The interior of Smith's Pub was a wall of noise, a chaotic symphony of booming laughter, clinking glass, and the creative curses of men losing money at the gambling tables.
"Fucking rot-gut son of a bitch!" a dwarf at the corner table roared, slamming his cards down so hard the table rattled. "I needed a King of Runes, not this limp-dicked deuce! I hope your mother was a Grendheich mule, Tavish!"
His opponent just cackled, raking in a pile of tarnished luminaires. "Cry more, Urist! Maybe if you spent less time staring at Christine's backside and more at your hand, you wouldn't be losing your pension to a one-eyed elf."
Despite the damp chill of the night outside, the bar glowed with a warm, orange hue, radiating an atmosphere of rowdy safety. Smoke from cheap cigars swirled in the rafters, mixing with the scent of spilled ale and gun oil.
In one corner, the "suitors' row" was in a sorry state. Several men in expensive, tailored suits sat huddled together, clutching reddened cheeks or pressing ice packs to blackened eyes.
"I told you," one man hissed through a split lip, his silk cravat stained with blood. "I just told her she had 'spirit.' That was it! Then—crack—I'm seeing stars and tasting copper."
His companion, whose left eye was swollen shut to the size of a plum, groaned. "You got off easy. I tried to recite a poem. She didn't even let me get to the second stanza before she hauled me up by my collar and tossed me into the umbrella stand like a sack of coal. but god, she's magnificent." They looked less like romantic leads and more like survivors of a high-speed carriage accident.
"Hah! And here I thought that guy was actually a martial artist. I can't believe you defeated him so easily, Chris."
An elderly elf sat at the counter, nursing a dark stout and talking to the woman behind the bar. She was a striking figure with long, deep-red hair tied back, a sharp nose, and a pair of eyes that seemed to see through stone. Her skin was fair, and while her curves were the envy of every woman in Marmello, her posture was purely martial—shoulders squared, movements efficient and heavy.
She sighed, wiping a glass with a rag. "Even from across the room, I could tell that guy was a fraud. I just wished they'd leave me the fuck alone already."
"No, no, Chris," another man in his fifties chimed in from a stool nearby. "The daily income of fifteen thousand luminaires is a massive help to the Combat Veterans' Charity Foundation. Where would all of us old men go if your suitors stopped paying the entrance fee?"
Christine smirked, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah, I get that. I thought putting a thousand-luminaire entrance fee would make them go away. Instead, they just started bringing their checkbooks."
A young man at a nearby card table shouted over his shoulder. "Christine! Why don't you increase the fee to two thousand and change the charity to the Marmello County fund? Then we could all get free drinks!"
"Damn right!" his friend sitting opposite him added, slamming a mug on the table. "Make those fancy-pants city boys pay for our tab! If they want a look at the Marmello Lioness, they ought to fund the local thirst!"
The suggestion triggered a wave of rowdy approval from the younger crowd. "Yeah! Double the toll!" someone yelled from the back, followed by a chorus of whistles and banging glasses. "Free beer for the community!" a group of laborers cheered, raising their glasses in a mock salute to the bruised suitors in the corner.
"I've got a better one than that," Christine countered, her smirk widening into something dangerous, silencing the cheers.
"Ooh... do tell," the man said, leaning in.
"I'm going to turn this circus into a club," she said, her voice carrying across the room. "I'll establish a membership fee, and every time they visit, the pay rates increase. Only by making themselves useful to the neighborhood will their pay not increase. Essentially, I'm going to make them work. Sweeping streets, fixing roofs—real work."
The bar erupted in laughter. "Hahaha! That sounds absolutely wonderful! Make the peacocks do some actual labor!"
The young man at the table laughed along, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "But what if some gang leader takes a liking to you, Chris? What if they come in here guns blazing and take you forcefully? If these guys are from all over the country," he pointed at the bunch of men sat lined up at the corner, "then it's not an understatement that a guy from New Rainhook State will come here and do some horrible stuff."
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the room.
Every old man in the room stopped talking. They had a look that made the suitors in the corner tremble visibly.
Finally, one elderly man smiled wide and said, "Hohoho... Oh, I hope they do. I served in the Marines and I've been a veteran ever since the 10th Crollean War. Paying for a therapist is more expensive than a glass of beer, and I've been luckily drinking for free since five years ago. They can try messing with me, sure. But messing with the Smiths and dear Christine? Oh, how I miss those days in the war. If they made some trouble over here, they'd be doing us a favor."
Every old men in the bar smiled wickedly while drinking their beer. Most of them agreed and would also go guns blazing and dying for glory. The young man just took that as a lesson. "Well... that would make perfect sense as to why. I have yet to witness someone making a giant trouble."
Then, the doorbell on the door chimed. The door opened, and Jack, Kenlil, Tavros, and Philip walked inside. The people inside stared at them, wondering what kind of trouble the three of them had cooked up again.
"Speak of the devil," an old man said into his drink. "The circus just got a new act."