[WP] You go on a late night beer run only to get trapped in the store by a very angry Sasquatch.

...

My headlamp was flickering again, batteries failing to hold the charge they'd had not even weeks before. As I plucked them out one by one, throwing them to rest on the port to take the place of their restocked bretheren, I ignored the constant buzz of far-off tones in my ear.

It was probably Tinnitus, and I was probably trying not to think about it.

This late at night, it's difficult to think of much of anything.

I've always hated that, hated the burn-out. The dust-head, the Brain-fry. That moment when you reach your own unseen limitations and there are literal voices in your head screaming at you like that catchy portion of a song by Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats. After that point of no return, the options limit themselves rather quickly between passing out and accepting fate, or finding if there's still a keg on tap somewhere.

It's in that state of mind that I get to asking myself those more important questions.

Would I ever get home? Would I ever manage to sleep in my own bed again? See my parents, or the cat I'd been periodically feeding leftovers outside of my apartment? Would I ever get to listen to that catchy song humming in my head in actuality- or would I be stuck with the six mostly classic-rock oriented discs in the Hyundai's horribly outdated stereo-system?

Last but not least: Was there still a mug of ale to be had in the tavern, or was I hopelessly out of my depth and doomed to a sober existence?

This final, at the very least I might be capable of retrieving answers. As I rose, the persistent ringing in my ear settled beneath the soft groan of plywood and linoleum flooring, mixing with the soft snores of the trailer's other occupant.

My trusted companion had settled into a fittingly dignified drunken slumber not three paces to my right, once again taking preference of my personal cot and mattress to the perfectly acceptable hay-bales which surrounded the trailer. The occurrence of that particular habit was becoming more frequent than I preferred, and raised many questions on our strange but functioning relationship of necessity that I'd not been willing to directly address up unto the current point.

She also snored, which was rather un-elflike considering her presumed heritage.

The trailer door shut quietly behind me, clicking in place and sealing by the keys twirling on hand towards my jacket pocket. Rifle slung carefully over my shoulder, the air frosted with my breath to settle like clouds of smoke, trailing in my wake. As I made way towards the 'Oar and Swindler considering the oddity of choice behind the specific naming convention, the familiar taste on the air seemed to sway with the pulsing flow of fae.

"The Gift" Nan had called it. As more time passed, more of those strange specters seemed to cross along my vision, following or watching me from afar. Their odd shapes rarely possessed form easily described, but their presence was noted- glowing and colorful things that swept along on currents of air like invisible leaves on the wind. Each day spent in this world seemed to increase the strangeness of it.

Perhaps it was the slow mold I was filling, my person fitting into the plane of this existence atom by atom, molecule by molecule. Or maybe it was a matter of the soul? Late at night, when my mind was worn to exhaustion, these were the questions that might come at times.

The ones without answers.

In the hour of the highest moon, this late at night it seemed nothing was awake or aglow but the town Guard and their most inebriated of protected citizens. The Regions of Doterra's Church of light seemed to have a sore habit of alcohol consumption, much more than my expectations even after many passing conversations with Dwarven merchants on their wares and trade. Among other things to consider, I was far beyond my depth in the growing need to keep my vehicle running without parts, trained mechanics- and most importantly: Fuel.

In theory, that last topic might be solved with some creativity.

The thick wooden doors of the 'Oar and Swindler opened without much force, groaning in a careful creak of passive resistance as the glow of mana infused glass shown dully through the night. Even at this late hour, it seemed not to late for a stop. It was these times I often enjoyed the conversations at the slick wooden bar, Bruce often providing unique insight I'd past over in the haste of those hours prior to the setting sun.

He was an interesting man for certain, once an adventurer- now a more stationary soul after a wound from a well places- or as he might have it unlucky broad-head took him through the cartilage of he left knee. I could only imagine several of the City Guard might claim the same fate.

Still, on this particular dark and chilly night, Bruce the Tavern Keeper was nowhere to be found, and neither were the others of the late night crew. No old and Scarred battle-mages mulling over glasses of whiskey or Dwarven stock, no hefty warriors hunched atop endless empty flasks of wooden make. Only as the door fell to close behind me, heavy wooden sheets held in frame by thick iron, did I realize my grave error.

For a warrior's constitution, I won't make a claim. My life was far from sedentary in its existence, but neither was it that of a soldier- perhaps it was simple luck and instinct alone that allowed my head and shoulders to duck beneath the furious blow that crashed along whatever imagined after-image was there as I sprawled along my belly in a panicked crawl towards the Tavern bar. As another fell, it was long the thick and scarred arms of Bruce which dragged me quick enough to avoid a most certain and terrible demise.

As the sounds of wood crunching, chairs flying, landing, and shattering, I opened my eyes to a sorry sight.

"Glad yer still with the living Jake." The massive man spoke quietly, hunched in tight with his thick apron all but shredded and bloodied. Beyond the bar, impacts and guttural growls sounded with unpleasant consistency. "But you've now gone and jumped into it, haven't ye?"

As my composure rightened itself, I could see several others appeared to be residing behind the cover of the Tavern bar. A grizzled warrior I'd known only by the name of Raq lay still- chest barely rising, gigantic battle axe resting solemn beside him. Farther down, a spry old wizard who went by the title Eldrick the Aged was in similar shape, broken staff crossed over his knees with an expression that might sour grapes into wine.

Overhead, a stool smashed against the wall, falling between the sorry lot in pieces.

"What the fu-"

"Sasquatch." The wizard cut me off with an irritated tone before I could so much as form my question. "Bastard probably came down from the mountains, got his hands on one of the Kegs."

"Mean drunks, Sasquatches." Bruce growled, eyeing the broken stool. "Not the kind of patron I take in kindly." A heavy glance fell to Raq's unfortunate state, and I had to question what type of monster could so effectively level a man capable of swinging a battle-axe the size of a tree. "Never met a friendly example in all my seasons, truth be told."

"The dwarves rile them up time to time." Eldrick the Aged spit out what I could only presume in the dim lighting was bloody phlegm- maybe a tooth. "It might have raided one of their caravans before it got to us, considering the state its in."

"GRAAAAAAAWWWWWWUUUUUUUUU-" Another stool smashed overhead, this time quickly followed by a table, and then a full set of chairs.

"Gods damn it, but the time it thinks to wander out, half the Tavern will be scrap for the hearth." Bruce growled, muscles tense as his hand reached for Raq's battle axe.

"Don't be a fool." Half of a staff smacked his fingers as the Wizard hissed in an angry tone. "You're past your prime by twenty seasons now, and it's already proven worse than most. Not worth the price, you ask any sane man."

"Hefty bounty on them this time of year." Bruce replied with a hissing growl of his own, fist curling before angry eyes. If my ears could twitch like Sola's, that was just about when they would have.

"How much?" I asked, attention falling on me with surprise. It seemed I had quickly been forgotten in the passing discussion.

Eldrick the Aged gave me a similar look to that which he'd handed the Tavern-Keeper prior. "If it can knock aside my magics, I'd naught risk it. It swatted my ice-casts as if they were a child's snowballs, hit my barrier so hard it shattered my cane."

He lifted the wooden staff's pieces with a saddened look touching his face for the briefest of seconds, before being replaced by a the sour grimace once again.

"How much?" I asked again, this time turning towards Bruce as I unslung the rifle. His conflicted expression seemed almost leaning towards support of the Old wizard in the corner before finally giving in.

"Jarl Congrad has them listed for at least eighty silver, last I checked."

"A young pup like you hasn't been alive long enough to gather magics strong enough to deal with this kind of beast." Eldrick interrupted, shaking his cane's pieces with rage. "Just let it be-"

BANG BANG BANG

Thump.

Ammo and Tinnitus be damned. I was getting that silver.