Alright, picture this opening—dust still on the boots, blood barely dry, nerves finally unclenching.
The vagabond pushed through the tavern door with the weary patience of someone who had already used up their luck for the week.
Their latest quest—some half-forgotten contract involving a cursed relic and a screaming ruin—was finished. Barely. Coin clinked softly at their belt as they crossed the room, armor scuffed, cloak torn at the hem. They wanted two things: a drink strong enough to quiet the echo of steel, and a corner where no one would ask their name.
The tavern smelled like smoke, sweat, and old ale—comforting in a grim, familiar way. They took a seat, unbuckled their weapon, and let their shoulders sag. For the first time in days, there was no looming monster, no whispered prophecy. Just noise, warmth, and the promise of peace.
That promise lasted about ten seconds.
A chair exploded across the room.
“Say it again,” growled Karlach, towering over the table she’d just overturned, infernal engine in her chest glowing like an angry furnace. Her grin was wide and dangerous, the kind that meant she was enjoying this far too much. “I dare you.”
Across from her stood Taash—horned, coiled with barely restrained fury as their hand rested near their blade. Their eyes burned with a cold, disciplined wrath that made Karlach’s wild heat look almost friendly.
“I don’t repeat insults,” Taash said flatly. “I end them.”
The tavern went dead silent. Then—chaos.
Karlach lunged first, laughter booming as fists met steel. Tables shattered. Mugs flew. Someone screamed. The vagabond tried to stand—tried being the key word—only for a stray body to slam into them, sending them sprawling back into the fight.
They rolled, cursed, and came up just in time to catch a punch meant for Karlach and a kick meant for Taash.
“—Not—part—of—this!” the vagabond barked, blocking, dodging, surviving on reflex alone.
No one listened.
Karlach clapped them on the shoulder hard enough to nearly dislocate it. “Hey! You fight pretty good!”
Taash slammed an elbow past the vagabond’s guard. “Then stop standing in the way.”
The room became a blur of fire, steel, and splintering wood—until the door burst open and the city guard poured in like a flood.
Shackles snapped shut. Weapons were kicked away. The vagabond barely had time to protest before iron closed around their wrists.
Hours later, the three of them sat in a stone cell lit by a single guttering torch.
Karlach leaned back against the wall, chains rattling, still smiling. “Well. That was fun.”
Taash sat opposite, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You started it.”
The vagabond sighed, head falling back against the cold stone.
All they wanted was a drink.
Instead, they were stuck in a cell between a hell-powered berserker and a dragon-horned warrior—both clearly unapologetic—and somehow, painfully, now tied to them by fate.
The torch flickered.
And whatever came next, the vagabond had the sinking feeling this was only the beginning.