Arbors Butchers is the largest tavern in the town of Lignum, and the only tavern large enough to fit the crews of several Corvettes and Frigates… or a couple destroyers. Currently, there are many of the former and only one of the latter.

The latter ship is the talk of the town.

“Yea, it’s a damn nice ship,” Brenis listens to the fifth conversation about the vessel. “It has this nice raven figurehead and a dozen guns on each side. She’s a real beauty, she is.”

The older regular, a level 36 [Expert Shipwright] listening to the man's words rolls his eyes. “Bah, it's not a core ship, is it? I heard the ship has a full complement of crew.” he wiggles a finger at the younger [Shipwright] who’d only recently gotten his second skill. “I remember when we used to build Cored frigates that could outmaneuver and outrun your fancy destroyers and sink them without your bigger ship ever returning a shot.”

“Doren.” Brenis, the [Tavern keeper] interrupts the [Expert Shipwright]. “Outmaneuver, yes, but a destroyer is larger and can field more and bigger guns. A core may free up more hands, but the chain cannons on a destroyer can still slow a frigate with a good shot.”

“Brenis, you know as well as I do that a second-class [Captain] can single-handedly pilot a frigate. That's twelve hands free for cannons. A coreless ship needs half the crew running the rigging. That leaves only six crew to man the cannons.”

Brenis sighs and shakes his head. “Second-class [Captain]’s dont grow on trees, and the only ones who can fully pilot a ship alone are specifically trained for it. Also, you still forget that a destroyer can always fit more guns than a frigate. So long as you have enough [Cannoneers] to man all of the cannons on a single side, then additional crew won’t add anymore firepower.”

“Bah,” Doren waves his hand, “Arguing with you is annoying. Get me another of that whiskey.” Doren points a thumb to his side. “and one for my partner. He’s gonna need it to forget your damn heresies.”

“Yea, yea, I got it.” Brenis leans down and grabs two glasses and a bottle and sets it on the counter. He uncorks the bottle and begins pouring. “So, about that destroyer. Any rumors on why it’s here? You said it had a raven head? Think it's part of the Guild?” Brenis sets the drinks in front of Doren and his nephew.

“What guild?” the nephew of sixteen asks.

“Crows Guild. They’re a guild of [Bounty Hunters]. One of the Greater-Seven, if I remember correctly.” Doren explains.

“You think they’re here for someone?” Brenis asks.

“BORISS STOP!”

Before Doren can answer, a loud yell causes the entire tavern to go silent. All eyes turn to the entrance.

“Vhat is wrong, comrade? Do you sense trap?” a voice asks right outside the door.

“Worse, you’re messing up our entrance. You can't just use your hands to open the door to a tavern!”

“I cant?”

“No, you can't. Now, the proper way to enter these establishments is to kick the doors open.”

“But comrade Quasi, I have manly Russian feet. Door may break.”

“Boriss, focus! This is important. Testing the durability of a tavern's doors is a time-honored tradition. If the door cannot withstand a mere kick, then it is clear that the owner is utterly incompetent in their job and we should instead choose a different place.”

“Ahh, is common capitalist test. I not know. I Test now.”

Brenis winces as the double doors to his Tavern open loudly and violently. The thick doors withstood the kick, but Brenis makes a mental note to check the hinges tonight.

A large towering man of muscles steps inside the tavern with a grin. He wears clothing that seems a size too small for him and carries a seemingly grinning kitten on his shoulder.

The large man smiles towards the cat. “Comrade, the door survive Russian leg. Is good tavern, yes?”

“Meow.” The cat answers back.

The large man nods in understanding.

“Da, plan. We go.”

The large grinning man with a cat on his shoulder starts heading towards the bar. Behind him follows a tall expressionless woman in a rather expensive looking coat and a captain's cutlass at her side. Clearly a ship [Captain] if Brenis had ever seen one.

Next to said [Captain] is a rather plump and short man dressed in a [Shipwright’s] attire. Brenis would guess the guy is a [Carpenter], albeit one that labors very little.

In essence, the group entering his Tavern is a ship's crew. Considering it’s only three people, Brenis would guess they captain a Corvette.

While they head in his direction, Brenis glances at the rest of his regulars. Most are curious of the three, some are annoyed, and Favio looks pissed. But it is when Brenis sees Myron with his grandson that sends a chill down his spine. The man is staring at the female [Captain] with startling concentration.

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The large man, most likely the muscle of the ship, arrives with a grin. He takes a seat on one of the empty stools and leans on the counter. “You are Bar man, yes?”

“I… am [Tavern Keeper] Brenis, yes. Do you want to order something?”

The large man reaches into his side and places a filled bag of coins on the counter. “Information.”

“Boriss,” the short man interrupts as he takes the stool next to him. “You can't just go and ask for information. You have to ease into it. Order some food and several bottles of drink. Only when you’re properly hammered should you ask for info.”

“Meow.” The cat atop Boriss shoulder nods in approval.

“You make food too, not just drink?” Boriss asks, surprised.

“Nothing fancy, but we’ve got stew, bread, skewers, and if you’re willing to wait a bit, baked fish.”

“I will have the fish with a glass water.” the woman and probable [Captain] of the group exclaims.

“And I’ll have some of that stew and bread. Add in a bottle of whatever those two are drinking.” The short man points at Doren and his nephew.

“I want many skewers.” Boriss announces.

“How many is many?”

“Twenty.” He says.

Brenis raises an eyebrow at the number. Most grown men can only go through five before getting full.

“Are you sure you want that many?”

“Meow.” The cat meows.

“Ah, Twenty-one skewers. Comrade Quasi is hungry too.”

“Uh-huh.” Brenis looks at the fat sack of coins.

“Anything to drink.”

“Strong Alcohol. Very strong for big Russian man.”

“Meeow.”

“And something for Comrade here.” he points at the cat on his shoulder.

Brenis raises an eyebrow at the cat.

“How about some milk?”

“Meeoow.” The cat seemingly nods in acceptance of the offer.

“Right… I’m going to go tell my cook first, and then I’ll get you your drinks. One moment.”

As Brenis walks into the back, a short child skitters from his seat and arrives next to Boriss.

He taps his leg. “Excuse me, sir.”

Boriss looks down at the child. “Yes, little one?”

The child points at the cat on his shoulder. “Can I pet your kitty?”

Boriss grins. “Da, comrade Quasi is good cat.”

The cat mews in both confusion and outrage as Boriss grabs the cat from his shoulder and hands it to the young boy.

The boy giggles as the cat is placed into his arms. He hugs the kitten to his chest with a happy grin on his face. “You’re so fluffy.”

“Meow?” The cat tilts its head to a corner of the room and zones in on an elderly man ready to slaughter anyone and anything that would hurt a hair on the child.

“Oy, Clay, drop the fucking dirty cat.” a man in his mid twenties drunkenly walks up to the bar.

“No.” The boy pouts and takes a step away from the man. “Kitty is clean and fluffy.”

“I don’t fucking care. I don’t want no animal in mah fucking bar.”

“Favio, you’re drunk. Its not your bar, so leave the cat alone.” Doren interrupts.

“Shut the fuck up, Doren. I go to this bar, and I don't want to see some shitty animal brought in here.”

“You’re being unreasonable. It's not a war-hound, it’s just a harmless cat.”

“Shut it, Doren, or I'll make you.” Favio warns the older man. He turn to the cat.

“Clay, either drop the fucking cat, or I’m gonna make sure you can’t ever hold anything again.” he threatens.

At the threat, the cat squirms out of Clay’s arms. It hops up on a stool and then the bar countertop. It then turns to Favio with a teethy grin.

“So, Favio. You like to pick fights, eh? How about you pick a fight with someone your own size?” The cat asks.

The entire room goes completely and utterly dead silent as all eyes are firmly on the talking cat.

“What's wrong?” titls is head mockingly. “Cat got your tongue?”

Favio blinks for a second as his alcohol fueled brain tries to rationalize what's happening.

“You want to fight me?”

The cat rolls its eyes. “I’m a fucking foot tall cat. I said someone your own size.” The cat raises a paw at the largest man in the room. “Boriss will fight you.”

Boriss frowns at the cats words. “But, comrade Quasi, is not same size.” he taps his chest, “I am big strong russian with big muscles.” he then points at Favio, “He is small like little child. Is not fair, yes?”

The cat sighs. “Borris, he was threatening a child. Fighting him is only proper.”

The large man's eyes widen as he grins. “Ahh, is like taking own medicine, yes?” He hops off his stool and steps in front of Clay. “Little child, stay back. Is time for proper Russian bar fight.”

“You think being taller and wider fucking matters?” Favio seethes with a step forward as his hands create fists.

“Careful,” Doren warns, “Favio has [Enhanced Strength]. He’s stronger than any of-” his words are cut off as Boriss grabs a stool, rushes forward, and shatters the sitting instrument across Favios face with the brutality of someone who has lived in prison for half his life.

Favio’s body flies backwards and falls on the floor, unconscious.

Silence again permeates the room, followed by Brenis running back from the kitchens.

“What the hell is happening here?” he asks as he arrives.

He looks at the room and is only met with complete silence except for the sound of a yawning kitten.

He looks at the cat.

The cat looks back at him, unamused.

“So,” the cat begins, “where’s my fucking milk?”