Part One of a series that will hopefully see many more parts (once a week at least but probably sooner) Rarely had there been there so strange a site as when Rengar of the Clan Cerberus entered (with body crouched low so that he could pass through the door) a seemingly normal tavern in the Baubbleshire, within the good city of Qeynos. All of the patrons of the establishment (Gnomes and Halflings mostly, with a few Dwarves scattered about), all of them in knots composed of their respective races, gave pause to their conversing to consider that large, burly Barbarian who had, however unwittingly, dared to invade their realm. Suspiscion was a near universal sentiment in the eyes of the smaller races, though hatred and fear were also visible. Though barbarians are not known for having the most erudite minds it was clear to Rengar that it would be best for him to satisfy his craving for ale as quickly as he could. "Barkeep, bring me an ale," Rengar spoke in a deep, rumbling voice as he attempted, without success, to make himself comfortable on the bar stool he had chosen to sit upon. "This is the Baubble Brewery, friend. Perhaps you were looking for-" an elderly Halfling began before Rengar stopped him with a wave of a hand that, in the shrunken environment it moved through, came close to striking the being that Rengar soon addressed with, "This is the only tavern I could find that wasn't crowded with refugees...which means that it's existence is something the locals wish to keep private. Because of this fact I can only assume that the food and service must be worthy of such a discriminating attitude. Prove to me that I am correct, or not; my coin is just as good as that used by creatures half my size." "Very well. I see that I cannot sway you with words alone, and words are the only weapons I have at my disposal," the halfling said, ending his sentence with a high pitched sqeak that Rengar could only assume was laughter. "Your ale will be ready in a moment, friend. I suggest that you hold your tongue while you wait, friend. If the others had heard you disparage their size twould have caused a scene unworthy of the lowest tavern in Freeport." Sometimes I think that city would suit my needs better than this nest of weaklings, Rengar thought to himself as he moved his eyes around the room, constantly vigilant against the slightest hint of trouble from some of the more intoxicated patrons of the tavern. I am as far from my home and my calling than I have ever been, hopelessly adrift in a bottomless sea of pathetic refugees and indifferent locals. The irresistable scent of battle is drowned out by the rancor of the mundane, and the same prejudice that colors my view of all who I lay eyes upon prevents me from obtaining work that would require the use of my sword arm. I am left witb a dwindling supply of coin from my days as a raider, and the only use my arm has now is to lift the ale the allows me to forget my sorry state in this life. Right on cue a cup of ale is placed before the hunched figure of Rengar, and he wastes now time in bringing the cup to his lips. The mead itself was passable, though in comparison to some of the brews that his stomach had encountered in the city it tasted like ambrosia. So intent was the barbarian on savouring a drink whose like he would not soon be able to enjoy again (for its procurement had cost Rengar more coin than he had realized at first) that he did not hear the multiple hails of a dimunitive voice behind him. It is only when the this caller touched Rengar upon the shoulder that the barbarian brought his notice upon her, albeit in a different way than most would have answered a seemingly friendly questioner. Rengar's sword, which had spent far too much time in its sheath during his stay in Qeynos, now sprung free and brought itself (for truly it seemed to take on a life of its own whenever the battle fever filled its wielder) within a hairbreath of the innocent, unfortunate patron who had dared to interrupt Rengar the Warrior's drink.... Rengar
