[WP] "I hope you know I'm trying..."

...

As the car came to a stop in the old rented stable, roof of clay-hardened shingles still dripping from the afternoon rains, both of the vehicle's occupants stepped out quietly.

Neither looked in the others direction to speak, nor did they motion much interest in doing so. If there had been anyone to observe the pair (beyond the likes of a plump cat hidden among the warmth of packed straw) they might have wondered at the conversation which could be inferred to have taken place prior to their arrival. Certainly, even to the cat's eyes the duo which exited the strange vehicle looked more than simply defeated.

If the cat had been bold enough to follow them (which is was, perhaps fitting to expectations, not) it might have seem them walk on from the stable's residence, shoulders hunched, shovel and other-worldly weapon alike carried with an attitude of despair until the Guild's tavern door was pushed aside for their quiet shuffling within.

"Two Ale." The man's murmured request came with a raised hand and a downcast look on the rough and stained table between them. As the two wooden flasks soon arrived, they were emptied, coins were dragged up from a thin purse, and two more were ordered. In the distance by the hearth, a lute played on in a rough pitch of drunken fingers, unfamiliar melody carrying on the warmed air.

Finally, the man spoke directly.

"So that's... the Dark lord."

So much as his words fit the form of a question, the tone was a statement of fact. A simple acknowledgement to sights previously witnessed and accepted. His companion's response was the simplest of nods, before tipping back an empty mug. Her eyes fell on his own, and he curled a hand around it to do the same, wiping foam from his beard to signal again.

"You know, we don't really have the money to be doing this." He said, more than willingly parsing out the exact subject mentioned for another round from the large and burly man carrying a thick tray of brew. Around them the Tavern was filling quickly, more than a few eyes pressing in their direction.

The two foreigners, one from the West, and one from gods only knew. The Elf and the Battle-Mage: A topic of discussion for many of the farther tables from their corner perch. The man let callused hands rub at his temples and scalp with displeasure as the few words he could make out.

"Sola, look... I know you're probably just as out of touch with the state of things as I am, but we're going to need a plan." The next round of drinks slipped down on the table in front of them, just as the first effects made their way to buzz about his brain and speech. "Even if the whole world is ending like the lunatic in the tower says it is, I'd rather not just accept our circumstances. We need a goal to strive for, not just give up."

His head slipped closer to the stained wood with every sip, as his companion killed off the last of her drink with hardly a glance, letting it slam heavy on the table. With effort, the man followed her lead, hand feeling again towards his dwindling reserve of coins.

"I hope you know I'm trying... This isn't easy for-" His words stopped at the scarred and grim face of the bar-tender beside them, rough and muscular arms covered in proof of combat and adventurers long since covered by fields of gray. The man's apron seemed fittingly oppressive, leather straps made from some unfamiliar animal hide- but origins clearly not from the local farm.

The pair stared quietly as the man stared at them, further drinks readied in each one of his massive fists. The coin purse clinked softly as it was laid on the table, and the stare hardened.

Two nervous throats swallowed at the sight.

"You two." The large man beside the table spoke with a deep and rustic voice, and a growl that wafted scents of smoke. "Both new to the' Guild, already Under John Congrad's twisted thumb, aren't ye... An' now the Western skies be spitting black like ink and yer' both feeling sorry for the lot life's handed ye."

"Well TOO BAD!" Behind him, the room was quieted. Voices hushed into cups and whispers as the large man their drinks set down hard on the table with a loud "thump," before retrieving the previously emptied mugs in deft motions, uncaring or unaware to the attention he'd gathered.

"I see hard folk come back as' you do. Some nights I see them' bloodied by light only knows, coming back short a number, an arm or a leg. When I see that, I remember' what it was like working for that monster of a man- and I remember his father of the Guild before him." The Bar-keeper growled, eyeing the many faces that watched from behind his massive frame. Scared and wary faces, swords on hip, axes leaning against thick wooden tables, chairs and stools. "Congrad likes control, likes pressure and debt. For some hard folk, he can make brittle and crack- for some soft folk he can crush. But some rare few... Those are like the' two of ye."

His gaze fell on them both equally, holding there with oppressive force as they watched back, uncertain.

"Like a bow, folks that can bend and not break." He stared at them, faintest brush of a smile painted upon his grizzled features. "The likes of ye... You'll be gettin' through it, me thinks." His nod was the last thing he gave, before his shout bellowed through the room like a beast's roar. "One Gold o' debt, ain't nothing but hundred silver."

The murmurs of whispered conversation had grown still in the space behind them, eyes watching uncertain from the distance as they wondered and questioned in silence. The pair too, watched the man as he turned slowly to face the lot, towering above table and body alike with a deep rumble sounding in his chest. Then, he shouted:

"THIS NEXT ROUND IS ON THE HOUSE! FOR THE NEW MEMBERS OF THE GUILD!"

Mugs clenched in a massive fist, raising towards the high ceiling until all who watched were certain it might touch, his voice bellowed.

"TO THE NEW MEMBERS OF THIS GOD-FORSAKEN AND BLOODY FAMILY!"

The cheers erupted as weapons raised.

"ADVENTURERS TO THE LAST COPPER SPENT AND THE LAST DROP DRUNK!"

The voices rallied in unison, drinks sloshing from raised glasses and horns, swords and weapons lofted to the air.

"TIL THE DARK LORD COME FOR US, AND WE PISS IN HIS WINE!"

In the moments that followed shortly, the pair found themselves standing as well, drinks and voices raised among the rest, heads thrown back as the night's swirl began anew in the pale lighting of candles and mana.

"FOR THE DEAD, FOR THE LIVING, FOR THE DAMNED BETWEEN! HURRAH!"