Brawlers, Banter, and Bar Tabs

The door to Drakehaven creaked open as Arkan and Kaelith stepped inside, the warmth of the bustling tavern washing over them like a tidal wave. The contrast between the eerie streets of Lyraeth and the raucous life within was almost jarring. The scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and sweat mingled in the air, and the din of laughter and shouted conversations nearly drowned out the bard's attempt at singing in the corner.

"Well, we're back," Kaelith muttered, surveying the crowd.

Arkan sighed. "Still no money, though. What now?"

Kaelith smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. "We charm, we hustle, and if all else fails…" She made a subtle motion with her hand, mimicking the act of picking someone's pocket.

"I'm not doing that," Arkan said firmly.

"Relax, thread-boy," she teased. "We'll start with talking."

They made their way to the bar, squeezing past a table of boisterous adventurers who were arm-wrestling for what appeared to be a half-eaten loaf of bread. The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard and a perpetual scowl, was wiping down the counter with a rag that looked like it hadn't seen water in weeks.

"What do you want?" he grunted without looking up.

"Some information," Kaelith said sweetly, leaning on the bar.

The bartender finally glanced at them, his gaze lingering on Arkan's threadwoven attire and Kaelith's sword. "You don't look like locals."

"Noticed that, did you?" Kaelith quipped.

Arkan nudged her with his elbow. "We were wondering about rooms," he said quickly.

The bartender snorted. "Rooms cost money. You got any?"

Kaelith leaned in conspiratorially. "How about this—we work for you, just for tonight. Chores, cleaning, whatever you need. In exchange, you let us sleep in one of those cozy rooms upstairs."

The man raised an eyebrow. "You offering to scrub floors?"

Kaelith's smile didn't falter. "I'm offering to not let your customers tear this place apart while you stand here wiping invisible stains off the bar."

Arkan coughed to hide his laugh.

The bartender grunted again, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. You clean up after the crowd tonight, and I'll let you crash in the common room. One step above sleeping in the gutter. Deal?"

"Deal," Kaelith said, shaking his hand before Arkan could protest.

With their "accommodation" secured, Arkan and Kaelith found themselves weaving through the tavern, picking up empty mugs, sweeping spilled food off the floor, and dodging drunken patrons who seemed intent on tripping over their own feet.

"This is humiliating," Arkan muttered as he wiped down a sticky table.

Kaelith smirked, balancing a tray of dirty dishes. "It's character-building."

"Is that what you tell yourself every time you drag me into one of your schemes?"

Before she could reply, a loud crash drew their attention to the center of the room. A man with a patchy beard had just flipped over a table, sending mugs and plates flying. His opponent, a wiry fellow with a dagger at his belt, was glaring at him with murder in his eyes.

"Here we go," Kaelith muttered, setting down her tray.

"What's happening?" Arkan asked, watching as more patrons started gathering around the pair.

"Bar fight," Kaelith said simply.

The wiry man lunged at the bearded one, and chaos erupted. Chairs flew, mugs shattered, and someone in the back started chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Arkan stared, wide-eyed, as the fight escalated. More patrons joined in, some picking sides and others just taking the opportunity to punch someone. The bard in the corner quickly switched to a fast-paced tune, adding a bizarrely jaunty soundtrack to the madness.

"We should stop this," Arkan said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

Kaelith raised an eyebrow. "You really think we can stop that?"

As if on cue, a burly man the size of a small bear went flying past them, landing in a heap near the fireplace.

"Good point," Arkan said.

Despite their best efforts to stay out of it, the fight inevitably spilled over to where Arkan and Kaelith were standing. A chair sailed past Arkan's head, narrowly missing him, while Kaelith ducked just in time to avoid a mug of ale.

"Alright," she said, drawing her sword—not to fight, but to bang it loudly against a table. "Everybody calm down before someone—"

Her attempt at order was cut off when a particularly large man grabbed her by the shoulder and threw her into the fray.

"Oh, that's it!" she snarled, springing to her feet and launching herself at her attacker.

Arkan, not wanting to be left out (or flattened), found himself dodging punches and ducking under tables as he tried to keep up with Kaelith.

"Why does this always happen to us?" he shouted over the noise.

"Because we have terrible luck!" Kaelith called back, swinging a chair leg like a club.

At some point, Arkan found himself face-to-face with a scrappy teenager who looked as if he'd been born in a tavern brawl. The kid grinned, cracked his knuckles, and lunged.

"Seriously?" Arkan muttered, barely managing to sidestep. "What are you, twelve?"

The kid laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "Thirteen, actually. What's your excuse?"

Arkan groaned, grabbing a nearby tray and using it as a makeshift shield.

Eventually, the bartender had enough. He stepped out from behind the bar with a crossbow in hand and fired a bolt into the ceiling.

"Alright, that's enough!" he bellowed.

The room went silent, save for the creak of the ceiling as the bolt quivered in the wood.

"You break anything else, you pay for it," the bartender growled, glaring at the crowd. "Now sit down, drink your ale, and don't make me regret letting you lot in here."

Grumbling, the patrons began picking up overturned tables and chairs, though a few looked like they were itching to throw another punch.

Arkan and Kaelith slumped into a corner booth, both of them bruised and out of breath.

"Well," Kaelith said, wiping blood from her lip, "that was fun."

"You have a strange definition of fun," Arkan muttered, pressing a hand to his side where someone had landed a particularly painful punch.

After the chaos died down, the bartender approached their table, looking both amused and exasperated.

"You two held your own," he said gruffly. "Guess you've earned a little more than the common room."

He tossed a key onto the table. "Room upstairs. Don't expect luxury."

Kaelith grinned, snatching up the key. "Thanks, big guy."

"Don't thank me," the bartender said. "Thank the idiots who started that fight. They're covering your tab."

Arkan blinked. "How'd you manage that?"

Kaelith smirked. "Let's just say I have a way with words. And fists."

Shaking his head, Arkan followed her up the creaky stairs to their room.

The room was tiny, with two narrow beds crammed into the space and a single, cracked window that let in a sliver of moonlight. Arkan stepped inside first, taking in the scene with a mix of relief and awkwardness.

"Well, it's… functional," he said, setting his pack down by the bed closest to the door.

Kaelith leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her usual smirk firmly in place. "What's the matter, thread-boy? You look like someone just told you to dance in front of a crowd."

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "I just—this is fine."

Kaelith's smirk widened. "You're acting like we've never shared close quarters before."

"We haven't!" he protested. "Not like… this."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? You're making a big deal out of two beds? You'd think we were crammed into a broom closet."

Arkan flushed, turning away. "I didn't say it was a big deal. I just—forget it."

Kaelith laughed, tossing her sword onto the other bed and flopping down beside it. "Relax, thread-boy. I don't snore, if that's what you're worried about."

"I wasn't worried about that!"

"Good, because I'll warn you now—I'm not getting up if you start tossing and turning in the middle of the night."

Arkan groaned, sitting on his bed and burying his face in his hands. "Why is this more embarrassing than the bar fight?"

"Because," Kaelith said with mock seriousness, "you care too much about what I think."

"Do not," he muttered, but his reddening ears gave him away.

Kaelith chuckled, pulling her boots off and stretching out on her bed. "Goodnight, thread-boy."

"Goodnight," he grumbled, lying back and staring at the ceiling.

As the silence settled over them, Arkan found himself hyper-aware of every creak of the floorboards and every distant sound from the tavern below.

Kaelith broke the silence first. "For the record," she said, her voice softer than usual, "you did good tonight. With the fight. And the sweeping."

Arkan turned his head to look at her, surprised by the sudden sincerity. "Thanks… You weren't bad yourself. With the… chair leg thing."

She snorted. "You're terrible at compliments."

"Working on it," he said, finally letting himself relax.

The sounds of the tavern faded, and despite the lingering awkwardness, Arkan couldn't help but feel a little more at ease. They might not have much, but at least they had each other—and for now, that was enough.

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