Keya’s task—trivial as she thought it might be—was Master’s wish. And she strode into the crowd purposefully as soon as they hit the bottom landing.

She was not used to so many people and found herself leaning heavily on Lee’s wisdom. Some of the scenes she saw in Master’s movies of ‘house parties’ also drew many commonalities.

The people she met were all amicable, and she found herself drinking more of their purchased spirits than the other way around. Being so nervous she gulped down far more ale and wine than she ever thought she could handle.

She chastised herself for this. Her duty, first and foremost, was to loose others’ lips, not hers. To that end, she best not drink more than she offered.

Albeit, it was all rather lovely tasting stuff and relatively weak to her mind, so after a while, she stopped worrying. There was no end of folk eager to talk to her, and Lee’s guidance tapered off. He concluded in short order that she was ‘hot’ and there was no further need for counsel.

The countless ways Master and Lee employed temperature in their parlance was quite vexing. Principally the words’ hot’ and ‘cool’ had a multitude of connotations. She desisted investigating which presently it was. The task at hand took precedence.

Over the night’s revelry, one particular brown-haired elf repeatedly followed her about the bar. Initially, a cordial engagement, the dapper man had shared little and asked many questions. This not being what Master had entailed of her, she had politely disengaged and moved away.

Later that eve, he would insert himself into almost every group or exchange she had and often flip the enquiries back on her. “Where do hail from Luren-sun?” or “Tell us of your family and town, Luren-sun.”

She would give mealy-mouthed responses each time, being as vague as possible. It was finally apparent she would have no peace with this man about, so entreated Lee to ‘ping’ Master to her.

True to form Master appeared promptly at her behest, though the drink had evidently worn far more heavily on him. Perhaps he had moved on to whiskey or the like. Most folks were wisely warned off anything stronger than Dwarven ale, knowing his origins Master was likely not privy to such wisdom. He untactfully approached the brown-haired elf.

“Helloo, kind sir.” He swayed a bit, finger on his mouth, no doubt holding back a belch. “My mistress has informed me, that your persistence though admira— admiram— ad-mir-a-ble...” He paused again to find breath or perhaps bearings, “...is discomfiting. Please be away.” It was surely a mighty feat of linguistics in Master’s current state. His target, however, looked none too impressed.

“Foul human, distance your putrid visage from me this instant. These are elven lands, know your place, mortal!” The last word was spat.

Master was sluggishly working over the escalation of events, but it was taking too long. So the elf shoved him away, causing Master to fall backwards on the wooden floor beams. Surprisingly, Jon managed one of the ‘ukemi’ techniques he had attempted to teach Keya.

With the momentum of the fall and his slackened disposition, he performed a complete roll, back to his feet in one fluid motion. Keya had to admit fancy rolling on the ground was far more useful than she initially gave it credit.

“Fuck, that’s gonna leave bruises in the morning. I fucken hate hard floors.” Jon massaged a shoulder in protest. Brown-Hair, who had failed even to give his name, was not done.

“You dare to tell an Elf, in the very centre of Elgelica no less, what he can and cannot do! I will have your tongue human!” The tavern talk was rapidly dying down.

“You’ll do no such thing, Faelyn!” boomed a burly voice from the front of the tavern.

The crowd parted about the Highland Dwarf from the porch.

“He was merely coming to the aid of his mistress. I can vouch fer that. If you wish to fight, you’ll do it under Cask rules or nothing else. Those two have bought more drinks in one night than you have in a year. The only one fouling the air is you. And I’ll hear of no damned retribution beyond these walls, or YOUR mistress will be the one te hear about it! Are we of an accord?”

The brown-haired elf called Faelyn noticeably restrained himself. The Highlander undeniably had some clout within the city.

“Very well, under Cask rules it is then. We are to fight with no weapons or magic. If you win, then I will be on my way. If I win, you will leave me to my dealings with your mistress, Luren-sun, elf to elf, while you go pass out in a gutter somewhere till the morrow.”

“Jon, do you accept these terms?” Mediated the dwarf.

“Do I get a choice?” asked Master.

“Aye ya do, but ‘tis the best option if ya wish ta avoid bloodshed.”

This banter was aggravating Keya to no end. How dare Brown-Hair even think he could earn her favour by beating Master in a fistfight! And where was her opinion in all this? Unacceptable! It had to stop immediately, and she would put an end to it.

“No! Jon will not accept these terms,” proclaimed Keya, “I will.”