Taproom

      To preface this, let me say that a) it is not really a short story, and b) it is incomplete. I simply did not know where else to post it. This is what I wrote following my first turn as a PnP DM. Its not quite a short and not quite a sketch, but here is good enough, I suppose.

      Raucous laughter spilled out into the warm spring streets as a pair of tipsy young men stumbled through the doors of the Last Stand and staggered, still giggling, down the cobbled road. Warmth and light and smoke wafted from the windows, wooden shutters thrown open to recieve the gentle evening's breeze. The Broken City was quiet tonight, no unnatural thunder or fires burning beyond the Northern barricades, and inside the infamous Inn, the atmosphere was celebratory.
      Behind the corner bar, his gruff, bark-like laughter rolling over the din was Rollin. A meaty man in his 50s with an eternally flushed complexion, ruddy brown hair, and twinkling blue eyes, he catered to the adventuring crowd. Rumor has it, he was once rather successful himself - that he was still alive and mostly whole, gave truth to the stories.
      At a table near the fire an attractive hin female with glittering jade-colored eyes sat upon a gentleman's lap flirting laviciously. To call the man a gentleman was a stretch; he was a remarkably burly elf wearing little more than loin cloth, chain tunic, and a spear strapped across his back - his arms and legs completely devoid of covering. At that same table was a lovely elven lass, who giggled at her friend's antics and plucked out a lively song upon the exquisite lute she held. The seemingly random and spontaneous melody made a sweet, uplifting background to the banter of the other patrons.
      Laughter erupts at a table near the stairwell, where a dark-skinned man with a turban and an ill-advised mustache holds court. Buy him a drink, offer to roll the bones with him, and he'll regale you with a story. True or not, no one's sure, but he is animated and has an exotic accent to flavor his honied words.
      Many people flock to the Last Stand because of him - though its always pandered to those who come in search of fame, fortune, or faith in the wilds of the Broken City. More specifically, they come here because the troupe known as Peril's Pawns, of which he had been part, had been based in this very taproom. They had made a name for themselves, with forays into the Northern ward, taming the White Claw bandits, and working for Gaston, an effeminiate but powerful figure in the city. Some whispered that they'd even seen sacred (profane?) Banite rituals and lived to tell the tale.
      A few of the partons were local craftsmen and laborers who simply liked the tall tales, others were adventurers seeking kindred spirits (and new parties to join), and still others were seeking that very sort of person to hire. Most of them, whether they'd admit it or not, sought Tymora's Touch - and where luck had been found once, it could possibly be found again.
      Rollin was doing brisk business tonight. His eldest daughter Tessa was serving drinks to a massive man with longish blond hair and hard blue eyes. He bore a prominent holy symbol about his neck - a longsword limmed in fire - but seemed inordinately focused on young Tessa's ample cleaveage. Flinging his bar rag unto the counter, Rollin took two stomping steps toward the table. As he opened his mouth to cuss the lad out, another caught the young man's intense gaze. Tessa pouted, the cleric drooled, and the slender elven object of his amourous attention sat blissfully unaware at a small table by herself. She was smallish, only standing four and a half feet tall, with a bustline so enormous Rollin himself paused to ponder what magic kept those beauties aloft and gave her spine the strength to walk upright.
      He recognized her, dragging his eyes northward, as the mercenary-for-hire named Elfira, who had arrived recently. Normally she did not appear except trussed up in her chainmail and boiled leather trousers. Tonight she revealed her womanly curves in a sheer mesh dress that clung at the hips and plunged to the navel, leaving little to the imagination. Her long white-blonde hair and unusual silvery eyes had attracted a little attention, but with a body like that on display she was sure to draw more.
      Leon Valliday is here again, Rollin noted with a nod to the man as he slung the bar rag over his shoulder and moved to pull another mug of ale. The middle-aged man with gray at the temples was shy and never said much, but loved to be a part of the scene - even as nothing more than a rock in the background.
      "Anything else, Kark?" He passed the foaming much to a slender dwarf perched near the end of the bar.
      "Nay," he grumbled, twisting at one of the spikes upon his head. "Ten's me limit t'night, eh."
      Rollin chuckled, collecting his coin, and watched the odd man drink. It wasn't his race, for the Broken City saw its fair share of dwarves, but there was something odd about Kark Skullbasher. His head was shaved bald, except down the middle. That stripe of hair he fashioned into a series of spikes with an ungodly amount of pomade. His right eye was hidden by a thick studded patch and his build was so lean he could almost pass for a gnome or a hin.