For Her Honor

With dagger previously aloft in left hand I hefted my Ice Shard in the right. The bolt of terror arched above us to scar the ceiling. I hazarded a glance at my compatriots. A sorry scraggly lot of mercenaries they were but also my friends. Honor must be defended. I bellowed back, advancing on the heathen wizard.

“Going in boys! Handle the ruffians!”

The stench of half rotted, heavily seasoned meat wafted to my nostrils. Mingling there with the odor of burnt hair from where the near miss singed the follicles of Ralph the Red. This blaggart wizard would pay.

The cacophony of shattering wood, clanging steel on steel and hastily cast cantrips comingled with meaty impacts of flesh on flesh. My eyes did glance to the dagger. Perhaps my vision was faltering. No! It was the greasy remnants of the aforementioned mutton clinging to the utensil. I advised it was my eating dagger, yes? No matter! I was near blood frenzy at the slight to our honor.

The wizard blearily glared at me through bloodshot eyes. Silently he did caution me, there would be no surrender, no retreat. I suspected he had already blown his… uh… big powerful thingy in his opening salvo though. He was the lone soul still sitting as the public house erupted into an all out, free for all brawl. We two, he and me, were the only combatants left out of the fray and that only due to our intent focus upon one another. I would show him a bard was not a man to be trifled with.

Anon did I tower epically over the villain, who feigned lack of worry and concern by remaining stubbornly seated and rolling his ocular organs. Were my hands not full slap him I would have I tell thee. Instead I affected my stage voice and demanded of him.

“Prithee, tell me why hast thou offended the crimson mane of my noble compatriot with your odiferous incantation.”

“He called the barmaid a wench.”

It vexes me so when a man of letters refuses to speak in a proper fashion. My blood it did boil, cooled only by my ire running cold. The din of the battle behind me echoed loudly in my ears and I refused to dumb my speech down for this one.

“Your anger is voracious, for is she not a wench? Of the serving variety.”

“He said it mean.”

“Be she your sister, or mayhap your wife?”

“My sister.”

“Only one thing for it then to end this all.”

It would not do to use the dagger. Instead I upended my hand and dropped the contents of my Ice Shard, letting it loose upon his head. Splutter and fuss he did. The deafening roar of combat fell to raucous choruses of laughter to end the melee. What a waste. I assume you are no foreigner and knew from the beginning of my tale; Ice Shard is the finest of ales for adventurers on a budget.

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