(A big batch of miniatures for D&D that I Kickstarted back in 2020 finally showed up this week, making me very happy. It is a great assortment of common monsters and a nice variety of player character models too. One of them I had only known by a piece of artwork prior to opening the box, but I remember looking at it and thinking, man, I hope the sculpt carries some of the attitude from that drawing - that is a pose that kind of tells a story to me...)
Beliza swung the heavy wooden mallet with a grunt. A short, sharp spray made her flinch a little, and a quick twist of the tap assured her that it was properly seated. She reached her hand back behind and felt the handle of a sturdy wooden mug pressed into her hand.
Twisting the tap again, she watched the golden stream of rich, brown ale flow into the mug, but scowled as she saw the foam was rising too quickly.
"Who's this one for now?" she asked over her shoulder as she flung the mug's contents into the slop barrel beneath the bar.
"The tall musician," her server Amna replied. "Says he needs to recover his voice."
The innkeeper snorted. "I've 'eard him sing - 'e'll need more than ale." Beliza finished filling the mug and handed it to the younger woman, then reached up to scratch an itch under her eyepatch. "If 'e 'ad any sense, he'd give it to that lass 'e's chattin' up so she doesn't notice how homely he is."
Amna laughed as she turned to look at the tall stranger who had asked if he could sing for his supper. "Oh, I dunno," she mused, "He's got an odd sort of charm, don't you think?"
Beliza wiped her hands on her greasy apron and looked across the crowded tavern floor. "One of 'is parents is definitely an orc so 'is complexion's nothing to write home about, but 'e keeps 'is 'air tidy and 'as no scars-" and she turned and gave Amna a wink with her one good eye- "none I can see, anyways."
The server mockingly covered her mouth in a scandalized fashion, but Beliza noticed she blushed a little at the same time. "And 'e's tall, I'll grant you that, and the sooner you get 'im that beer the sooner 'e can get back to singin'..."
Amna nodded and took the beer over to the tall stranger in the long coat, his instrument now slung over his shoulder so he could use both hands to talk expansively with a woman wearing a dress and jewelry that really had no business in a place like the Red Roc.
A slummer, Amna thought to herself dismissively. She gently slid her free hand down the minstrel's left arm to get his attention and as he turned, pressed the mug into his other hand and leaned into him as she purred, "your drink, sir."
The stranger's rough features softened significantly when he smiled, but there was no concealing the tusks that stuck out nearly an inch over his upper lip when he did so. "Thank you my dear," he said warmly, "But I am no knight - just one who appreciates their tales of bravery and shares their devotion to beauty."
Amna felt her cheeks reddening and her mind raced through a catalogue of practiced responses, as the half-orc raised the mug to his lips. But before she could formulate the perfect response and before the entertainer could even take a sip, she heard a rough voice from behind her bark in obnoxious laughter.
"You have got to be joking," the voice growled. Sensing trouble, the nearest patrons took a couple of steps back, revealing a grizzled dwarf in a studded leather jerkin, with axe handles protruding over his shoulders, standing with his hands on his hips. The stranger looked at the dwarf and took a sip of his beer while maintaining eye contact with the belligerent.
"I mean, I thought it was a great trick and all, a hork pretending he could sing and such," the dwarf crowed, prompting a nervous tittering from some of those who had paused their own conversations to see what came of this tense interaction. "And my guess is that's an enchanted mandolin since those green meathooks comin' out of your sleeves couldn't possibly pluck those wee strings."
The half-orc gestured with his mug at the dwarf and said, "I am going to have to insist that you stand up when addressing me." A series of gasps and a choked chuckle could be heard as the dwarf's face reddened. "And I would prefer it if you found a less offensive term to describe my heritage."
"Heritage? Heritage?" the dwarf sputtered. "That's rich! Did your parents even know each other? Or did you just wake up on a rock next to some afterbirth?"
The stranger's nostril's flared and his lip started to curl in an involuntary snarl, but Amna saw him somehow transform it into a derisive sneer. "I knew my parent's pretty well, honestly." A malisious grin, then, "I mean, not as intimately as I knew yours, but..."
This drew hoots and laughter from the crowd as the dwarf's eyes widened in shock and anger. "That tears it!" he shouted, ripping the twin axes from his back and dropping into a fighting stance. "When I saw you talkin' up my boss's wife, I was going to embarrass you a bit before giving you a beatin'. But now you've smart-mouthed yourself straight into the choppery, hork!"
The sneer disappeared from the stranger's face, replaced by a cold, fatalistic expression that the dwarf was surprised to see had no trace of fear in it. The half-orc's right hand reached across his waist and slowly drew a long, sharp falchion from its well-oiled scabbard, and with the tip of the blade dipping languidly before him, he took a purposeful stride toward the dwarf, the mug of beer still clutched in his other hand.
Somehow Amna, found her voice, and asked, "Did - would you like me to hold your drink for you?"
With no change in his expression, the minstrel shook his head and took a swig of ale before stepping still closer towards the now uncertain dwarf. "No need," he said tersely, "This won't take long."
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