It was an intense battle. Fenn had almost fallen three times now, and Grok was already out, not likely to get up. These were dire straits. But Strongarm Liverman knew he had to live up to his name. And so he raised his fist, twisted his arm...

And drank.

"Twenty five down! Holy shit, I've never seen anything like this!" Shouted the bartender, Samuel, who was blatantly lying. Strong Liver has been through much worse in this very chair, such as the battle of the twenty three Hail Mary's, a drink well known for its ability to send the weak-willed to their mother in heaven. Then there were the fifteen Almoraks. That. That was a drink only for the strong of liver.

This weak vodka drinker didn't stand a chance.

Or at least, that's what Strong had thought at the start, but twenty five drinks down, he wasn't feeling so sure. Or so sober, for that matter. This half-breed nitwit had to have something up his sleeves, to take Strongarm drink for drink.

Liverman focused on his opponent as the half-elf raised another glass, downing it with a smile. He dropped the glass to the table, put his thumb on one side of his chin, his index on the other, and flashed a cocky smile to the greatest drinker in Falland.

Needless to say, the only thing going for this asshole was his current show of drinking prowess. He wouldn't survive an hour with an attitude like that, and almost didn't when he first grabbed the biggest guy in the bar and said, "I bet I could take you."

Strongarm stared at Artur as he brought his glass halfway to his lips, then raised it the rest of the way, swallowing the cheap swill like water. Twenty six down. The crowd went nuts, or at least those who hadn't seen Mr. Liverman at work in the past. The rest politely clapped, knowing this could go nowhere but up.

Putting his entire focus on the cocky brat across from him, Strongarm saw nothing to suggest foul play, other than maybe that this half-elf was a bit too sober at the moment. Even Strongarm was feeling a little tipsy at this point. Twenty six matched.

Challenge accepted.

Strongarm grabbed the next shot, knocking some empty glasses off the table, and as the orc tossed down twenty seven, he shook his head to clear it a bit. As he did, he could swear he saw a light where there usually wasn't one. Probably nothing.

The game continued on like this for five more drinks, before Strongarm put his head in his hands for a moment to collect himself. His opponent took advantage of this moment to taunt, "Had enough? I'll take that sack of gold if you're past your limit."

With thirty three beers down, the orc did frown, and bid the half-elf goodbye. For none could know his limits, 'twas not for show, and someone had to die. That someone being the shady fellow in the corner, if Strong had his guess.

A moment of panic flashed across Artur's face as he watched the burly orc turn around and start walking. Strong ignored his protests and requests for money, instead walking to the fellow in black and gold, whose hands were clasped together as though he were praying.

"Can I... help you, sir?" The man said. Were he not three quarters of the way to vomiting his guts out, Strong would have sworn there was a hint of fear in his voice. If so, good. If not, then maybe Strong should get back to the game. Wait, no, the light though. Right?

Thinking is for sober losers.

"What've you been doing over here the last two hours? Every soul in the bar but you is watching the show-off."

"I think you mean showdown?"

"I said what I meant, toothpick. Now what are you doing in this shady corner?"

"I, uh, I've simply been praying to my goddess, for good luck on the road ahead!"

"Uh huh, and you decided that was so much more worth your time than rooting on your friend over there?"

"Come on, man, leave my friend alone and let's get back to our friendly game." Said Artur, who had finally caught up with the orc.

"There ain't no 'friendly game' about it, pal! A shirmp like you can't hold five drinks, much less eleventy five! This here buddy of yours is up to something, I know it!"

"I have no clue what you're talking about. What could I possibly do to help, aside from rooting him on as you've said?" The bar-goers started to crowd around, anticipating a good old bar fight.

"Then let me put it another way. Why is it that every time your friend here slings one back, I see a shiny glow out of the corner of my eye?"

"Your... eyesight is failing, due to excess alcohol consumption?"

"Yeah, that, or somebody is over here casting spells. Hey Frank, you're a cleric, what spells could help in a drinking contest?"

"Protection against good and evil?"

"I'm not sure how I feel about that. Anything else?"

"Purge gets rid of poisons and toxins."

Strongarm glared at the suddenly paniced cleric in the corner. "Very interesting, eh?"

Felix cowered in Strongarm's presence, looked at Frank, who smiled viciously, then cast the spell any sensible caster would at that moment, its proper name being,

"RUN!"

The duo jumped away from Strongarm, Felix getting clotheslined in the process. He twisted twice in the air before falling flat on his back, a very irate green giant standing over him.

"Any last words, shrimp?"

"Uh, how about shield?"

Strongarm quirked his eyes at this, wondering what the hell the guy was talking about. Then he noticed the effects of gravity taking effect on his upper body.

Felix screamed as an orc's torso fell on his stomach, bleeding all over the floor. In his last moments, Strongarm could hear him shouting, "Oh my... Holy shit! I meant for it to- I didn't think it would- I thought it would go between us, not... I think I'm gonna puke!"

In a moment of clarity among the shock, Strongarm decided he hated cheaters to a degree no orc ever had. Especially this particular one, currently fouling his unarmed torso. He would hate him until the day he died, and then some.