"Holy shit," Offswitch muttered, in a low voice, as he looked at the saloon. If it had perhaps been a nonsmoking establishment before, this was clearly no longer the case. It was almost dawn, and there was enough greying light to see the destruction was at least confined to this one location.

"We're each other's alibi," Trashscarf said quickly. "No one can prove we were involved in any way whatsoever."

They both broke into a jog as they headed towards the scene of destruction; a jog brisk enough to show concern, but not all that fast, either, because there didn't seem to be much point in hurrying.

They arrived at the tavern; the entire front of the building had been blown wide open, as though from a great explosion. The timbers were smouldering faintly, and there were a few people milling about, poking at things, commenting, staring. But there didn't seem to be any bodies, at least.

The bartender, who was filling out paperwork on a clipboard, had a bloody nose and a black eye. The Watchman who'd been drinking at the bar was passed out peacefully at the base of a tree where the explosion had thrown him. A few people were showing off their minor wounds and scrapes, and already making up increasingly implausible tales for what had happened.

Trashscarf and Offswitch headed to the bartender. He was a tall Human with red hair and a beard to match, and he seemed pretty calm about the whole thing.

"What happened?" Trashscarf asked, and the barman looked up irritably, and his frown deepened as he saw it was Trashscarf.

"What happened was someone advertised for adventurers, and then ran off into the night, right before they all showed up at once. And since you'd left, they had to make their own entertainment." The bartender sighed. "Luckily, I've got insurance."

"Who showed up? Where did they go?" Trashscarf asked. The bartender paused again in his paperwork, to look thoughtfully skyward through his shiner.

"Well, let's see. There was a guy, maybe a bard, beard, dark hair with a lock of silver. There was a blond lady, maybe some kind of Unicorn shifter. A Death Elf, with a paintball gun. Some gal with a hawk on her arm, doing bird calls. A guy who kept asking if we had a piano. Someone in a maid's outfit, who was smoking a cigarette. A big goliath type guy wearing a bearskin and carrying a chili pot. A short guy in a pimp hat and twin shortswords. A Dinosaur of some kind, a handful of various Mustelids... Bunch of others-- I've never seen so many show up at once. Damn wardrobe."

"Wardrobe?" Offswitch and Trashscarf harmonized.

"Yeah, that big thing in the back. Every so often, right, it's a magical portal to somewhere, and someone comes through, or goes through. But this time, it was like everyone showed up at once, trashed the place, and then headed back through--"

The assassin and Waywalker were already heading into the remains of the dive. The place certainly did bear the scars of an encounter with a lot of people who had more power than sense. Most of the chairs and tables were tossed about like discarded toys, but the wardrobe sat there still, blocking almost half the narrow room. If it hadn't been there, Trashscarf and Fluffy would have been visible from the front of the room, and the Woodstrider's reaction to them wouldn't have been as amusing. Trashscarf hadn't thought anything of it to begin with, but now he was deeply suspicious.

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The wardrobe's doors were shut, and Trashscarf braced himself and yanked one open. Within, labelled "Lost And Found", were a few coats, cloaks, and suchlike covering hanging forlornly on hooks. But there was no sign of anything more magical than mothballs.

"It's not working," Offswitch said.

"Well, it's working as wardrobe," Trashscarf said cautiously. "Let me try something."

He shut the door again, and concentrated, brushing his scarf lightly a moment, then knocked upon the door-- one, two, three. And opened it.

Nope. Still just clothes. Trashscarf, frowning, leaned in and started to tap along the back wall of the wardrobe, seeking possible secrets, and the wardrobe abruptly snapped its doors shut around him like the mouth of a giant clam, and tried to bite him in half.

"Shit!" Offswitch jumped back as the massive wooden doors chomped around the Waywalker, lifting his kicking legs into the air, his yelling muffled but echoey from the wooden interior. Then, his badgery scalp bristled down the back of his neck, and his eyes narrowed.

Adrenaline shot through his veins, ignighting in him the assassin's fire, the driving primal predatory instinct. Without hesitation, he pulled the heavy crowbar from its sheath across his back, and lunged at the wardrobe with a savage snarl as it rocked back and forth on its base like a vending machine under assault.

Using Trashscarf's struggling lower half as a step, he leapt onto the top of the wardrobe, sending bric-a-brac breaking. His instincts, his training, his talent and skill, all came down to this, and he could see, he could -feel-, the solid frame of the wardrobe, the sturdy thick sides and the doors which were massive-- and strong. A powerful kick couldn't even shift them from their death grip around Trashscarf, and the wardrobe was starting to try to slide away, out the back door, like a dog with something you don't want them to eat.

Side and doors were strong, but the back wall of the wardrobe, that Trashscarf had been tapping on, was fairly thin and simple; always backed against a wall, it had no need of ornamentation or reinforcement. An ancient oak frame ran along it, and Offswitch's sharpened senses saw the weak point, where old nails creaked under the strain, and he gave it a double-handed downward stab with the crowbar, sinking the claw end deep into the crack in the wood, and heaved in a twisting sort of way.

The nails and wood shrieked together, and the wardrobe threw its doors open, flapping them wildly like wings as it bucked and jolted. Trashscarf was thrown clear, coughing and spluttering, but Offswitch kept his footing atop the tottering piece of furniture. He yanked the crowbar free and then stabbed it home again, into the other corner, and pushed down with both hands and one knee. The wood creaked, the nails squawked, there was a splintering sound, and the wardrobe wobbled wildly as the spine of it cracked in half.

Trashscarf sat up, bruised and wheezing-- a rib or two seemed to be not quite the shape he was used to-- and watched as Offswitch rode his victim down like a tiger pulling down a very tall square wooded water buffalo. The crowbar flashed again, one door was popped clear of its hinges and tumbled away.

The wardrobe slowly toppled, and crashed heavily onto the floor, crushing a small table beneath its weight. Offswitch changed over to the other end of the crowbar and began to beat the wardrobe into kindling.

"What's his problem?" asked a voice, and Trashscarf looked up into the stern face of the Woodstrider. She had a backpack on, and another walking stick, and she was watching Offswitch's berserk fury like he was an interesting beetle.

"Ah, Woodstrider," Trashscarf wheezed, not even bothering to try to stand up. "May I introd--"

"Noooo! Stop! No! No no nooooOOoo!" wailed a voice, like a drunken basset hound, and the Watchman, still very worse the wear, came at a staggering run towards them. "I want to go in it!"

The Watchman jumped at the half-open wardrobe, the Woodstrider caught him with one hand, Trashscarf scrambled to his feet, and Offswitch finally shattered the brass and glass ornamental crest that had crowned the front of the wardrobe.

There was great outblast of powerful magic, roaring past their heads like a glowing wind that just as suddenly reversed itself, sucking them in like spiders down a drainpipe, splattered and splintered by bits of wood as they tumbled together into darkness.