Cedric and Olric moved as one as the slowly met eyes in disbelief, and then Cedric twisted in his stool to look at the newcomer. He saw in the doorway three figures slowly walking in, on the tail of their fourth comrade who was stumbling toward the bar in a jagged line.

The stumbler was a tall, gangling youth wearing fine robes of green and gold. Rings of gold and silver decorated his hands, and his hair was cut in what looked to be the foppish style that Cedric had seen several younger men wearing the day before. A glance at his shoes and Cedric knew all he needed to know. They were suede; soft and pliable, and with a gold buckle on each. They were stylish, probably cost a fortune, and were the sort of shoes more suited to a dinner party than a day’s work. For a man who looked to be not even in his twenties yet, the fop had clearly gotten them as a gift. Cedric knew the exact type; a son of a rich noble or merchant who had never worked a day in his life. He felt his lips press into a firm line, and before he glared too much, he looked at the other newcomers.

Cedric felt a sigh beginning to build. One of them was a woman with a severe look to her. Dressed in black leather pants and jerkin, and a long, thin sword strapped to her belt, she looked all the world like the villain from a child’s story. She had a hard lined face, and her gaze was haughty as it took in the taproom. The other was a chubby lad of average height and sandy hair, dressed in a rich pants and brocade of burgundy with gold trim. Cedric felt his gaze wander to their shoes again; the villain was wearing stylish boots that came up to her calf, and the chubby boy was wearing the same as the foppish lad. They all looked new, and had no scuffs at all.

Rich noble kids still going from the night before Cedric surmised, looking at the trailing figure a few steps back, and pausing on him. The tall man had long blond hair weather beaten features. A heavy tan marked his face, and he wore a dark green jerkin and brown pants. He was tall and muscled like a guardsman, and had a short, thick blade on one hip, a pair of long knives adorning the other. He was a full elf, several years older than any of the others in his group, and walked slowly and deliberately, lagging several paces behind. The man’s eyes flicked around the taproom taking in everything. If Cedric hadn’t seen them walk in together, he would have thought this man was on his own. But as it was, the man’s purpose was clear. Whoever these children were, they had a bodyguard tailing them. And one who looked like he was tough enough to eat a troll and spit out the bones Cedric shuddered at the mental image he conjured up.

“Hello friend!” the chubby boy nodded amicably at Cedric, who realized with a start he was staring. “And hello to you too, sir!” the boy continued, looking at Olric. “I do apologize for Francis here. We’ve on a night out, and he never could hold his ale!”

“Uh huh. Not really night anymore though, is it?” Olric did not seem impressed, and was now leaning slightly over the bar, staring right at Francis, who seemed about to collapse into a wine soaked ball.

“Allow me to introduce myself! My name is Roger Estmore, of the Estmore family. My companions are my visiting cousins Deidre, and you’ve already met Francis, both also of the illustious Estmore line. Could we trouble you for a round of ales, and a flagon of whisky? I promise my cousin was joking about any flogging!” Olric just stared as Roger completed his introductions, chuckling at his own joke towards the end. The name drop hung in the air.

“I’m not” Deidre mumbled under her breath, rolling her eyes. That seemed to snap Olric out of his idiot-induced stupor.

“I beg your pardon…Deidre, was it? I missed what you said just now”

Deidre let out a long, overloud sigh, and sniffed, before glaring at Olric. “I said I’m not. Joking about having you flogged. Get us the ales, now, and be quick about it.” She snapped, before rolling her eyes again and looking at Roger. “Why are commoners around here so slow?” she complained loudly. “I wish they’d just hurry up”. Roger was cringing so hard he looked like he may implode.

Olric however, looked ready to explode. He was leaning forwards over the bar, his face twisted in the righteous fury that comes with being disrespected so openly. His teeth bared slightly, showing his tusks. “And what rank are you as adventurers?” came his reply, in a strange juxtaposition, Olric’s voice came out polite and professional, despite him looking like he was considering strangling somebody.

“What rank ish you talking about?” Francis glared up at Olric, seeming to sober up some. “We’re nobility. That’s our rank. Everybody knows the Eastmore family, unless you live under a rock. Or a dusty old taproom” a smirk graced his face as if he’d said something exceptionally witty.

“Well, we’re an adventurer bar. You need to be an adventurer or a worker to drink here. And you lot look like you’d crumble during a hard day’s work”. Olric had plastered a smile that was a little too tight lipped to be convincing onto his face.

Francis looked up sharply. “Why you little…” came the ground out reply, his voice rising slightly as his cheeks reddened.

Olric’s fake smile had turned quite a bit more genuine as he drew himself up to his full height. “…Little?”

Francis seemed to deflate slightly as he took in the sight of the hulking barkeep.

Cedric saw exactly where this was going and jumped up. “Hey now, relax! It’s still early morning. We’re all a little slow in the morning, aren’t we? Olric here’s still waking up!” he pulled on a wide and fake, but hopefully convincing enough, grin, and clapped Francis on the shoulder. “It’s great to meet you all! Did I hear you were visiting? I’m new to the city myself! Have you seen many of the sights yet?” Cedric continued, in the most friendly and affable tone he could manage. These nobles seem like they’re bad news…but Roger seems pleasant enough. Maybe I can get them talking and ease the tension a bit.

Roger shot Cedric a grateful look. “Yes, the chap is right! Besides, I just remembered my father recently purchased a case of a delightful little red from one of the nearby monasteries. We could head back to the estate and crack a bottle! You’re here on a holiday, cousin, might as well try something local! We’ve been drinking ale all night after all. Let’s leave these fine folks to their breakfasts!” the sandy haired young man ambled on with forced cheer in his voice.

Francis looked at Cedric’s hand on his shoulder as if it was a rodent of some sort that had climbed out of a sewer, and Cedric felt his hope of a quiet morning wake-up dwindle.

“How dare you presume to speak to me, rat!” Francis swept Cedric’s hand off his shoulder, and straightened up, his face twisting with rage, and slamming his hands in a two handed shove against Cedric’s chest, knocking him into the bar.

“Hey!” on instinct, as he felt the white hot impact spreading through his side on contact with the hard and sharp corner of the bar, Cedric shoved back. Cedric being a dwarf, and significantly stockier than the average human, was able to shove significantly harder. The tall boy went stumbling more than a few steps away, his face holding a shocked look at the sudden rush of being off balance. Realizing what he’d done, Cedric felt his stomach drop through the floor.

Francis glared at him, his anger plain to see, before straighting up again, and curling his lips up in a vicious smile. “A commoner? Attacking a noble? How terrifying! I suppose I’d better defend myself” Francis’ drawl dripped with arrogant malice, as he locked eyes with the dwarf, his sarcastic tone totally at odds with his words.

“Now now, Francis” Roger began, nerves fraying his voice. “He clearly didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an accident! Wasn’t it, friend?” his voice imploring, looking towards Cedric with the last part.

A steel rush echoed into the taproom as Deidre drew a rapier, wearing a vicious smile twin to Francis’. She said nothing, but Cedric felt her eyes boring holes in him as well.

He slowly angled his body, left shoulder forwards. Trying to give nothing away, flicked the top of the leather holster on his right hip open, and pushed his hand inside, arming himself with what he found in there. A slight flick of his wrist tightened it, and suddenly he felt it’s calm, reassuring weight. He felt that calm ripple through his body, relaxing him, as he bent his knees and leaned forwards slightly. The casual cruelty and arrogance he’d felt directed his way had taken him off guard, but he wasn’t an easy target. Not anymore. I’m not weak anymore. I’m ready.

Francis muttered something under his breath and it was as if the words rippled out from his mouth. He held his right palm towards himself, fingers splayed, and it began to radiate heat, as if it were made of molten metal that hadn’t cooled. He looked at Cedric, his eyes twinkling with a savage glee. “In older times, nobles could brand anybody who lay hands on them. I think I might bring it back into fashion.”

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He began pacing towards Cedric, burning palm outstretched. Cedric let him advance, doing his best not to give any indication of his thoughts. As the noble closed on him, coming within an arm’s length, he smiled. For a second Francis had a look of confusion on his face replacing anger, before Cedric withdrew his right hand from the hip holster, now ensconced in the metal backed gauntlet held within. In a fluied motion he stepped forwards, flicking out his leading hand to brush away Francis’ burning palm at the wrist and lunging forwards with a half step, burying his metal backed fist right in the arrogant noble’s gut.

The air went out of Francis right away, but Cedric wasn’t done. Stepping in with a vicious kick to the tall boy’s knee, he felt his boot slam into the limb with a sickening crunch. The bent over fop screeched at the impact, and Cedric grabbed his hair, before slamming his metal backed fist into his side, then roughly shoving him as hard as he could away. Francis staggered back, before collapsing into a groaning heap on the floor, and Cedric made no move to follow.

___

Toloss hung back, and began muttering under his breath. The incantation began to build. It had happened fast, and that idiot Francis had been reduced to a mewling heap on the floor, but the dwarvish man didn’t seem to be planning on taking it further. But it was his job to make sure none of his charges got killed or permanently injured, and this was spinning out of control. He felt the magic inside stirring as the spell built. His internal well opened, and the flow of arcane energy began to flow through pathways into his gate, where he held the spell. The incantations molded the spell that resided in his gate, tweaking it as necessary to the situation at hand as the flow of power from his well began to fill it’s form, readying it to be cast out onto the world.

He planned to take away the option of this deteriorating any more. If he drew one of his blades, all it would take is the guards bursting in at the wrong time to end with him behind bars. He wasn’t a noble, and didn’t trust his employers protection the second it was inconvenient. His position as a bodyguard was still new and tenuous. Magic was the best option, and he knew just the spell.

He was a mercenary by trade though, not a bodyguard. His restraint spell was somewhat more…painful, than most. He mentally shrugged. He felt bad for the dwarf, but being in the wrong place at the wrong time was a painful aspect of life. He wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

___

The wizard was irritated. Here she was, reading a grimoire that had been guarded by three idiot warlocks and one slightly-less-but-still-very-idiotic sorcerer, and had taken almost a month to track down. She’d been finally enjoying herself, and really getting into it, eyes tracing the words and diagrams while her internal magic shifted in step with the patterns on the pages, imprinting the spellforms onto her gate. She’d happily spend a few more days just sitting here reading, absorbing the esoteric knowledge of it’s writer, but something was whipping up the eddies of essence around the place.

First that idiot noble with his burning palms spell. Did something that weak even count as magic these days? Dabblers disgusted her, and dabblers who thought they were something special were just plain annoying. But whatever, that boy had hit him a few times, which seemed to solve the problem before she had to do anything.

But now that tall fellow who looked like he’d stab somebody’s eyes out for the right price was casting. Elves could be so annoying; they had a knack for magic, but so many of them just…dabbled. There was that word again. Some of them were little better than the sorcerer and warlocks she’d had to deal with for the grimoire. Wasted potential, all of them. Those same warlocks were currently face down in a river, and the sorcerer…well, the sorcerer had been turned into a fine mist. Really, they should have just handed over the book and been done with it the second she showed up. She realized she was riling herself up again. She took a deep breath. She always felt like this when somebody interrupted her when she was finally enjoying herself.

The elf dabbler was reaching the end of his spell, and the wizard felt the eddies of magic start to shape. It was very distracting, and she’d never be able to focus on the magic in her new, hard won grimoire that she’d been so looking forwards to analyzing.

“Hush” she whispered, fixing the elf with a glare, and the eddies and currants in the air stilled.

___

The man felt the spell he’d been gathering abruptly halt, and access to the well of magic within him slammed shut. He blinked. He’d never felt something like that just…rip away his magic. He turned and saw a small, stern looking woman glaring at him from a table, book in hand. He took in the blue robes, the staff propped against one chair, and the symbol that looked like an arrow piercing a cloud…and didn’t recognize any of it.

With wizards though, that could mean she was some new graduate from a second rate academy on a power trip…or maybe she was some ancient spellcaster who’d descended from her tower for the first time in centuries and could reduce him to ash with a wave.

As he met her glare, he felt something shift. His magical sensed picked up on a glimmer of her power from behind a veil that had been taken down for just an instant. Just enough for him to get quick peek. A peek that made him feel like an icy hand was grabbing him by the throat. He gulped.

She raised a finger to her lips and hissed “shhhhhhh” at him, before the veil flicked back in place and she looked down at her book. For all intents and purposes, she looked like just a women in her late forties enjoying a good book.

He paused, bowed, and backed up a few steps. Probably overdoing it, he thought, but it was better to look like a fool than be reduced to dust. The entire exchange had rattled and distracted him, and in his line of work that was dangerous. But after that exchange…no spells. The magic in the air felt totally stilled, so even if he was willing to risk the blue-robed wizard’s wrath by trying to cast again, he felt that it wouldn’t work. Whatever kind of field she’d cast totally blocked off his power, and it was dissipating far too slowly to make a working of any kind possible in the next few minutes.

He got himself under control with a deep breath and another gulp, feeling his heart hammering, and turned back to his charges, internally admonishing himself for losing his focus. He hoped nobody had died while he was acting like a frightened child.

___

The halfling slumped over the table didn’t move, still blissfully asleep, and oblivious to what was happening around him. He shifted slightly in his slumber. Nobody seemed to notice.

___

Deidre screamed a sound of inarticulate rage and lurched forwards at the sight of Francis collapsing on the ground, his pathetic groans of pain filling the taproom. She brought up her long, slender blade in a fencer’s pose, one hand held aloft behind her, her body slanted with her rapier pointed to Cedric’s throat and one foot forwards. A classic stance that practically reeked of training and education.

She gathered her body’s energy around herself, and focused on the point, and with a slight exertion of will, propelled herself toward the upstart commoner who’d dare strike her cousin.

As she did, Olric moved. He vaulted over the bar, launching off of his back foot, and interposed himself between Deidre and Cedric. With his leading hand curling into a fist pointed upwards, he swung it around, his wrist meeting Deidre’s, and continuing on, deflecting her hand down towards the ground, and shoving her sword off target a few paces away from Cedric.

The rapier’s point bounced against the floor, and Deidre’s charged ceased, a shocked look on her face. Using the momentum from his charge Olric kept rotating, and threw and elbow under her guard, catching her just underneath the sternum with a sharp rap. As she winced and looked down, mind still computing, Olric’s leg came up in a slow but deliberate kick, heel almost placing itself against her as he shoved. The kick, more of a hard shove with his foot, sent her reeling and off balance, with her scrabbling to maintain balance and not catch herself on the point of her rapier. Her composure broken, she stared, dumbfounded at the sudden burst of motion from the barman, and the shocking speed at which he’d moved, as a dull pain began to bloom in her wrist and torso.

As she got her feet under her, her surprise solidified back into rage. “I’m going to slice you to ribbons” she whispered, voice hot with rage.

Olric’s rage had turned into a calm, almost detached expression while he’d been moving, but now it simmered back into his features for a second, before he felt a wide grin form over his features. He hunched his shoulders, and bared his tusks in a predatory grin. Cedric felt his heart begin to hammer as he realized Olric was very comfortable for a supposed bartender facing down a neophyte spellcaster and a swordswoman. “I’ve missed fighting. If you want to try, please do. Maybe if you’re better than that sorry excuse for a lunge seemed to show, I’ll even wake up a little” his grin was practically splitting his face.

Suddenly the chubby form of Roger interposed himself between them, facing towards Deidre. “No no nononononono- NO!” he shrieked shrilly, hands grasping and grabbing his cousin’s sword arm at the shoulder and elbow. “This night has gone on quite long enough, and I think you’ve seen enough of our city! My father asked me to show you around, not help you get into a bar room brawl! Toross, grab Francis. It’s time we left”

He yanked on her, pulling her towards the door. She resisted, and begin pulling away from him, but his hands hardened into claws, digging into her arm, eliciting a wince and a glare. “You two were sent here exactly because of this sort of…commotion” Roger hissed, his voice suddenly serious, dropping to a barely audible whisper. The congenial and affable mask suddenly slipped, and his face was as cold and impassive as a glacier. His eyes betrayed him. They were practically erupting with frustration and rage, all directed at his cousin. “Almscliffe isn’t like Vauwood, and nobles aren’t above the law here. Behave, before you get our heads stuck on pikes” before tugging once again, this time more sharply.

Her face clouded momentarily with doubt, Deidre let herself be dragged away by her cousin. The Elven man, Toloss, moved slowly, gathering up the huddled heap known as Francis, and pulling him roughly up, and helping him limp to the door. His eyes met Olric’s for a second, but his expression was unreadable.

“Good day all!” Roger called back, his voice injected with false cheer, this time the fakest yet, as the group exited the taproom.

When the door thudded closed, Olric’s voice rang out in the suddenly quiet room, as he rubbed his wrist.

“Nobles”. The harsh tone making it sound like the most revolting and vile curse he’d ever uttered.

Cedric nodded, still barely believing what had just happened.

“Nobles” he agreed, his voice wooden and distant even to him.

___