It was early morning, and the light streamed in through the open windows―well, one couldn’t really call them windows, they were more like small wooden doors that had been opened up to welcome in the light of the day―shining on the already pale flesh of the man that sat at the bar table. His long legs nearly touched the floor, even though he was lifted prominently by the stool that he sat upon. As a result, his legs were bent at the knee, resting on the wooden circle of the stool that lied at the same level as his feet.

His elbows were bent as well, his hairy forearms resting on the polished wooden surface of the bar. A well-groomed man of light brown hair tended the dirty glasses with a rough cloth, and kept a close hazel eye on his prized stock of ale that he kept in thick barrels behind the bar. While he scrubbed at the splotches of a particular mug, the bartender cocked an eyebrow at the red-haired warrior that had been present in his residence ever since the evening before. Brennus was clad in light leather armor with Bloodforest bound to his broad back via leather straps. The bartender could clearly see the heavy bags beneath the emerald irises of the man, and an inkling of sympathy reached the tavernkeep’s heart when he noticed such a detail. What kind of man didn’t drink himself to restlessness without any demons plaguing his mind? Not any man he knew.

“So, what’s yer story?” The tavernkeep asked, continuing to clean the mug.

The green eyes peered upward from the wooden surface of the bar table. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes squinting through the crusted material that coated his short eyelashes. A pewter tankard was positioned between his bent elbows, the ale within it nearly reaching the bottom. “I didit come ‘ere to speak with da likes of ye. Not fer one second. I came ‘ere to drink,” the man replied, his rugged countenance contorting into a painful grimace.

“I see that, sir. But ye’ve got to have a story or two,” the bartender pushed, examining the Highlander more thoroughly.

“Not any stories that ye’d like to ‘ear,” Brennus replied. And with that, he drank the small remainder of ale left in his tankard and sloppily asked for another.

The sellsword had been in Adeluna for quite a while, and he had found a cozy setting at the Winking Mermaid near the docks of the city. The ale and mead were finely made, at least to Brennus's numbed taste buds. He was looking for work, but he had failed to find any, and therefore, thoughts whirled through his brain, and none of them made him happy. It was a common occurrence for the faces of Amena and Kennis to haunt him while he drowned himself in alcohol, and yet again, they lingered there, in the darkest corners of his mind. He could never shake them away, but a part of him didn’t want them to disappear. The men who had taken them from him were still out there, and yet they seemed like ghosts now.

As time passed and he finished his eighth glass of ale, Brennus looked to the bartender, who now participated in idle banter with a few other patrons. “Can I ‘ave ‘nother drink?” He slurred, but the barkeep did not hear him. Either that or he had ignored him just as Brennus had ignored his plight for tales an hour or so before. “Aye! C-Can I ‘ave anudder drink?” Brennus repeated, slamming his fist on the bar table to get the bartender’s attention. Eyes flashed over at him for a second before returning to the people he spoke with.

How dare a lone bartender ignore him? Brennus’s drunkard countenance contorted into a scowl as he stood, knocking all of the glasses off of the bar and onto the floor, shattering them in unison. Now the bartender looked at him, this time with wide eyes. Of course, though, he had now received the attention of the rest of the pub. “Can I ‘ave annudder drink, or de I need t’ break yer fuckin’ neck?”

The bartender, after reclaiming his composure, stormed over to him. He was separated from the red-bearded knight by the bar table, and it offered him confidence as he spoke. “You’re going to have to pay for all of that expensive glassware, sir. This is the Winking Mermaid, not some other cruddy tavern,” the barkeep spat.

Brennus’s hands shook as they laid flat on the surface of the bar. His green eyes now held a glare, narrowed entirely. “I’ll pay when ye get me a fuckin’ drink, ye wiry bastard,” the Highland-born said. And so another glass of ale appeared before him, the bartender losing his nerve. Brennus kept his word and took out a pouch of silver coins, paying the man for what he had broken.

If there was anything the broken man was certain of, it was that taverns would serve him drink when he requested it. 

People trying to rebuild their lives seemed to end up in Adeluna, Lugh found. An escaped thrall, who found himself working with more of his own people who, for whatever reason, were based in this southern city. Some of them were content to remain, but Lugh wanted to go home. Just as soon as he had enough coin, he'd go back.

The mercenary life wasn't for Lugh. He was good at fighting, but he didn't much like it. He didn't always care much for the men he served with, either. They had butchered unarmed men on their most recent raid, then raped their women. Anything of value was taken, but that wasn't unexpected; that's the reason Lugh was there. He could have done without the rest, however. The shieldmaiden who fought with them seemed sickened as well by it all; Lugh didn't mind her as much.

Wanting to get away from the men for a while, Lugh headed off to the Mermaid early in the morning, and took his breakfast there. The barman, Gaston, tried to make conversation, but Lugh wasn't interested. Gaston soon tired of monosyllabic responses, and found someone else to bother. He was a pleasant enough fellow, but Lugh wasn't one for making conversation.

Even at this early hour, there was someone at the bar, already good and drunk by the sound of him. A Highlander, Lugh knew from his speech, but not one of the Company; the captain, Donall would probably never let such a man into the hall, not if he was this far into a barrel so early in the day. Miserable, too, by the sounds of it, but who wasn't these days? Everyone had a sad story, Lugh included, but not everyone sat around sulking about it.

Lugh was content to ignore the drunk, until he heard glasses shattering. The drunk was demanding another drink, and Gaston didn't have the will to refuse. The chair screeched against the floor as Lugh pushed back and stood up. A tall, brawny man, Lugh knew that he was a bit intimidating to look at, and his quiet demeanour didn't exactly dissuade such notions. Like the other men of the Company, he wore a long knife at all times.

"That's enough," Lugh said, reaching out to try to take away the drunk's glass.

"That's enough."

The voice was gruff, and entirely unexpected. Brennus was in mid-sip as a large hand circled his tankard and ripped it from his grasp, spilling the ale over his beard, his shirt, and the surface of the bar table. What… What had just happened? The room around the sellsword was spinning, and as dilated eyes of green focused on Lugh, Brennus's jaw lowered and his mouth gaped in awe. Why were there three rotating images of the hulking, dark-haired man before him? Was he a mage? Was he a demon? Too many questions that didn't have answers. All that Brennus knew was that his drink had been taken from him without his consent.

"Aye! What th' fuck de ya t'ink ye’re doin’?” The red-haired warrior garbled, his hands sluggishly following the tankard that rose at the will of Lugh. He only grabbed at air, however. Well, that was until his pale, calloused hands clutched onto the other Highlander’s tunic and pulled downward, but the sober and quick youngling only needed to move an inch backward and Brennus’s whirling vision became a tornado as the stool dipped beneath him and his nose cracked against the floorboards.

It would have, most likely, hurt like hell if Brennus hadn’t been nearly in a fourth dimension with the aid of alcohol. His nose had been broken so many times that the impact with the ground had a higher chance of putting it back into its rightful place rather than making it worse. The descent did cause a stream of blood to slowly trickle forth from his right nostril, though.

Lazy, green eyes peered at leather boots. It felt like a small dwarf was whacking his pickaxe against his skull, but that would not deter him from looking upward at the specimen that had taken his drink and had caused him to fall to utter humiliation and what could have been agony.

Groaning like the stool when it had collapsed beneath his weight, Brennus rose to one knee and then to a bipedal stance after that, wobbling to and fro. He stood eye-to-eye with the bulky man before him, but that alone drew him away from noticing the thickness of the young man’s muscles and the solemnness of his countenance. Brennus was too prideful to let someone take his drink and make a fool out of him. “Give me me drink back, boy,” the sellsword ordered, taking a shaky step toward the dark-haired Highlander.

Brennus’s lip curled as he glared at the youngster, the hands at his sides forming fists with whitened knuckles. Despite his seriousness to battle, though, the drunkard could barely keep himself afoot.

Taking a man's drink away was not for the faint of heart, and that went double for a Highland man. First, the drunk tried to grab at the glass, but Lugh held it away. From the look of his eyes, the drunk was probably seeing double, or worse. He pulled on Lugh's tunic, and Lugh stepped back, and the drunk fell face-first against the floor.

A smart man might have left it at that, but the man was too far gone to be very smart. He got back on his feet, and demanded his drink again. "I said that's enough." Lugh hated having to repeat himself. The drunk stepped forward, and Lugh saw his fists clenched, and he sighed. He'd come here to get away from angry Highlanders, and now he was confronting one. So be it.

A barmaid walked by, and Lugh handed the tankard to her. It was mostly empty at this point, having been sloshed into the floor, but he didn't want the drunk to get what was left. Both hands now free, Lugh grabbed the drunk and dragged him out the back door and into the alley. There was a barrel there, and Lugh tossed the drunk against it. He had a sword, a claymore by the look of it, and Lugh generally didn't pick fights with men better armed than he was. Even in such a drunken state, he could swing wildly and still perhaps hit something. Fortunately, Lugh was fast, and drunk men often were not. He figured that, if it came down to it, he might be able to rush him and knock him on his arse before he got his sword out of its hilt. While he had no intention of killing the man— there was no need for it, really— Lugh kept his hand by his knife-hilt, ready to draw it if the drunk had another bad idea.

"No more," Lugh said finally. "Go home and dry out. Or dry out here, I don't care. But no more."