Prologue: The Brawl at The Eagle's Nest

Vargas struts in and plops down at a table slamming his palm down with a grin from ear to ear. I'll 'ave da nite's special Love, and Grog please (Lotta Foam?) Lotta Foam on it. (It is kinda chewy das why I like it.)" he states snagging a serving wench before it got busy.

It was the weekend and although he would have enjoyed cutting loss he was settling for a meal before going on duty or at least the most one could expect from him since he lacked focus at times. Having flown into a drunken rage the last time he was in a bar brawl here he had managed to jump up off a table and swing on the chandelar. Unfortunately sicne that had turned out to be fun and he had a bully time kicking people and spinning around it eventually fell from the ceiling. After which he had broken it by battering ramming a few people out of the bar through a window. That seemed to quiet down the brawl and people looked at the large man laughing at the hole in the wall and the broken chandelar in his hands when the Owner showed up and slammed the place with her 'Okay now I'm pissed' magic.

That's why he had to come in on a regular basis to pay off his debt and police the bar, if the craziest person in the room is waiting for a fight few people opt to start a fight where he'll get to join in.

With his grog brought off first Vargas laps up the libation in front of him and waited on his meal.

"Thanks love (wonder if we'll 'ave a propa fight tonigh' Brazy boys should be mended by now too... cept the little one's nose... Crying shame he can't take a boot to da face)" he states to the server and to most it seems he goes into talking to himself.

Vargas waits for his food and people watches. Few people make eye contact for too long, some avoid his area completely.

Davik sits down next to Vargas, smiles at his large friend, and orders an ale before quietly looking around the room and looking to see if there are any pretty serving wenches, or any obviously wealthy marks.

Belarigan joins Vargas as well. Taverns are good places to blend in, and he feels he can relax more here than out in the open.

He looks around. Signs of earlier abuse have been tended to but remain. The chair he is sitting on is made off fresh wood and hastily carved. It wobbles slightly so he stands, flips it over, examines the legs and then places a shiv under the shorter leg for now.

He waves at Sunnita, the serving wench, and holds up 2 fingers, which, by repetition, she knows to bring him 2 ales. He'll chug one right off, then so and enjoy the second.

"Vargas, you beast, you're smelling particularly provincial today. Did you sleep in a barn?" He smiles in anticipation of one of Vargas' particular insults in reply. He nods at Davik and grins toothily.

"P-pro-provinchial?" Vargas states scratching his head, "(What's 'e mean? Oh like the country side?) I woke up in a pig farm on the outskirts of town on top of some pigs." explains before belting out a laugh, "Past out I guess no idea how I got there... must o' been a gud nite innit?" he adds as if proud by the accomplishment. With his food out he latches onto the meat in one hand and tears into it. Plopping down a empty mug he picks up potatoes and shoves them into his mouth with his free hand. Between snaps, rending of food, belched, snorts, and open mouth chewing his tablemates would probably wonder if Vargas might be actually feral.

Leaning to one side a horrific noise occurs and half of Vargas' face scrunches up in the act, "So what you blokes up to tonight?"

*sniff*

"Fwha I guess I got into the pig slop while I was drunk... or I'm dying..." Vargas comments patting his stomach before going back to eating like a wild animal and looks at the other two.

Jarveena stands on the balcony, well in the shadows thrown up by the fireplace on the ground floor, and looks down on the common room. With Leatha away, it's up to Jarveena to watch over the boys and make sure the Eagle's Nest doesn’t end up burned to the ground. Speaking of which...

Vargas' booming voice thunders up from downstairs. Jarveena leans forward from her perch - the real eyrie in this eagle's nest - and rests her small hand on the balcony railing. Smooth oak, carved by nameless craftsmen generations past - Leatha won the Nest in a bet; the partnership with Jarveena and the boys came years later.

Belarigen notices Jarveena and acknowledges her with a barely perceptible nod. The woman draws back into the shadows and clucks her tongue in annoyance. She keeps telling them not to do that. They're not supposed to let on that she can "see" them. Jarveena is blind. Her eyes were put out when a rival assassin splashed acid into them. That rival had paid dearly, but not before he had, in addition to blinding Jarveena, managed to push her into the ritual pyre under the bridge on which they had been locked in mortal combat. Jarveena had come out badly burned and eventually lost her left arm. But victory was hers and she had taken her place in the assassin’s guild. But that was many, many years ago, and far away from here. Brought back to the present, Jarveena continues watching the activity below. Sightless though her eyes might be, she has trained her senses to such heights that she can "see" just as well - sometimes even better - than someone with keen eyes. At this moment she not only sees every living body, every piece of furniture, and every piece of cutlery down there, she also marks the location of coins clinking as they change hands, the uneven clatter of a cheater’s loaded dice… suddenly, her oversensitive hearing is jarred by the crash of a falling tray of ale tankards, then a squeal followed by tittering laughter. Maya. That half-wit girl! The serving wench will need another talking to. Jarveena sighs. This matronly life, watching over squealing girls, is not for her. She longs to be out on the rooftops again in the cold, bracing night air. It’s been too long since she’s been given a job. Leatha better have something for her when she gets back.

Jarveena signals to the servant girl beside her to help her rise from her chair and guide her down the stairs. Not that she needs the help, of course, but appearances of helplessness must be kept. Only Leatha and the boys are privy to her secret. Thus assisted, she descends the stairs to the common room.

Davik sighs heavily as he hears Vargas tear into his food as he always does (like a feral dog). As always, he ignores it and turns his attention back to the rest of the tavern, spotting Jarveena coming down the stairs. He tips his hat to her and his eyes change from deep brown to a bright blue suddenly. He smiles and turns back to his food, satisfied that none of his wealthier marks are going to leave soon.

He smiles as he hears Maya's tray crash and chuckles under his breath. Maybe she'll need a bit of "cheering up" again after another talk from Jarveena. It could be a good night indeed!

Belarigen flinches at the crashing sound. Unlike the others, he has long suspected that Maya is also in hiding and bears talents of her own. A server's tray is heavy - especially laden with the barbaric gruel and, cough, "Ale", cough served in this low brow frontier town - but her arms are wiry with a strength born of martial training. Not that he watches her for flashes of her skin. His face glows red, and he takes another sip of "ale".

Jarveena descends the staircase. Another one of lithe grace ill-fitting a tavernkeep. A strange mix of creatures have found their way to the Eagle's Nest, and with them, the characteristic violence that always follows talent.

Vargas barrels out a warbling series of guffaws at the girls misfortune. Loose bits of meat fly out from his mouth onto the table and all that in front of him before he suddenly stops and blinks, "(Oh yay, if she's down I might 'ave ta do dis soba..) Love you alright? Can you still serve? Someone 'elp the lady up wudja?" Vargas belts out after the realization less serving wenches meant less serving of him mostly.

Arching an eyebrow the large man looks around his flagon of grog his lips scrunching to one side of his face before licking his lips. Looking to Davik and Belarigen he nods and stands up. Walking towards the trio he belts out.

"I be Vargas. (You think it's about the pigs?) In my defense if dis ere is about da pigs I figured they likes a good belly rub." Vargas stated regarding the three, "N who da three o' you lot be?"

The man hadn't paid for anything yet so he planned on being civil. Plus it also gave people time to get where they wanted to be if there was a bit of trouble to be had.

Davik sighs deeply before quietly slipping underneath the table and changing his features to that of a plain, old man he saw on his way in here. He then sneaks over to an empty table before emerging just before Vargas speaks up and taking a seat to watch the exchange. He nervously fingers one of his many knives under the table.

Silent until now, Dasclaw leans forward, his eyes glittering. All three of these newcomers reek of magic, and he considers how he can best provoke them into using some. Should he be charming, needy, abusive, or offensive?

He grins when they ask for Vargas. :::Oh, that's that taken care of, then.::: Dasclaw rises and approaches the newcomers in Vargas' wake, all of his senses seeking to gather as much information as possible. Does the smoke from the man's eyes have a smell? What does the woman's posture tell of her knowledge or ignorance of the Twelve Arcane Stances of Gunnazirian? Do the hairs on Dasclaw's arms rise as he nears the man's staff, a sure sign of the trickle of prana that such staves often provide?

The moment the trio enters the tavern Jarveena senses trouble. She dismisses the serving girl and sends her scurrying out the back. Jarveena takes cover behind one of the tavern's large oaken columns. By the time Vargas confronts the trio she has her bow out and an arrow nocked.

Jarveena lets loose her arrow / aimed at one of those smoking eyes, / then dives and rolls under the heavy trestle tables, / from where she shoots a second arrow / at the man's other eye.

Seeing things get bad, Davik leaps atop the table / and yells to the attackers hoping to distract them from his friend, "Fools, he's an impostor! Our master will be most displeased with you!" / He then draws and launches a dagger at the man who flung Vargas away / before leaping into a backwards roll into the crowd and / changing his features into that of his actual self to hide from any counterattack.

Vargas is midword when he realizes he's in the air, "(Oy, we didn't start it? We can't be 'eld responsible fa dis and they'll 'ave ta pay that's what it means dinnit?)" he states to himself as he lands and bounces up off the table snatching up mutton in his mouth in the tumble and clatter of an experienced barroom brawler. With a metal flagon in one hand and a chair in the other he smiles with glee. With a chump he finishes the last of the meet, "After the bill for damages, drinks on dem fo' 'nother round!" Vargas bellows with glee in his eyes for the chance of actual battle for a change.

Rushing forward he chucks the flagon at the stick wielding bloke/ bounding forward and jumping up into the air a snare on his lips as he grips the chair with two hands on separate legs to come down with the chair aiming for the the smokey eyed man/ having broke these chairs several times he holds onto the legs of the chair as it splinters apart having fashioned crude large wooden shivs from the splintering slashing out at the man with them./ Vargas bounds backwards into the Robed woman giving her an elbow to the face, "Loose da hood love! Dis is a fight not a shagging... yet." Vargas jeers trying to spit in her eyes.

"I love a good brawl in a bar! (What? Oh Yeah) PRISON RULES!" he roars cackling like a drunken madman.

Recognizing the dampening, Dasclaw slides easily into Warding Stance Eleven, Prayer of the Contemplative Scirocco / his wrists crossed, hands pointing in opposite directions, palms outward to the trio, directing the flow of prana out and around him. / For good measure, Dasclaw chants the Bacravian Order's Song of Drawing / as he locks eyes with the woman and attempts to draw on her knowledge through her gaze.

Belarigen slides from the table, and spins down low, ducking below and behind the bar, where he rolls to the far side and springs up from behind, a bar towel in his fists. He seems to hover for a second, leaping over the bar, before he crashes down behind Smokey. The bar towel, wrapped around one fist, snaps around Smokey's neck, and into his other hand.