Jonas had to have thrown all his body weight into that pathetic punch because the momentum of it carries him an almost full hundred-and-eighty-degrees around. If the two points of damage he took for it weren’t indication enough, his very clear, full-body cringe reinforces the fact that the punch hurt.

The half-elvish man he targeted, though, doesn’t even have the decency to seem surprised; there’s no wince, no head turn, no sign that he even acknowledges the impact. He does, however, turn Jonas’s momentum against him and, with a hard shove, sends our healer stumbling into a nearby table. In the same instance, one of the half-elf’s companions—a very large woman of some degree of orkish heritage—grabs the front of Flynt’s shirt and yanks him forward, straight into her fist (4). Blood explodes from his nose.

Meanwhile, all around the tavern, there’s the scuffing and clunking of heavy chairs getting knocked over, with some patrons shouting in excitement or alarm and moving toward or away from the action. Others stay where they are, lifting drinks so they aren’t jostled over, and grumbling with dismay about the inconsideration of some people. The bartender just sighs, and the logic of the tavern’s strict no-weapons-in-common-spaces rule becomes all the more clear.

Jonas pushes himself away from the table and scrambles back from the approaching half-elf while Flynt manages to twist out of the part-orkish woman’s hold. He steadies himself quickly enough that he’s able to block her incoming follow-up blow and counter with a left hook of his own (3), though any ground he might have been gaining gets taken away when a squat dwarvish figure wearing greens and browns bowls into him, tackling him to the ground. They crash into a chair that had been jostled out of its place earlier.

I watch from outside my body, trying to process it all as it happens in a weird slow motion. I’m caught in a surprised, panicked moment of limbo as I instinctively try to go in four directions at once: to put down the drinks, to rush forward to my friends, to run to get reinforcements, to just get out of the way while it sorts itself out. I’ve worked in bars in college towns and big sports cities, so I’ve seen my share of little brawls, but I’ve never participated—I’ve always fallen into in the not-my-hell-not-my-imps, “take it outside, don’t knock over my drink” camp. The only problem is… these are my imps.

Not that I have any idea what I’m going to do about any of it.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), my subconscious has some thoughts.

I blink when cold beer sloshes over my hand as an impact shocks up my arm. There’s a loud shout of surprise and everything focuses a little more as I realize I’ve knocked one of our party’s drinks into the back of the tackling dwarf’s head, splashing it all over myself, my target, Flynt, and the wooden floor. The dwarf groans as he crumples in on himself and rolls off Flynt, a dazed look in the accoster’s eyes as he ends up partly under a shoved-aside table. I don’t catch the [System] damage count, but when I meet Flynt’s gaze, he looks about as wide-eyed and surprised as I feel, an unspoken oh shit passing between us.

I try to think of some kind of snappy one-liner for the situation, but alarm crosses Flynt’s expression before anything comes together. He’s reaching out to react just as I realize my feet are no longer on the ground.

Now, I’m not especially heavy in the great scheme of things. I never have been, not even as a human, and so I’ve had many friends over the years who—especially when drunk—have delighted in picking me up. I am relatively tall, though, and I’m lanky, so lifting me when I don’t want to be lifted should be an awkward tangle of flailing limbs and weird weight distributions.

The seven-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, part-orkish woman does not seem to be bothered by any of those physics in the slightest. She all but encircles my waist with her two massive hands, lifts, twists, and slings me away like an Olympic hammer throw. The unreality of the situation settles as I hurtle several meters through the air to smash into a pair of patrons who had moved forward for a better view. The breath is knocked out of my lungs and several types of pain strike through me as we crash to the ground, entangled, with what is probably an almost comedic chorus of groans.

I do not lose consciousness, but I think it’s a close one as I scramble dizzily to my feet, wishing the inn hadn’t turned into a centrifugal-force carnival ride. One of the human men I was thrown into pushes me up away from him with a grumble and I stumble forward, catching myself on a nearby table. I brace myself against it and look up to see Jonas about three paces from me, ducking another swing as he tries to get away from the half-elvish stranger (who seems to have only gotten angrier).

Flynt, meanwhile, is boxed in by tipped over tables, a handful of gleeful onlookers, and the part-orkish woman who shoves him back down whenever he tries to get to his feet. He finally turns and kicks upward, catching the massive woman firmly in one knee. She curses and stumbles just long enough that he’s able to scramble to his feet, right into a pair of encroaching onlookers who shove him back into the fray. Flynt ends up landing in a still upright chair and tipping back over with the momentum, landing alongside the still-dazed dwarven man I hit with the mug.

“What the actual—” Maybe it’s just because I’ve been subconsciously listening for it, but Meg’s voice is loud enough that it carries over the dull roar of the other patrons. I see her standing in the open doorway between the inn’s front hall and the tavern area.

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There’s another loud shout and Tyrus hurtles past her toward the fray. He steps across a pair of chairs and up onto a long table, then dashes along it before launching himself over a pair of onlookers and onto the back of the part-elvish man just as he’s going in for another punch. Jonas’s would-be attacker bellows in surprise at the sudden heavy impact, and he spins, barely keeping his balance but clearly losing orientation. The fact it doesn’t just send them both to the floor is, honestly, astounding. He tries to grab Tyrus, but our dwarven rogue holds on.

The woman has mostly recovered from Flynt’s kick, but she’s distracted by the suddenness of the Tyrus situation, and seemingly on reflex, she reaches out to try to grab our dwarf from her companion’s back. She catches hold of Tyrus’s tunic just as Jonas goes in for another strike against the half-elf—this one, an open-handed slap.

His palm makes loud contact with the half-elf’s cheek, and this strike the man clearly feels as Jonas seems to pump a little something extra into—or, rather, away from—the skin-to-skin contact (10). Surprise etches across the half-elf’s features and he pales, then turns ashen, and falters. An elbow strike to the back of his head from Tyrus (5) is enough that the man fully loses his balance.

The woman still has hold of Tyrus’s tunic and pulls just as the half-elf starts going down, grabbing at her to try to stay on his feet. Combined, it’s too fast and too much of a weight shift to compensate for, even for someone that sturdy, so it takes her down onto her ass, the half-elf falling into her, and Tyrus landing on top of them with an oof loud enough to carry over the shouting.

Tyrus is scrambling away just as a loud thwap thwap thwap catches everyone’s attention, and the decibels in the room immediately fall as all eyes turn to the bartender, who holds a repeating crossbow aimed upward. A trio of bolts stick out from an exposed ceiling beam that, judging from the punctures in the wood, has been part of similar attention-grabbing missions more than a few times in the past.

“Graidel!” the bartender shouts. “Haas! Shev! Enough!”

With this declaration, an off-switch is thrown on the excitement and most of the onlookers immediately take a step back and sheepishly, quietly return to their beverages and original seating arrangements. Several pick up fallen chairs as they retreat, looking over their shoulders at the chaos in the corner. Both the part-orkish woman and the half-elf have sat up but remain on the floor. The woman checks in on the dwarf, who is still on his back, still partly under a table; he seems to actually chuckle a little as he waves her off.

Jonas, meanwhile, has pushed himself nearly up against the wall, as far from them as the mess of fallen furniture allows. He’s shaking and flexing his hands into and out of fists. Flynt clambers back to his feet, seething at the other group as he wipes at his bloodied nose.

“What have I told you about starting shit?!” the bartender continues.

“It weren’t us!” the half-elf shouts back, getting awkwardly to his feet, the color slowly returning to his face. He’s glaring at Jonas, but is also clearly aware of a large, older, human man who now stands within lunging distance, arms folded and beard-covered jaw squared. “The human swung first!”

“And what’d you say to ensure that?!” There’s a clatter as she shoves the crossbow back under the bar, her pale face flushed red. “All three of you out! You’re done for the night!”

“What about them?!” The half-elf gestures at my companions, then points specifically at Jonas. “That one used channeling magic ’gainst me! I felt it!”

“Haas,” the man behind him says, voice low. “Just collect your pride and get out like Mira says. Don’t make this hard.”

“They paid their tab upfront, so I don’t give a shit! Get your free-loading, trouble-making asses out of here!”

The part-orkish woman grumbles under her breath as she lifts the dwarf onto his feet, and then grabs the half-elvish man by the shoulder, giving him a tug. He casts one more scowl at Jonas but allows himself to be encouraged out of the tavern. I watch Meg step aside to let them leave, the dull mix of conversation slowly picking back up around us. The dwarf pauses, glances back, and meets my eyes. He offers a grin and a tip of an imaginary cap before he follows his companions.

The older man with the beard begins to help Tyrus right the furniture and push the corner’s tables back into place. I’m still a bit dazed as I watch Flynt quietly check in with Jonas, before approaching me, a handkerchief held to his bloodied nose.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low and nasal.

“Yeah, I’m—”

“What happened?!” Meg hisses from behind us. “I’m gone for five ticks and come back to a… what was that? What did you do?”

It takes a moment for me to realize she’s specifically asking me.

“Me? I was getting drinks,” I say, holding up my hands and regretting that as the world starts to spin. I brace myself back against the table, feeling my face pale and cold sweat break out under my collar. “Next thing I know, I’m watching Jonas trying to punch a guy, and then a few heartbeats later, I’m being thrown across the room by the largest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” Meg’s tone could not be more incredulous. She looks at Flynt, who is blotting at the frankly disturbing amount of blood on his face—God noses bleed—and then past him to where Tyrus is coaxing Jonas into a chair back at the original corner table. Our healer is still clearly trembling, and Tyrus shoots us a clear WTF? expression.

“Trust me, I’m just as confused.” Flynt’s voice remains comically pinched as he surveys the room, aware of the stares in our direction. “They accused us of encroaching on their territory, said a handful of things about weakness and lies, then the half-elf grabbed Jonas roughly and called him something I didn’t catch. That’s when I tried to get the man to back off and it… escalated.”

“Encroaching on their territory?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

Meg sighs. “Small town bounty chasers, probably. I bet there’s some kind of contract here they’re trying to fill, and they decided we could be a threat to that. Either that, or they’re just bored and looking for an excuse. Small place like this… but there are a half dozen other people here who would have made a better target than Jonas.”

She frowns and glances out the window onto the main thoroughfare, which looks dark and empty. The other group isn’t anywhere to be seen, which feels like a relief. Meg refocuses back on us.

“I’ll go back and get the drinks, see if the bartender will tell me anything. Maybe it’s my turn to get the details since I wasn’t involved in the nonsense. You two, go sit down before you fall over, and try to get Jonas to breathe.”