No more games, no more mercy. This is it.

griffin eyed Quaetem as he entered the tavern. Dammit! Wasn't this tavern brawl over yet? griffin casually loosened his broadsword in its scabbard, made eye contact with Quaetem, nodded, and leaned back against the stone wall. Quaetem picked his way gingerly across the tavern floor to the bar. Slippery as hell it was, arms and legs scattered about, liberally splashed with blood. Hey, was that a tattoo Quaetem recognised on that mangled hunk of flesh? No, no, forget it, don't even look. Yuck.

Quaetem made a conscious effort, turned his back on griffin, and faced the bartender. The bartender always lives.

"Salutations, lowly barkeep, what beer hast thou to quench my thirst this day?"
The bartender spat in an earthenware mug, and started to swish his saliva around inside it with a filthy rag. "We have 'Separation of Church and State Lager' and 'Evangelical Ale'. Which do you want?"
"Uh, what have you got in bottles?" swallowed Quaetem, feeling somewhat queasy watching the bartender 'clean' the mug.
"All we have in bottles is Dogma Double-Bock, and we ain't got none of it left. Now which beer do you want?"
Quaetem was about to suggest a nice cup of boiling water with some dried plant leaves in it, when there was a loud bang!

Quaetem spun around, griffin was gone! Shit, so was Quaetem's sword! That thieving fucker! What a bloody cock-up.
"Which beer will ya have?" Insisted the bartender, a whiny note entering into his voice, which irritated Quaetem no end.

"Oh stuff 'em both up your arse" snarled Quaetem, who turned and strode outside, slamming the door behind him, and then noticed that griffin had stolen his horse too, the bastard.

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