Scanlan Shorthalt was having an excellent night.

Granted, he considered most nights excellent, but this one was shaping up to be particularly memorable.

Perched atop a barstool as though it were a royal throne, he held court over a small crowd of amused patrons. A tankard rested in one hand while the other gestured dramatically through a story that had somehow evolved from "minor tavern disagreement" into "heroic battle against seventeen bloodthirsty pirates."

Across the tavern, the rest of Vox Machina had scattered to their own pursuits, but Scanlan hardly noticed. Why would he? He was exactly where he belonged: center stage.

Laughter erupted around him at another punchline. Scanlan flashed a grin, soaking it in like sunlight.

Now this was living. Good ale, a willing audience, and absolutely no consequences in sight.

What could possibly go wrong?