Bar Fight

Outside, the sound of barking can be heard. As a pair of patrons leave the tavern Olav can be seen talking earnestly to a pair of frisky dogs, who eventually settle down not far from the door, and the large redhead walks in, ducking his head a bit to avoid the doorframe and heading to the bar to order a beer.

No sooner is his order placed that the door opens again and one of the dogs cheerfully trots in, parks himself at Olav's feet, and looks at him meaningfully. He sighs.

"I told you to wait outside," he says in the tone of someone who didn't really expect to be listened to.

"Partner? Ho! If a partner thy wants in thy glory, no better can thyself find but BITR the MIGHTY!"

Announces the halfling in a booming voice, leaping up to her feet atop the table. All thirty four inches of her vibrating with a ferocity that would put a dire corgi to shame. Her fists find their way to her hips, her feet splayed apart, her grin showing more teeth than the infamous thrashing incisor stealer. "Name thy place, sour puss! Name thy time! Name the moon, and then name thy beast's successor, for surely as the moon lay above, DEATH comes for it! And her name be Bitr!"

That rather broken and old fashioned tradespeech loudness done, Bitr immediatly breaks the virtous characterization by pointing a finger. "HO! Dog, what hast thou done to break thy bindings?! ... Oh, 'tis not -Mine- Dog, but anothers."

Darius, as Bitr makes her 'heroic' statement sits there smugly and then schools his face into one of sorrow, "Well... there IS a very very small problem..." He turns then frowning as Bitr is distracted and glances and then nods at Olav for a moment before he tries to redirect her and grabs onto her furs and leathers and says, "We have some competition..."

He quickly takes a look and noticing some very drunk and beligerent types at a table nearby, turns her to look at them and says, "See those men over there? They want the job, we have to make sure that they can't, I could beat them all myself, but I know you like a good fight so..." He trails off, hoping Bitr takes the bait.

Olav looks around at the booming voice, which seems to be coming from... under a table? He stares at the table quizzically, then his eyes widen in surprise as Bitr jumps up on the table and finishes her dramatic declamation.

"Hear, hear!" he shouts enthusiastically. Not that he has the slightest idea what she's going on about... quite frankly he didn't even understand half of what she said... but she seemed really confident about it, so why not go along with it?

Then she points at Grey (the dog), and he speaks up: "No, right, that's my dog. Well, one of 'em. Hope that's OK..." he says, at first to Bitr, and then (rather than interrupt their conversation) to the bartender, who pays little attention: "...she don't mean no harm, she's just not used to, you know, walls. Or doors. Or not getting to go places with me. She's a good dog, though," he assures the room, most of which ignores him. "Ain't that right, Grey?" he says to the dog, companionably.

His beer arrives, and he pays for it with the air of someone not quite familiar with the local currency before joining the pair at the table, not waiting for an invitation.

"'Fight'?" he echoes, suddenly interested.

"Ho, why should it not be okay, dog-friend? Thy beasts need to feed and drink! They, too, need companions and good, rousting roll!" She declares, kicking over her own tankard so she can put a foot upon it. Thus get a knee up a bit. "Leave it to thy god bothers and hussy fussies to muck about what beast can go under a roof. For mine own, ha! Bring the lot in!" She declares. Hopefully in support of Olav's dogs. We think. As grandoise and old fashioned and - frankly - archaic as her tradespeak is. Someone didn't teach this halfling right.

And then? AND THEN? Darius points out -COMPETITION-. One can see the flare of tiny nostrils, that massive broken sword yanked out over her shoulder. And buries the blunted edge into the table itself, leaving it where it lay as she -

She-

Well, she takes a flying leap. Right towards the roughest bit of scarred up mussery Darius could point her at. Already beginning to froth at the mouth. Someone get the drunk tank ready.

Darius simply leans his chair (and himself) against the table and watches the fun erupt as Bitr leaps into action. He picks up a tankard and sips it and crosses his legs, looking very smug, he knows Bitr is easily going to kick their asses and if not he can always help out unobtrusively.

Olav has absolutely no idea what's going on. This slows him down not at all. He puts his beer down in front of Darius -- perhaps not the most clever move possible -- and joins the outnumbered halfling with a crooked grin on his face. "Grey, STAY," he orders and takes a punch to the face as he closes with the largest of the other side. Blood trickles from his nose, and he shrugs it off and grabs the man who punched him, throwing him bodily into one of his companions.

Bitr fights like one might expect a hockey puck to fight. A hockey puck with teeth. Any bit of flesh that gets near her is latched onto, bitten, clawed, pummeled, while the mad halfling is cackling and howling like a demonness unleashed. Oh, she gets kicked away on occasion - hitting another table with a wooden crash, only to bound up and leap back in again like a mad woman possessed. Which inevitably means the table she got knocked into spills backwards onto other unsuspecting tavern goers.

Which in turn, move to slug the originators.

Which leads to more tables spilled. Darius? OH, he's not going to be able to smugly watch for long, for this is a BARFIGHT. And participation is MANDATORY. Oh look, some simpering drunkard is already looking to smash a bottle on the back of that proper one-eyed warrior's head.

"Give me thine left foot and thy can keep the second!" Laughs the tiny, raging barbarian halfling beast-woman from somewhere waist high in the fray. Followed by a high pitched yelp of whoever she just bit.

Morgan has arrived.

Olav has by this point utterly lost track of the sides in this fight, if indeed he ever knew. He is untroubled by this fact, laying into whoever presents themselves. He takes as many hits as he gives, but when he hits he hits hard. He is quiet and self-contained and clearly having the time of his life.

Darius gets hit in the back of the head and that pisses him off. He simply drops the foot of his chair onto the man's foot and while he's screaming in pain from the broken bone, grabs him and smashes his head into the table and gets up, "Fine then... let's see how good you all are."

With that he wades into the fray himself, punching and kicking people and getting hit in return, blood will be shed and bones will be broken but such is the life of a mercenary and his pint-sized sidekick.

Outside the bar, a large white-furred dog is sitting, looking vaguely distressed.

Morgan hears the fight in side the bar and will stay out side while she trys to pay attttin to the large puppy "Its ok my friend." she says hoping the dog will let her come to it.

Somewhere in the suddenly broiling crowd, another man screams in pain and bounces from one knot of brawlers to another. Stuck by Olav, smashed by a casual blow from Darius, and utterly unable to see because his poor head is attached to BITR the MIGHTY. The feral lucht having grown claws - actual factual claws - with big, nasty, pointy teeth as she clings to the man's neck. Modesty forgotten in the desire to HEADBUTT SO MUCH OH YES. When the man falls, she tumbles, rolling briefly out the doors to wind up near Morgan's feet. Pausing to look up, the pulsing red of her veined eyes, and flash a grin that gives new definition to 'pointed smile'.

"Ho and come quick!" She yells, far too loud for someone so small. "There be game afoot!" Laughing off the bruises, the cuts, the jabs, the tiny ball of fury goes streaking BACK in. Although there's already calls for calm as the bartender and a few regulars go to work with truncheons to break up the fight. And looking to see who the hell's responsible for all this!

Outside, the white-furred dog regards Morgan curiously, not seeming to mind her approach, sniffing the mage's hands curiously.

Inside, two large leather-aproned women -- apparently employees of the Ox-Strength -- charge Olav, bull-rushing him out the front door and dumping him on the ground before charging back inside. The dog immediately runs over to the large man's side, licking the blood off of his face. They are joined a moment later by a second, grey-furred dog, who joins the first in licking his face as he laughs and roughhouses with them.