took physical form next to him. The wolf looked like a storm cloud given canine shape, and it almost looked like he was smiling at the prospect of a fight. With fangs bared and golden eyes burning bright, Covah turned to face the man who threw the last insult.

A man to the left of him grabbed his arm, as if to stop the fight before it began. Covah threw a wild, untrained punch to force himself free and charged at the bloody Lotharro who dared insult being Bred.

The bar erupted into chaos, and the brawl had begun.

[Alistair]

"Oh dear," he said quietly, as his mate drove the crude man's skull into the table. If he had been any less durable, his head likely would've burst on impact, considering just how brutishly strong the Lotharro was. Alistair immediately stood from his seat, though not before Fridgar moved in to hug him and offer him a drink. Taking a whiff, Alistair cringed, reeling back his head. "Fridgar!" he exclaimed. "This is almost completely pure; it smells like something I'd use to disinfect a festering wound."

Taking another sniff, he attempted to gauge the alcohol density in his head, comparing it to his antiseptics. It was high -- very high. Meanwhile, his frilly Venora wine smelled more like cherries and cream. The Lothar put him to shame... and put himself in danger. Alistair slipped away the drink from his hands, offering him a concerned look.

He was being a buzzkill, but proudly so. Before Fridgar would know it, the drink and its bottle had been slipped entirely away. "Fridgar," he whispered, "I need you alive. Let's make a deal, my love - I'll drink some of this stuff, so you don't kill yourself, and you'll drink the rest of mine." He pulled the bottle over his lips, and prepared to take a swig. After only the tiniest stream fell into his throat, however, he immediately shut his lips and gagged. His throat burned -- it was such a dense brew. "Ugh!" he yelled, eyes shutting as they began to wet with tears. Everything burned.

After the painful burn, he immediately fell into a numbness along his throat and gums, and then an onset of wooziness. "It feels so weird..." He became half-drunk in what felt like seconds, and fully drunk not long after. In actuality a lot more time went into it, but the minutes became seconds in his head, his thoughts consumed by the feelings erupting within his body.

. . .

. . .

He blinked. "Fridgawwrrr," the Baron called to his mate. "Stahp dranken stuff like thisss... is not good fer yoo."

He was a lightweight. Barely ever drank much, let alone something like this. It would've tasted terrible, if he'd even tasted it. It felt like it burned away his taste buds. All he could feel was the burn, the sensation, then the stillness. And now, the peace of the drunken mind.

He saw a wolf - an Omega Familiar at that, though he didn't know that. He'd seen one before, back when he was a dignitary to the Empire. Yet... even so, he didn't know. Not right now.

"Fridgar, there's a doggyyy," he stared intently at the creature, as if he were challenging its dominance. "What's yer name, lil' puppers? I'm a fuckin' Original Being," he whispered, laughing. Shortly after, the wolf's master threw a punch, and everyone started going wild. He couldn't love a spirit puppy in peace. "Pupperr, run away wiff me, evryone's crazy..."

A man ran towards Alistair, and he yelled, and yelled. Vorsh vosela nogran maii!

Fucking foreign shit, he bitterly spoke. Alistair didn't know, didn't care. He just knew that the puppy needed as many cuddles as possible, and he wanted to give it all those cuddles. But, as he leaned forward to offer his affections to Taranis, the man jumped him and pushed him to the floor. He punched him -- Alistair's head turned and he exhaled.

A portal opened along the ceiling of the bar, and Alistair linked to it. The man fell into him as he kept him on the floor, Alistair becoming intangible; he was a portal, after all. Falling through and coming out the other side, the brawler was dropped hard onto the table, before rolling over and landing on the floor. Alistair stood up, and dusted himself off.

"Fridgaaaaawwwrr, these peeeple are fuckin' dickssss," he said, frowning. "I'm gonna punch the shit out of them!" the mage yelled, lunging forward at the man he'd dropped from the ceiling, climbing onto his chest and brutalizing his face with one hook after another. Alistair was strong -- even among Lotharro. The man would regret his dickery!

[Varthakh]

The giants paw felt flimsy through the air, searching for his drink. Little did he know that Alistair had stolen it, for his own good. "What?" He spoke, barely even slurring yet. "I don't drink cleansing alcohol, Alistair. That's just dumb," he spoke with confusion. His head lightened and his paw felt heavy, the effects of Palenon really started to come to life and what he had in quickness spiralled into strength. In his paw was a bottle of Venora’s wine, Alistair's wine. How? Why?

He didn't care in the end, he put the bottle to the sky with a raised hand "To Ilaren! For gwanting the lot of 'ou an early nigh's rest!" he slurred a little as the alcohol in his gut settled before knocking back his head and downing the bottle of wine. He did not stop to breathe, either. The crowded patrons of the bar stood as the two people who'd been with the unconscious, bloody Lothar hurled insults at him that he didn't even try to translate. With the powers invested in him by the immortal of brawling, booze, lightning and sound, he would show them all her glory.

Somehow, his musculature looked more prominent by the time he'd finished the bottle, maybe even bigger? He removed the empty bottle from his lips and stumbled back a little, wiping the sweet redness from his lips with the length of his forearm. Fridgar hadn't even noticed the taste of booze in the wine, what was it? Two percent? Regardless, it didn't compare to his previous drink in the slightest. Even as the bar erupted into a furious brawl, Fridgar looked about, almost stunned. The second biggest Lothar in the room rushed Fridgar and planted his knuckles against the side of Fridgar's face in a single, well-aimed strike.

Fridgar's head jumped to the side a little, but the male's knuckles failed to travel all the way through. His already legendary status of strength mixed with three sheets to the wind and rolling thunder made him invincible to the fists of others in the bar, none could match his strength in this break, he might as well have been Ilaren herself! or so he liked to believe, a feeling of invincibility had claimed his mind, he truly believed he was a god of punching, un-slayable. The room spun around him as his eyes settled upon the eyes of the man he pressed his face with bare knuckles.

Fridgar raised his right hand and the male winced before Fridgar had even thrown his blow. Evidently, the man didn't even want to try and dodge? His mistake. Fridgar's fist clenched and swung to the right from the left, bashing the Lothar in front of him so hard that he indeed flipped off the floor and spun across the room before colliding hard with the wall. Chaos ensued, the room was berserk. His mate turned to magic, his strong point before punching someone senseless on the table - he would spot his discarded bottle. Without a second thought, he dropped the empty bottle of wine. In a flash, he stood with the skull-topped bottle in his hand. He could not remember the past few trills of his life.

Fridgar turned to the wolf-baring man, the one who had thrown the first loud punch and unleashed this massive tavern brawl. Swaying, he stepped over to the male and gripped his shoulder. Whoever the younger Lothar was fighting at the time was met with a very firm indent of knuckles to the cheek, he was practically thrown to the floor with the force of the impact. "Drink," he spoke in Haltunga with a blatant slur. His mismatched eyes could barely focus on the younger male for a trill, darting about his face before giving up. His fist pressed into the chest of the male while his weight and overwhelming strength leaned into him.

In his fist was the blank bottle with the skull-shaped cork. "Drink or force," he commanded. Whether he willingly drank from his bottle or not, Fridgar would hold his mouth open and rip the cork from the bottle with his mouth before pouring a massive mouthful of the product into his mouth and shutting his jaw tight with a strength unfathomable. This guy would be drunk before the end of the night, for Ilaren. A man who starts a brawl like the one raging needs to get shit faced, it is known.

Fridgar rolled his shoulders after the boy had consumed the two massive gulps of burning alcohol. He would let the boy go, but whether his taste-buds were burned from the world or not was a matter of how quick he got the strong burning alcohol down his throat. "Chair," he spoke a single word, though he'd meant to say 'good'. With that done, he set off in search of a new opponent after finishing off the ungodly mixture himself, disregarding Alistair's warnings.

A smaller and scrappy Lothar approached, Fridgar swung for him but the male dodged, ducking under the larger Lothar's arm to pummel his chest with his tiny fists. Fridgar barely noticed before gripping the small Lothar, lifting him overhead and throwing him into a crowd of raving lunatics. He looked to Alistair, how was he handling himself?

Meanwhile, Balfrik emerged from the back room, dressed for a riot. Clad in enforced leather armour, he set off to seek and destroy Fridgar; the cause of this mess.

► Show Spoiler

Rolling Thunder: The character is better able to understand the motions of combat and the rhythm of skirmish. Seeming to roll with their enemies blows, the character is able to mitigate some of the damage and redirect the force back at their opponent. A balanced level of alcoholic intoxication is needed to use this ability. Three sheets to the wind (minor): The Favored is blessed with an increase to their physical capabilities depending on their stage of intoxication. When the Favored has had little to nothing to drink, their reaction speed is increased greatly, allowing them to react at speeds nearly impossible to keep up with, making it hard for them to be hit - though arrows and bolts still travel too quickly for them to stop. The more the Favored imbibes, the more they trade speed for strength until all reaction speed is lost and replaced with strength, allowing them to hit with greater force. Able to generate enough force to splinter wood and dent metal.

Both of these are stacked atop Fridgar's already legendary strength.

[Covah]

Covah wasn't a violent man, not really. A strange thing to admit whilst he was in the middle of beating another Lotharro bloody, but it was true. He didn't have the instincts for it; the fighting and bleeding and bruising that was taking place tonight. The thought of causing another pain was something that usually unsettled Covah. He liked to think that his hands were made to help, not hurt. He was in Bonde path, something as far from violence that could be achieved in Uthaldrian society. Even with the growing war effort in Alfweyr, Covah had only wanted to aide them in an auxiliary role, training animals to be better equipped to survive in combat and taking care of the ones that came out wounded.

Which is why it scared Covah how good it felt to slam the meat of his fist into the rapid swelling face of the Lotharro who had insulted being Bred. It scared him how an angry, pleasing warmth spread throughout the whole of his body as he lifted the man up by his neck, only to slam him down again into the stained tavern floor. Covah had never felt such white-hot rage, rage which sharpended his sense and focused his mind. Rage which overpowered all other emotions, all the stress and pain and sadness in his mind, and drove him to action. It scared Covah how much he enjoyed that action, and well-suited his body was for it.

Two sets of arms wrapped around Covah's shoulders, pulling him up from the now misshapen form of a Lotharro that he had he ravaged. Together, they tossed his full 6'7" frame backwards into the bar, and a small part of Covah, buried under the wrath and the ale, was glad they did. They pressed forward, and he could barely get his guard up again by the time a right hook connected with the side of his head. He held his ground though, grimacing as each of the men's punches took their tole on his body. One blow led into another, and another, and another, and Covah took them all. Slowly, his grimace stole upwards and changed into a smirk as he spied a cloud of black fur rush towards him. With a thunderous bark, the shadowy mass of Taranis erupted forth from the crowd of men and crashed into the two Lotharro laying into Covah.

"Took you long enough," Covah thought to his familiar, who currently had one man pinned beneath him and was viciously snarling at his friend.

"Apologies Alpha," Taranis thought back, still staring down the standing man. "The human who smelled of roses...distracted me." Covah furrowed his brows, only just now realizing he was bleeding. The wolf's thoughts felt different than normal, carrying with them a certain tone that the Lotharro couldn't quite place. Annoyed? No, more like embarrassed. Yes, definitely embarrassed Covah laughed loudly once the realization hit him.

"You let him pet you, didn't you?"

Taranis growled more fiercly in response, but Covah was willing to bet if wolves could blush his familiar would be. "He...he's very good at it. Taranis thought's felt defeated, and Covah only laughed louder at that. Taking a moment to wipe blood off his now cut brow, Covah leaned against the bar and caught his breath. Seeing the still standing man consider his options, the young Lotharro leveled a golden glare at him.

"Run," he growled, baring his wolf like fangs at the man. He did, and without a word Taranis stepped off the other Lotharro. He stood, anger still evident in his eyes. He looked as if he was about to rush Covah, thinking perhaps that a second bout might prove more in his favor. However, as the man took a single step forward, an arm roughly the size of a tree trunk crashed casually against his jaw. The man who was attached to the giant arm was similarly sized, and Covah recognized him as the huge Lotharro whom he had been sitting a little ways away from before the brawl.

"Drink," the giant ordered in Haltunga. Covah was confused, and when the man put a meaty paw on his shoulder confusion shifted to alarm. Even with just his hand on him, Covah could feel the immense weight and power of the man. He leaned in on him, and the young Lotharro couldn't believe how hard it was to support the giants weight.

The giant raised a blank bottle with a distinctive skull cork. "Drink or force," the Lotharro commanded again, and before Covah even had a chance to answer, the giant forced his mouth open again began to pour the fire-water down his gullet. Taranis growled lowly and moved against the giant, but Covah raised his hand. There were times to take a stand, and times to roll with what life put against you. Seeing and feeling the immense power of the man, Covah knew this was a time to roll with the circumstance. Besides, Covah came here to get drunk, and from the way the drink that was being poured into his mouth made his head swim, he would get there before the end of the break.

Two massive gulps and burned off taste-buds later, Covah had to lean against a chair to keep standing. The drink had more kick than anything the young man had ever tasted before, and he was having trouble standing. His thoughts became blurry. His vision had been muddled, and he saw the vague shape of the giant motion towards him. He was saying something to him, but Covah couldn't quite focus enough to make it out. He thought he heard the word 'Chair', but that couldn't be right.

Pulling himself up and attempting to stand, Covah quickly stumbled into the bar. "Sorry," he apologized to the object, hoping it wouldn't be mad at him for his sorry state. He breathed deep and long, attempting to clear his head enough to get his bearings. His head was dizzy, and everything around him seemed to blur. Taranis, seeing his Alpha in such a sorry state, guided the man over to a stool. He slumped over onto the chair, feeling his head pound and seeing his vision swim.

Covah grabbed an abandoned tankard of ale and began to retch into it. He had a definite feeling he was going to regret tonight.

[Alistair]

(Taranis' dialogue with Covah was soooo cuteeeeeee)

"Fridgaaawwwwrrr," the drunken Venora chimed, laying on the floor beside the beaten man and staring wantonly towards the ceiling, peeling away at his shirt as a result of the overbearing heat that suddenly seemed to overwhelm his body. But, it wouldn't come off. There was... armor over it, which caused an irritated pout from the drunken mage. Instead of trying infinitely to take off all this armor, which would've been way too difficult for his currently boorish hands, the mage sat beside the apparent owner of the magical spirit puppy, leaning into a chair directly facing him.

"Is that your doggy?" he asked, cocking a brow and yawning. "I know an animal like thattt," he slurred his speech, "his name's Phelan. Big... owned by my friend, Kura," Alistair nodded his head. "It's from... Karem, yeaahhh? I always thought it was sooo cool to have a biiig ass dog like that. I only have little Beargawwwr."

The mage's head lowered, and instinctively, he set it into the table and began to rub at his chest. "Seven, it's so hot," he groaned. Of course, all of this was in Common, so it was unlikely that Covah would make out much of it. Maybe the bit about Karem. Maybe... the wolf could translate it?

"Man, y'know," Alistair's head rose from the table, and he stretched, cutting off his words. The Venora then grabbed a drink from the table and bringing it to his lips, before speaking into it and creating a loud echo within the glass, "Man, y'know," he started again, "Little Beargar and little spirit doggy should be like... playmates or something. He may deny it, but I know that little fucker liked my petting," the mage nodded, concurring with himself.

He glanced back at Fridgar, as a new battle had begun to broil, and sighed. "That's my love," the mage stated, nodding. He seemed slightly less inebriated, more capable of speech - mostly because his inner aristocrat couldn't stand slurring every third word anymore. He kept inhaling, exhaling, trying to relax himself. Maybe Sesser's added constitution would help him get over the alcoholic stupor faster than otherwise. Though he doubted there was any avoiding the hangover.

"I thought I saw him talking to you, a bit ago," the mage stated, poking his chin. "Was he threatening you? If so, I'm sorry. He's not a bad guy -- he just likes drinking and punching. I think he was born that way. His mother probably lactated vodka, to be honest," the Venora said, laughing lightly as the blood filled out his cheeks and made them red.

[Varthakh]

A slow inebriated laugh left the Lothar's mouth as the other submit to him. Even though the wolf baring Lothar had started the fight, Fridgar had proven to be the dominator of the whole tavern. Nothing could stop him, he was invincible! Fridgar threw his paws aside, roaring at the ceiling. The act of aggression amongst the chaos made him an easy target, triggering three other Lothar to the point of needing to deal with the beast. They rushed him, one from the front, one from the left and one from behind. On a warpath, they trampled furniture and the like on their way to him, nothing holding them back.

the front got there first, slamming his fist into the unmovable face of the Lothar, he would shriek with pain, clenching his throbbing hand while Fridgar's incredibly slow reaction time caught up, turning to face the man as the rear Lothar jumped onto his back and started punching him in the side of his head. remarkably, Fridgar didn’t notice. it was almost as though he were lagging, seeing everything much slower than everyone else by magical means. With that slowness came enough strength to splinter wood and dent metal on top of his already legendary status in strength, it was godly.

Fridgar's knuckles connected with the face of the frontal attacker at about the same time as the attack of the one to his left, who shattered a chair on his face and sent him to the floor. The left attacker had also hit the Lothar that clung to his back, a snapping noise could even be heard on impact. A subtle crunch echoed, muffled by the chaos as Fridgar's tremendous weight landed on the Lothar that had clung to his back. breathless screaming followed. A few trills later, Fridgar stumbled himself to his feet and swiped at the side of his head, as if he were only now feeling the impact of knuckles on his face. he jolted back suddenly, looking to be in shock at the sudden collision to his face, which had happened a good seven trills ago. The left Lothar looked to him, baffled. it was a struggle to believe the sort of punishment that the giant was taking while barely reacting.

As the Lothar turned to run, a powerful grasp enclosed the man's scalp, gripping him tight and preventing most movement. The man would be pulled back before having his head rammed through a support beam. The beam bent inwards slightly, creaking and groaning at the fracture in its body. The Lothar fell to the floor, thoroughly unconscious. Fridgar turned to his beloved and answered a good bit late "Ali!" he thumped his chest, for some reason. But by now, Alistair was talking with that guy Fridgar had conquered. Blinking once, twice, three times, he couldn't seem to focus his view at all, the whole of his vision swam, making him dizzy. It was a miracle that he could still punch half decent in his state!

As he contemplated his state, a sweep collided with the outer of Fridgar’s leg. It had probably been intended to knock him over, but Fridgar proven to be ridiculously heavy with all his extra mass. Fridgar turned to meet three jabs to his face from the one and only Balfrik. A fourth collided with his pitch-black eye before he even reacted, throwing all his weight into a sloppily slow cross that Balfrik sidestepped with ease. As Fridgar threw a hook, Balfrik leaned back, dodging completely before slamming his studded gauntlets into Fridgar’s face in a series of quick light punches, trying to get the most damage out of his attack before Fridgar struck again. The beast would growl swinging the same hook in reverse, a backhand aimed to clothesline Balfrik.

He ducked, burying his leather-clad knuckles in the giant's gut repeatedly. as he rose, the top of his head met with Fridgar's lowering arm as he moved in to clutch his gut. Balfrik would stumble, nearly concussed with the mere weight of Fridgar's movements. He shook his head before rushing into Fridgar once more, upper cutting the colossus with speed that Fridgar couldn’t hope to match. The beast would groan, growing tired and frustrated with the fight. Fridgar simply reached out to grab the man, coincidentally as Balfrik threw a kick for his neck, landing the sole of his foot in Fridgar's grasp. Game over.

Fridgar grinned, lifting the other Lothar off the ground and spinning on the spot. The armoured Balfrik would be wielded like a hammer, colliding with a few other Lothar as Fridgar span faster and faster. There seemed to be no breaks for this ride until Fridgar grew dizzy and stumbled, releasing Balfrik at intense speeds to smash through a group of brawling Lothar.

Fridgar clutched his gut as his head span, his stomach churned and his whole world fell around him. Fridgar lurched forward, spewing chunks of meat and alcohol so strong that it might have very well burned skin. Unfortunately for the man who had leapt on Fridgar’s back and punched him in the head while jockeying, Fridgar threw up all over him. The stench of death and nail polish filled the nearby air as all Fridgar’s kills left his body. Small bones and even some fur could be seen in the grotesque mix - he wasn't a picky eater, evidently.

It had been a mixture of the ridiculously strong alcohol, the blows to his head and the blows to his gut, the spinning was the final straw that sent his gut into rejection mode. When everything had been flushed from his system, Fridgar straightened up, clutched his head and groaned before approaching Alistair and his new-found friend. As he sat, he wiped the residual vomit from his arm and looked between the two. "Wha's up?" he spoke from the blue, slurring less. Already he was starting to sober up without the rest of his drink to poison his liver.

[Covah]

Covah put his head down against the rough wood of the bar, groaning as he did. He was not a drinker, and after the liquid fire that giant had poured in his mouth and his body's subsequent refusal to digest it, he had remembered why. Head pounding and vision swimming, the young man needed a moment to collect himself. Moving was not an option, unless he wanted even more stains on his already filthy shirt. Raising his head was even less so, his upper body feeling like a ton of lead pushing itself into the bar. Sitting was the only thing his body seemed willing to attempt, and even that was a half-measure. So he sat, head flat against the bar, and groaned.

Taranis was at his Alpha's side, as always. He looked blissfully unaware of the pain that overindulgence could bring a man, just sitting there with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. The wolf thought this bar was a wonderful place, filled with fights and good petting, and proved confused as to why his Alpha seemed distraught. Taranis thought mortals could be so strange sometimes. There were so many good fights to be had under this roof, yet his Alpha had only engaged in a few. Looking to his left, the wolf saw the flower man who had pet him early sit next to his Alpha. Perhaps he saw how sunken Covah had appeared, and wished to fight him to rouse his spirits? Taranis thought this was a great plan.

Barking loudly at his master, Taranis tugged at the back of Covah's shirt to get his attention. The young Lotharro shot up straight in his chair, eyes frantic and confused by the sudden sound. He looked up to see the foreigner now sitting next to him, and down to see Taranis' expectant orange eyes. "Alpha? The rose man wants to fight. Please do not hurt his hands. They are good hands."

Confusion crossed Covah's face as his familiar explained the foreigner's apparent intentions. He squinted at the man, trying to focus his eyes long enough to see if what the wolf said was true. Through the blurry, shifting shapes, he saw the foreigner pointing to his wolf and smiling. He didn't look like he wanted to fight. The forgiener looked...happy? He definitely talking to Covah, but the Lotharro couldn't quite make out what he was saying. He thought he heard the word 'Karem'? Was the foreigner asking him about Karem? His familiar? Yes, he was pointing to Taranis and saying Karem. But now he was talking about a bear? Sighing, Covah rubbed his temples in frustration. Between the alcohol and Covah's fractured understanding of Common, he was having a difficult time keeping up.

Nodding, Covah put his hand on Taranis' head. "Karem," he replied in Common, accent thick with his Uthaldrian roots. Smiling, he pointed to the elongated canines in his mouth, and then at his golden eyes. "Karem," he repeated, hoping he answered the forgiener's question. Covah realized he had yet to introduce himself, and then began tapping at his chest. "Covah," he said as he pointed at himself. "Cooooovahhhhhh."

Covah waited to see if the man introduced himself, and got his first real look at the foreigner. He certainly beautiful, looks which befit a man who smelled of roses. With chestnut brown hair and admirable beard which hugged the chiseled frame of his face, he looked distinguished even in his common clothes. Sweat clung to to his smooth skin, so unlike the calloused and scarred bodies which filled the Nidhoffnir. It might have just been the alcohol, Covah thought he looked rather fetching. Almost like a wild rose amidst the rough and tangled weeds of Lothar.

Alistair spoke quickly and smoothly, and even though Covah could only make out every third word, he enjoyed the man's company. He had an electric, borderline eccentric, energy about him, and Covah found himself laughing despite not knowing what was exactly being said. Covah heard the words "bear" and "spirit" and "dog", and decided just to nod if only to hear the strange man speak more. He had forgotten how nice company could be, and even if the Lotharro still preferred his beasts to men, Covah found it refreshing that someone had gone out of their way to speak with him.
Even if they were speaking with him in another language.

He saw Alistair gesture to the giant, now in the midst of another bloody brawl, and sigh. "Love," Covah heard him say, nodding towards the large Lotharro. It took Covah a moment to put together what Alistair had meant, his golden gaze tracking the distance between Alistair and the giant. As the realization dawned on him, Covah smiled broadly at the man. The young Lotharro pointed at Alistair and the giant. "Love," he repeated back at the foreigner, finally understanding.

Alistair then jumped into a flurry of sentences, and Covah's eyes went wide as he tried to keep up despite his poor Common. Most of it didn't make sense to him, and the young man frowned as Alistair laughed at some joke he had missed. He wished he could understand what was being said, or what the man had meant. He hated this feeling of distance, of wanting in vain. Covah felt like he was understanding why his god kept the company of wolves. With a wolf, there was no misunderstanding or lack of communication. There was instinct, and there was the pack. Simple,
straight-forward, and bereft of disappointment. Covah's mood had begun sour again, but his eyes lit up as the giant approached them. Maybe he could translate? The man was a Lotharro after all, he had to know some of his native tongue.

"Hi there!" Covah began in Haltunga. "My name's Covah, and I was trying to talk to your lover. My Common's not good, could you translate?" Covah paused, looking up at the towering figure of the man before him. He smiled, shaking his head with embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm being rude. This," he pointed towards the now lying figure of his familiar,"is Taranis. What's your name?" the young Lotharro asked, cheeks red with a mixture of alcohol and self-consciousness.