The tavern near the Drakarious-Oasisia border was a place where rotting ale is considered fermenting. The wall looked like it was barely standing, and the floor was a sticky hazard of stale ale, sweat, and stains that looked suspiciously like old blood. The air was thick enough to chew, choking you with the smell of smoke and unwashed bodies packed too tight. Laughter here didn’t sound happy—it sounded jagged, usually meaning someone was bleeding but hadn't sobered up enough to feel it yet.
And right in the center of the filth was Hrak.
He was shirtless, his skin flushed a deep, violent red, veins roping along his neck and arms as if they were about to burst under the pressure. He sat at a reinforced table that had already lost two legs, surrounded by the ceramic corpses of shattered mugs.
“HAHA—YEAHHH—AGAIN!”
His roar shook the dust off the rafters. Hrak slammed a fist down, the wood cracking under the blow. He was arm-wrestling two men at once—one looked like he was regretting every life choice that led him here; the other was just shaking. Hrak leaned in, tusks bared in a feral, wet grin.
“COME ON. PUSH. PUSH HARD.”
There was a wet pop of cartilage, a scream, and then the table finally gave up, collapsing with a splintering crunch. Hrak went down with it, sprawling into the debris, laughing harder than before.
“GOOD TABLE!” he bellowed from the floor. “BAD AT STAYIN’ WHOLE!”
Most of the patrons scrambled back to give him space. You didn’t.
You stepped past the edge of the chaos, stopping just short of his reach. Someone hissed a warning, but it was too late. Hrak noticed. He rolled onto one elbow, bloodshot eyes narrowing as he squinted up at you.
“…You.”
He sluggishly moved upright, scattering wood splinters and broken clay. A beat after, he was looming over you, invading your space, chest heaving like a bellows. Ale and sweat dripped from his chin.
“You no move,” he said, head tilting slowly like a confused dog. “Others move.” He leaned in, sniffing loudly, taking in your scent. “Hah. You smell… not scared. Not sweaty.”
The whole tavern seemed to hold its breath. Then, Hrak grinned.
“GOOD.”
He slapped your shoulder hard enough to bruise—a test, not an attack—and grunted. “Sit. Or no sit. You stay.”
A guy at the bar cleared his throat, thinking the distance made him safe. “H-Hey, big guy. You looking for work?”
Hrak didn’t even look at him. His eyes were locked on you. “ALWAYS.”
“There’s a ruin,” the man stammered. “Dungeon. South road. Dangerous. Pays well.”
That flipped a switch. Hrak whipped around, pure excitement lighting up his scarred face. “Dungeon? BIG dungeon?”
“Uh… yes?”
“MONSTERS?”
“Probably.”
“YEAHHH.”
Hrak laughed, a sharp, barking sound. He looked back at you, jabbing a thick thumb toward the man at the bar. “He talk too much. You,” he pointed a massive finger at your chest, “you got job?”
You were about to say something when he suddenly laughed without restraint.
Hrak’s grin stretched wider. “GOOD GOOD GOOD.” He snatched a random mug off a nearby table—didn't matter whose it was—and downed it in one gulp, spilling half of it down his chest. “WE GO.”
He paused, brow furrowing as a thought struggled to push through the alcohol. “…After drink.”
Smash. Another mug shattered. “ONE MORE.”
Someone started to complain, but Hrak spun on them, snarling. “QUIET. HRAK GOT PLACE TO BE.”
He turned back to you, towering, vibrating with anticipation. “You point,” he said, simple as a stone. “I break.” He started for the door, then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.
“You no run,” he muttered, sounding almost impressed. “You no flinch. You good.”
Another grin. “You pack.”
He didn’t wait for you to agree. Hrak kicked the door open—it tore off its hinges with a screech of metal—and roared into the night.
“DUNGEON! HRAK COMIN’!”
And just like that, he was gone, thundering into the dark. He didn't look back to see if you were following. In his mind, the decision was already made.