“Alright, alright, alright, how about a trip to the shipyard? A pacifying walk along the-”

Sil stumbled back from a violent shove and a pang shot through his hip, courtesy of the sturdy table in his way. A distinct wetness on his midriff saw him discover a new stain on his shirt - a good shirt. Sil gingerly set down his cup of fruit wine onto the closest table and cried out, indignantly, “It was just a suggestion!”

The chair that flew Sil’s way immediately afterwards was response enough. It caught him in the shoulder and threw him off balance long enough to watch his accoster rumble over. Sil stared slack-jawed at the veins pulsing along the man’s thick neck, but he spurred himself into action and lurched backwards into a half-trip. Sil's eyes widened for a moment at the messy swing that sliced the air over his head. His arms lashed out for support desperately while he was suspended in the air, but he found none. The floorboards did not prove welcoming.

The one time I- another swing, and Sil fumed while he scrambled away. Credit where credit was due, all was typically peaceful in Nio’s tavern: the bar’s owner and namesake easily kept the more problematic villagers away. Unfortunately, when Nio was off in Sarid closing up a trading deal, the job defaulted to his daughter, Ella, who had let them in without a word in edgewise. That was a decision Sil had just known wouldn’t end well. Is this vindication?

While Abel reoriented himself, a quick glance around the tavern found little support: the regulars were exchanging glances, conveniently failing to meet his eyes during Sil’s momentary respite. The first time I come here, and the bar is really putting its best foot forward. The idea that he could handle a drunk and wrathful Abel was ridiculous. So far, Sil had maintained an exquisitely pacifist track record, and he certainly was not relishing an opportunity to change that.

The young man quickly wiped away any signs of discontent, though, speaking up again with a nervous smile on his face. “Look, friends, if it’s a fight you want, I’m sure the docks would suit your tastes a little better…”

The smile faded away immediately - Abel had charged over to him, arms up in a fairly threatening stance in the eyes of someone whose nearest brushes with danger involved saws and splinters. A tiny squeak of panic escaped the boy as he leapt over a table. Nice… some corner of Sil’s mind acknowledged how graceful it had been and nodded proudly to itself.

As he lunged once again out of the way and started to backpedal furiously, hands up in the air, it occurred to Sil that he did get himself into this unfavorable situation. He hadn’t meant to imply Abel was a moron, at least not in a way that wouldn’t fly over his head, but Sil was still quite sure the violence was unwarranted. At the very least, he held out hope the regulars would interfere if the fighting got bad. Or too disruptive.

Thankfully, Zalo, Abel’s friend who had been interested in Sil for less than a second, was busy off to his left, flipping sturdy oak tables and spouting drunken profanities. With any luck, he’d tire soon - those tables were heavy.

Sil had bigger problems. Somehow, Abel had gotten his hands on another chair, and was building up way too much momentum as he made his way across the tavern. Sil’s eyes drifted, briefly, to the scars of old rope burns along Abel’s hands as they gripped tightly onto the legs of the chair.

What do you do with a drunken- woah! He rolled to the right rapidly, narrowly avoiding a stomp. Intrusive thoughts…

Sil’s mind cleared and his eyes widened: the chair hurtled towards him, tracing out a wild arc in the air. From the snarl on his face, Abel was putting his all into the swing. Sil start to move backwards, but he held back a curse when his back bumped up against the wall. The chair loomed in his vision - it would bruise, if not break, with a hit. Abel’s stocky build could make for a knockout blow, and Sil had no desire to risk brain damage.

Sil squeezed his eyes shut and darted forward in an attempt to check Abel with his shoulder. In the process, the young man also managed a lucky duck under two swinging arms. The shove didn’t do much but set Abel off balance - heavy bastard that he was - but Sil’s mind raced and a quick, desperate push knocked him onto the floor.

“Spear you, maggot!” Sil crowed in triumph.

Clattering elsewhere in the tavern distracted him: Zalo had kicked over an occupied table and cursed at the man sitting there. Sil looked over just in time to see Chureh, a foreigner who was in town to visit family, shoot up in response. Ah, crap. Both parties were clearly tipsy, and as he bolted away again (Abel was beginning to find his way onto his feet), Sil found himself acutely aware of the chaos that was soon to ensue. He had to either defuse the situation or escape. There was no way he could get in the middle of this fight.

Mind whirling, Sil yelled out with the most righteously-enraged voice he could muster. “Abel! Zalo! People are at your houses! What the hell are they planning!?”

That managed to grab their attention. It was funny, how those with the least to lose guarded it so zealously.

After a solid second for his words to sink in, both the men’s faces contorted in rage. Sil pitied the fictitious filchers as the two bolted out the door. Hopped up on cheap liquor, they didn’t think through his claim too hard - thank the Heralds for that - and the moment their silhouettes disappeared from his vision, he heaved a sigh of relief. Conveniently, Sil’s back had found another wall, and he slid down onto the floor. His chest heaved like the bellows one of his father's friends worked at. No quips appeared in Sil's mind - no words at all, actually. Maybe he did get me with the chair.

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“How was your first fight?” One regular sipped at his mug, eyes wrinkled in amusement, and called out.

“First- I’ll show you first! Alright!” The clever barb was proof to Sil that his wits were strewn across the floor along with his wine. Ignoring any other jeers, he walked over to his downed table, head held high in faux pride. The indignities of the past thirty seconds did not make him less of a man. At the same time, Sil’s eyes darted across the tavern. The man who had been ruffled by Zalo’s drunken ministrations was settled again, nursing a new drink.

Ah. Ella’s back out, then. Indeed, she was: Sil spotted her wiping down a glass behind the bar. He wondered if Ella would have been able to help him, had she not ducked into the store room as soon as trouble started brewing. Really, it would have been the least she could do to clean up her own mess.

It didn’t matter either way. Sil approached his original table and crouched down. His fingers wrapped around the lip of the large, circular table. He bent his knees, tightened his core, and braced. It was just like hefting a piece of lumber onto the worktable at home. Here we go…

Sil’s face flushed hot as he managed to lift the heavy wooden table one or two inches off the ground. Goddammit. Part of the new red coloring his face was the wine, part was his whole-bodied straining, and most was the feeling of at least ten pairs of eyes on him as he struggled with the table. Determination wasn’t quite enough against gravity, and the young man tapped out, loosening his grip. The resulting loud thud seemed unnecessary humiliation. “Not a word-”

“That’s Mateo’s son, alright! Clever from collar to breeches! Bit scrawny, though…”

A middle-aged, burly man, burst into laughter from the top of the stairs. Loren. The man made his way down the stairs, nonchalant as could be under Sil’s evil eye. Loren did not quite live in the village, but he was more than well-known. Plenty of essentials were hard to come by in the smaller villages in the Bardenas Desert, and Loren always seemed to have an inexhaustible supply when he set up camp in Nio’s inn for a few weeks every season. Merchants definitely enjoyed quite the local status.

Sil wasn’t convinced that status was quite deserved as Loren walked over and nearly buckled Sil’s knees with the weight of an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. Loren whispered and grinned, “Well done, lad. I’d get you a beer if I didn’t know about your… preferences.”

A wink and a meaningful glance at the spilled cup of fruit wine. Sil tried not to blush. Not awaiting a response, Loren pulled away to yank up the offending table while Sil hurriedly grabbed a cloth from Ella with an embarrassed glare. While Loren found himself a seat, Sil scurried over to the spilled drink and knelt. As he erased evidence, Sil muttered resentfully, more to himself than to the merchant.

“And where were you this whole time, hm?”

Loren either didn’t hear or pretended not to as he turned around to the rest of the tavern, raising his arms and yelling out in a booming voice.

“A drink for everyone here, on me! Sil’s turning out more and more like his father!”

The merchant turned to Sil and fished out a thin, silver wedge - a silver real. He toyed with it deftly and raised an eyebrow towards the young man in front of him eyeing the coin. Loren simply grinned and tossed it towards him, chuckling, “Get yourself a few drinks too, son. That was pretty good.”

The young man had mostly calmed down now, taking in breaths that skipped in his chest to quiet the nervous lightness that remained. He cracked his neck and mostly failed to suppress a proud smirk as he sat down and leaned back. Sil’s grievances were far from forgotten, however.

“What was that!? One tap to the side of my head and I would’ve been out!”

He complained in a loud voice, casting a resentful glare around the tavern. One man, with sandy hair swept over his forehead, rumbled out a response.

“Ah, it would’ve been alright. A couple days in Cassandra’s would’ve fixed you up.”

Sil scoffed but didn’t say anything, allowing the tavern to return to its signature chatter. The healer’s services were expensive, and she seemed to believe that entirely preventable pain was a window into wisdom, but of course that hadn’t entered their considerations.

After ten minutes of listening to the conversation and drinking, the young man was noticeably less miffed and managed a mutter, “I bet those two are going to wake up to a hell of a mess tomorrow, ransacking their houses for imaginary thieves. Serves them right.”

A chuckle echoed through the tavern: Abel and Zalo were far from popular. Sil gestured a barmaid closer, placing an order for the “ox killer”. His father had said it was a bit much, but Sil liked the sound of it. Nio, his very understanding godfather and coincidentally this tavern’s namesake, agreed - he had let out a deep belly laugh upon hearing it and discreetly informed all who worked at the inn of the fruity nature of Sil’s signature drink.

Sil began to get comfortable, relaxing in his chair as he listened to the crowd engaging in conversation as they nursed their drinks. He gladly joined the banter, throwing about playful jabs. He could never bring himself to hold grudges after all…

Maybe I should do this more often, mused Sil with a broad smile on his face. He’d been rather disgruntled when his father kicked him out of the house for the weekly game of cards - Mateo was the one hosting this time, and clearly that meant his son was allowed nowhere in sight. Messing about in Nio’s tavern, though, was turning out to be almost as fun as the project Sil would have worked on instead. For now, he pushed all thoughts of carpentry out of his head and tried to immerse himself in the moment.

After ten minutes, when Sil finished his drink and was about to order another, Loren stood up without warning and shot a glance over at him. Never one to miss a signal, the younger man also stood up casually and stretched before sauntering after Loren, who had disappeared into the second floor.