“Ale!” I bellowed as I crashed my fist on the counter to draw the barkeep’s attention.

Despite its colorful name, the Rancid Pusball was no more rancid or pustular than any other tavern. Then again, it wasn’t any less rancid or pustular than any other tavern either, so I suppose the name was appropriate. It smelled vaguely of vomit and urine and the body-odor of many different species all pressed in together.

A dozen orcs diced with each other in a corner, halflings and gnomes occupied several of the tables, humans lounged over the rest, and the usual assortment of pixies flew drunkenly from tankard to tankard, guzzling what they could before the owners realized what was happening and shooed them away. And it was loud. My bellow was lost among many.

Still, the barkeep heard. It wasn’t long before he thumped a full tankard in front of me. But instead of immediately letting it go, he looked me in the eye.

He was fat, sweaty, and part of his face was hidden beneath a thick black mustache. “There ain’t no trouble here,” he said.

I blinked at him in surprise, wondering how he knew. Maybe he offered his warning to everyone he served. “Really?” I said.

“Really. Poodle takes care of that.” He nodded towards the door.

Poodle? I followed his gaze to a mountain of a man standing serenely against the wall. Or maybe he was the wall. Massively built, he would have topped my height by a good foot or more, and the muscles on his arms and shoulders looked hard enough to easily withstand knives or swords. As I watched, he raised a hand that likely could have crushed rocks and waved delicately in my direction.

I realized I was staring. I turned back to the barkeep and offered a shadow of my usual grin. “No trouble. No problem. I just want a drink.” Poodle, I thought, was at least part troll. He would have been able to keep the peace in a riot. Despite his ridiculous name.

Sure that his message had sunk in, the barkeep let go of my tankard. I scattered a few coins on the counter (I’d lifted a couple of coin pouches as soon as I’d walked in) and took a long, deep drink. I thought that the ale tasted somewhat strange, and it had plenty of bubbles.

A drunk pixie blundered into my airspace. Most pixies I’ve seen looked fairly ordinary, like miniature human beings with wings. But there were exceptions, and this one looked positively feral. He had green skin like a goblin and blood-red eyes like some of the meaner-looking orcs, and a shock of white hair that stuck out from under his cap. If he’d been my size, he would have been terrifying.

But despite the way he looked, he was still a freeloading pixie just like all the rest. He proved this by settling on the counter in front of me. He wobbled a bit, sauntered over to a puddle of spilled ale, then bent at the waist and started slurping the liquid down.

Just because I thought it would be fun, I slammed the tankard down on him as hard as I could, sloshing some of the liquid within over the side.

“Oi!” he said in a high pitched but angry voice.

I lifted the tankard. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

The pixie picked himself up, dusted himself off and straightened his tiny cap, vest and trousers. Then he buzzed into the air on diaphanous wings and hovered a hand span away from my face.

“Didden see me?! Whaddam I, invisible or sometin’? Yeh stoopid? Blind, mebbe? Didden see me, me tiny ass!” He frowned mightily and waved clenched fists in my general direction while at the same time not quite maintaining his stationary hover.

“I said I’m sorry,” I said. “And it’s not as if you’re hurt or anything.” Pixies were pretty much indestructible. Stomp them, fling them into a tree, crush them between two rocks and they just kept coming back for more. If they grew any bigger than the palm of my hand and were interested in more than just booze, they would have been downright dangerous.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Not good ‘nuff! Not good ‘nuff by half!” he cried in what must have been close to full volume. He tried to pull his sword even though that weapon would have been hard pressed to draw any more blood than an average needle.

He was almost too drunk to manage and the effort cost him his stability. His hover degenerated into a spinning dive and I hoped he would crash right onto the counter. At the last moment he pulled out of his dive and looked around, facing the wrong way.

“Where’ve yeh gone?” he said. “Coward! Come back ‘n face me like a man, ifat’s what yeh are!”

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I said mildly. I was starting to enjoy myself.

He lurched in mid-air as if I’d startled him and spun around. “Right,” he said, waving his sword. “Right. Now, hol’ still a moment, an’ yeh’re gonna get yehrs! I’ve ‘ad more ‘an I’m gonna take of Bigfolk thinking yeh can do just whaddeva yeh want to me an’ mine!”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Go ahead, then. Do your worst.”

“Wha—? Right!”

With that, the little blighter sped towards my face quicker than I would’ve believed. I only just got my hands up in time, and wouldn’t you know it, being stabbed by a needle-sharp little sword actually hurt! A bit, anyway. Nor was this miniature attack over. The pixie backed up, aimed his sword once more and charged again.

Too slow this time. I swatted him out of the way. He collided with a comatose orc leaning on the bar and tumbled onto the floor. But he wasn’t done yet; as I said, pixies were tough. In moments he was back, darting at me like an angry hornet again and again, avoiding my swats, scoring a couple of good hits on my hands, and swearing non-stop.

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.

This didn’t go down too well with my little winged friend. The look on his face was pure outrage. “Yeh laffing at me? Yeh dare!?” And then he let out an inarticulate cry of rage and redoubled his efforts.

I ducked and dodged for a while, then decided this had to stop. Our antics were starting to draw the attention of other pixies. Many of them simply hovered and watched, but one or two had drifted closer and looked likely to join in. And that could go badly. Not only could it result in numerous small cuts and a great deal of pain, but it could also contravene the “No trouble here” policy of the barkeep. And that might mean a conversation with Poodle.

I felt I could do without such a conversation. “Ok, ok, I give up! I surrender!” I said, still chuckling.

The pixie paused for a moment only. It was as if he enjoyed inflicting pain more than he enjoyed the victory. So I caught him in a sudden clap! and carefully held him up between two fingers. He wriggled around and flailed with his sword, trying to reach me.

“I said I give up,” I said sweetly. I couldn’t help but admire his courage. He managed to get his weapon around and pricked my finger. “Ow,” I said, and shook him. “Stop that. Look, I’ve apologized more than once. You’ve taken your anger out on me with your sword. Tell you what. If you calm yourself down, I’ll buy you a half-tankard all for yourself.”

He stopped wriggling but didn’t look altogether convinced.

“Deal?” I said.

“Ale?”

“Ale.”

He nodded. “Deal.”

“Then put your sword away.”

Like a sulky youth, he did so. I let him go, ordered his drink and watched it arrive moments later. He immediately took off his cap and buried his face in thick foam. I raised my tankard, saluted him with it, and drank some more.

He stayed buried for long enough that I started to wonder if he’d drowned. But eventually he surfaced, wiped remnants of foam from his face with his sleeve, smacked his lips, said, “Aaahhhh!” and belched quite loudly for such a small creature.

“Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot,” I said. “My name is Gordan of Riss.”

“So?”

“So when someone introduces themselves, it’s considered polite to respond in kind.”

“Polite, huh?” said the pixie. “An’ exactly where on yer scale o’ politeness does bangin’ yer tankard on me head fall?”

He had a point. “I said I’m sorry,” I said. Even though the ale I’d drunk was starting to make my chest feel a little strange, I offered him my best grin.

He glared at me for a moment more before he relented. “Name’s Maximus. An’ I won’t say I’m pleased to meetcha, ‘cos I ain’t.” He buried his head in the foam again.

I waited. Max eventually came up for air.

“So, tell me,” I said. “Do you come here often?”

Max stopped moving and stared for a while. “You tryin’ to pick me up?” he asked. “‘Cos I’m not a fairy. I’m a pixie. That’s two diff’rent things.”

“No! No, not at all. I just thought, if you came here regularly, you might know of someone I’m looking for.” I’ll admit it. I was genuinely embarrassed.

He continued to stare, suspicious. “Who?”

“A Seer. She’s got red hair and gives readings with a crystal ball. That’s all I know.”

Max’s suspicion lasted a moment more before he relented. “Yeah. I know ‘er. Goes by Gabrielle or Gabriella or sumthin’. Might even be ‘ere now. Check upstairs. Tha’s where she usually is.”

Upstairs? I hadn’t realized there was an upstairs. “Thank you, kind sir. You have been an absolute gentleman, and I do hope you enjoy your ale.” With that, I left him to his drink, grasped my own tankard and went to find the stairs.