Dropping the Gauntlet ((Open))

[Gundnir]

The sky waged its own war this night. No moon or stars shone to light the dark terrain. No owls or nocturnal beasts hunted their prey. Lightning blazed malicious scars across a thick cloud cover, while the spirits cried cold rain and howled with frosty wind.

It was this night Gundnir arrived at the pub. An ideal night for a Shaman.

The door to the inn was thrust open with much commotion, aided by the howling wind. His appearance was savage, brutal; grey wolfskins draped over his rock-solid frame, a heavy warhammer balanced over one shoulder. Each flash of lightning behind him gave him a menacing silhouette.

Gundnir's chest heaved, and he shut the door behind him. And though he appeared beyond his prime, the Orc carried a massive wooden barrel over his other shoulder, held up by a steady hand. Without looking he deftly holstered his warhammer across his back and surveyed the place with fierce blue eyes.

A corner of his maw curled in a sneer, and he clicked his tongue over oddly clean teeth. Those inhabiting the rather-frequented pub were inspected one by one. His gaze narrowed on those with longer ears, nodding to a few Orc and Troll patrons that he knew.

Only after inspecting the commons room did he finally set the barrel down. Producing an intricately carved bone pipe from his pouch, Gundnir filled the bowl with a fingerful of ground-up Swiftthistle. And though he was perfectly capable of producing flame, he lit it with a wooden match.

It tasted better that way.

Sweet, acrid smoke rose from the pipe, the ember giving his grim visage a devilish glow. Without so much as a glance, his chain gauntlet was used as a hammer, ripping free a protruding wax seal and revealing a sturdy spigot in the barrel. A loud clank resounded as the gauntlet, literally and figuratively, was dropped.

Finally returning his savage gaze to the room, Gundnir raised a rather large flagon, cracking a vicious toothy half-grin.

"Well now, who thinks they can drink with Gundnir?"

[Binah]

The red-haired she-troll watched the orc as he lifted his stein to the crowd. She remembered him from before. Wondered if he'd ever gotten that tooth fixed. A slow smile spread across her face as she recalled the last time she'd been in a tavern with the shaman - him swiping drinks off of neighboring tables and setting them down in front of her, she sipping from her own flask and only accepting the stolen ale at the very end. He was a fun one.

Slowly, languidly, she rose from her seat and lifted her alabaster flask to him, speaking in her low, rippling voice so he would hear her and turn around. "Binah drink wi'joo las' time, shaman. She do it again." Tilting her head slightly, she brought the flask to her mouth and took a tiny sip. The smile never left her dark eyes.

[Gundnir]

"Right then."

The Orc shambled his way inward, a trail of light smoke whisping behind him. He sat with the she-Troll, cracking a toothy half-grin, revealing his left outermost tusken fang had indeed been capped with an iron spike.

Three others took up the challenge at that time. Razhiri, another female Warsong Troll scout he had fought alongside many years ago, drank from a copper-plated skull. An Elf, a male Gundnir presumed (they all looked alike to him), accepted the challenge with an elegant silver chalice. And an Undead, a Warrior judging by his finely polished armor and dual swords sheathed at his belt, sat with a silent nod. Gundnir noted that the Deader had no flesh in his midsection; how he intended to drink was beyond him.

That's more like it," Gundnir eyed the others with a challenging gaze. The Orc raised his stein in the middle of the table and then clanked it against Binah's in a raucous cheer. Slamming the drink to the table, he threw it back, gulping rather audibly in a quite unhealthy pull.

His flagon was finished to the last drop quickly, and his was the first to return to the table. He whiped his maw with a backhand and refilled his flagon from the previously dropped barrel.

"Another round, then!"

[Binah]

The empty mugs all clanked to the table a third time, Binah noticing with a satisfied grin at the shaman that hers sounded merely a scant half-beat behind his. He bellowed with laughter at her efforts to keep up with him. She was paying for it, of course, having eschewed her flask of sweet nectar in favor of the ale that flowed so freely. The she-troll licked a drop of the brew from the corner of her mouth, still maintaining her slow enjoyment of herself and her surroundings, and extended her mug to the Forsaken with a wink. He flashed a yellowed grin at her and began to refill it, but before the next round could be toasted, the door to the pub opened. Binah flicked her blurred gaze over to the newcomer, cursing Gundnir's challenge and her own stubbornness. She reached for her flask of nectar, hoping the familiar taste of home would sober her in more ways than one, as the new arrival began to move through the tavern.

[Timmous]

It's more dreadful than I had imagined.

As if to emphasize his distaste of the inn, a peal of thunder roared defiantly as Timmous stepped out of the increasingly inclement weather. Apparently the concussive accompaniment also served the dual purpose of announcing his arrival to the equally dreadful denizens of the inn. He silently cursed himself and his orders for bringing him out on a night as such and for forcing him to be caught in any curcumstance marring his usually pristine appearance - not to mention that he would have to spend hours reconciling the affect all this moisture was going to have on his armor.

Well, even in its diminished state, his armament was far superior to any in this hovel who's owner was trying to pass off as an acceptable place of recreation. Making no attempts at subtletly, he pushed back his cloak to reveal the glint of polished steel behind the unmistakable red and black of the Blood Knights.

Hooking a thumb behind the pommel of the shortsword at his hip he strode through the dimly lit room, each heavy footfall making a pronounced "clang" as his foot hit the floor. He studied the patrons as he walked, weighing and measuring them along the way as if he were walking down the ranks of a new squad of raw recruits. Most shrank back at his piecing gaze, others pretended fevereshly not to have noticed his entrance. All were dismissed as lacking. Then he came to the table in the center of the room.

Of most interest was a grizzled Orc sat beside an large keg. He seemed to be distributing drinks the others at the table, which seemed odd as most establishments frowned upon patrons bringing their own drink. As he sat at a nearby table, Timmous realized that the group was engaged in some kind of bizzare drinking contest who's winner was presumabley the one who comsumed the most and/or fastest.

The contest seemed to favor the Orc, Gundnir as he named himself in the fashion most Orcs did- by constantly referring to themselves in the third person. While he seemed to be setting the pace for the table, he still moved in a graceful way that belied the intoxicated state he was trying to portray. The tell was very subtle, one that only a seasoned fighting man would pick up, but it was there none-the-less. Gundnir was either very dangerous, or simply enjoyed pushing others to a level of severe inebriation.

The remaining members of the table seemed insignificant, save the undead who was allowed to compete, despite missing the lower half of its torso. How this was fair seemed to escape Timmous' logic, but this was not his contest. He was about to completely dismiss the rest of the rabble when one of the two she-trolls caught his eye.

Despite being half of Gundnir's weight, Binah was fairing quite well in the competition. While the effects of the alcohol were starting to marr her physical capabilities, Timmous could still see the light of cognizance in her eyes. Binah, too, could prove dangerous, albeit in a different way. While any type of confrontation in her current state might be laffable, meeting her face to face on even grounds could prove deadly.

Perhaps this place isn't so bad, Timmous tried to convice himself. It was. But at least he would have some entertainment.

[Gundnir]

"...and so she said, 'That's not my Moonberry Juice.' And I say'z ta her, 'That's not my Totem!'" Gundnir erupted into a roaring guffaw, a cacauphonous rolling laugh. Several of his newfound companions joined in the raucous merriment.

Gundnir pounded the table, over-amused at his own antics. A Blood Elf had already passed out; he now lay drooling on the floor. Two Trolls and an Orc had also given way. One had sat down with such inebriated force that his chair shattered. He seemed content to lay where he was.

A Tauren had joined them now. Though he towered over the Orc, Gundnir refilled his flagon and clanked it against the Bull's own glass. Binah seemed to be enjoying herself. She was small, lithe. Nearly half the size of the Orc. And yet she managed to hold her own.

Gundnir was impressed.

The Orc did not notice the newly-arrived Blood Knight. There was a good chance Gundnir would not have noticed if the entire Alliance military came crashing through the door. Hours had passed, and they continued the challenge. By all rights, he should be dead, or at least his liver should have clawed its way out from his stomach.

The green of his flesh had tinted a slight reddish color, due of course, to the ridiculous amounts of brew flowing through his blood. He shook his head to clear his vision. Blue eyes scanned his comrades, and he lifted his flagon in cheer.

"Down tha hatch, mates!"

[Binah]

As Gundnir drank down the ale in noisy, slurping gulps, Binah rose from the table and slowly walked over to the bar, swaying her hips lazily and feeling more than one pair of eyes upon her. She pressed between two other trolls who were engaged in a hushed conversation and beckoned the tavern keeper over with a crook of her finger. The orc was smaller than most of his kind, unshaven, and had been looking disapprovingly at their table ever since Gundnir had walked in the door and thrown down his challenge. No matter.

" 'ey, mon." Binah murmured as she leaned over the scarred wood of the bar. The orc behind the counter swept his gaze over the twin swords at her hips, her breasts that were tightly laced into her dark leather vest, and the inviting twinkle in her eyes. He grunted in response.

" 'joo got anyt'ing good back behind your countah?" Binah grinned and dropped her dark eyes below the orc's belt. "Beside 'dat, of course."

That got him. He chuckled, a low rumble from deep in his throat, and ignored the two Forsaken down the bar who were trying to get his attention as he leaned in to whisper to the troll. "Whaddya after, girl?"

Binah looked over her shoulder at Gundnir, who had begun to regale the few who remained upright at their table with another bawdy tale. She withdrew a few gold coins from her pouch and slid them over to the tavern keeper. "Me know dat one been costin' you evah since him walk t'rough de door. Please allow me ta make amen' for dat -" The rogue placed a few more coins on the bar. "- an' buy some of your strongah drink ta take back wid' me."

The orc behind the bar peered at Binah. She had been holding her own with that one called Gundnir for hours, but didn't appear to be too affected. Her breath smelled strongly of ale, and a sweet aroma he couldn't place. "What can ya handle, hmm?"

"Anyt'ing you have ta give me."

The tavern keeper laughed out loud at her slow smile and reached under the bar. Binah could barely discern the clinking of pottery over the din, but eventually the orc pulled out a large jug and set it down on the table. "I make this myself," he proclaimed proudly. "Knock that big one there out before you can blink. 'Course," he continued, puffing his chest out, "I been drinkin' it for years. Doesn't really sway me so much now, but it sells well." He eyed the few coins that Binah had placed on the bar, then glanced at her pouch.

"Mmm," said the rogue, understanding. "Well den..." She leaned closer, brushing her cheek against the tavern keeper's and whispering low into his ear, her hot breath stirring tendrils of his unkempt hair. "When dat big one back d'ere get knocked out by your voodoo drink, me come back an' pay you de res'...properly." She pulled back and bit her bottom lip, smiling as the orc dropped his eyes to her breasts once again. Without waiting for a response, Binah leaned over the bar and grabbed four small tin cups. Wrapping her thick fingers around the neck of the jug, she turned away from the bar, smiling at the tavern keeper over her shoulder, and made her way back towards the table. Brushing close to Gundnir, she plunked the jug down on the table and rapped her knuckles on the side of the keg the shaman had brought in. An echoey, hollow sound was barely audible over the noise of the tavern.

"Don' worry, mon," she said in response to the look of dismay that flashed over Gundnir's face. She fixed him with her dark stare and set one of the small cups down in front of him. "Me got somet'ing ta keep de fun goin'." She placed another cup in front of the Blood Knight who had joined them. She flicked her eyes from the Sin'dorei to the Forsaken warrior, and finally back to Gundnir. "Binah can drink wi'joo, mon. 'joo t'ink you can drink wid' Binah?"

[Gundnir]

Gundnir eyed the Deader intently. One brow furrowed and narrowed, the cold blue of the Orc's eyes locked with the yellowish pale eyes of the Undead. One of the Orc's nostrils flared, and he shifted himself to a better position in his seat. The Forsaken remained motionless; it seemed like he was hiding a smug smirk, but the lack of flesh around his jaw made it impossible to tell.

They both laid a hand atop an overturned wooden bowl, shaped much like a drum. The Forsaken tilted his head to the side, still locked in a visual test of wills with Gundnir. He leaned back slightly.

".....Jargra." At Gundnir's command, both patrons lifted the bowl simultaneously and slammed their other hands beneath it. Like rats clutching and fending off a find of food, both of them retrieved their hands and looked longingly in their palms.

Jargra was an Orcish game enjoyed by Gundnir and those of his generation, though it was becoming more common with the younger bloods. Two or more "combatants" provided a handful of dice, and the number of dice varied from game to game. This aspect was viewed by outsiders to be completely random, but regular Orcish players uphold the notion that there is a complex system of rules and regulations governing how many dice one may bring to the table. With the dice held firmly in hand, the combatants touched their fists together over the table, and let go all at once. Again, outsiders viewed this aspect as rather silly, as most outside players dropped their dice and were forced to chase after them as they ricocheted in every direction after bouncing off the table. Thus, most outside players simply placed their dice down. But Orcs, like Gundnir, who had been playing since they could hold their own dice, prided themselves on being able to slam the wooden bowl over the dice before they flew off the table.

The next phase consisted of the "stare down," another rather silly rule when perceived from the outside. This phase had no actual bearing of the game; for whatever reason, Orcish culture had developed this phase as simply a test of wills. When one looked away, or fidgeted with the bowl in anticipation of the dice-swiping, the other conceived themselves the victor.

Lastly, both combatants "attacked" when "Jargra" was issued. The exact meaning had been lost in the years, but it was often associated with the word "challenge," or "let's go." At this command, the bowl was flung away and the combatants swiped as many dice as they could. The hands were brought back to their combatants side of the table, and let rest. Whichever combatant had the highest number in their hands was the victor. But before the hands were revealed, combatants could wager, try to outmaneuver their opponents. This was tricky, and usually completely random, as a higher number of dice could potentially have a lower visible number, and vice versa. Wagers included anything, from trophies to drinks to goats. The game, while seemingly impossibly random and simple to an outside observer, was actually a clever game of trickery and bluffs.

Finally, as these two did, the hands were revealed, and the victor declared. Gundnir howled and pounded on the table as the Forsaken revealed a larger hand than him.

"Two in a row!" Gundnir roared. "C'mere and let me drink from yer glass. Yer luck must come from somewhere!"

While Binah was gone, the Tauren had wandered off, apparently unaccostumed to Gundnir's pub-habits. But this Forsaken was a fun one. He seemed almost curious.

Gundnir produced an intricately carved pipe shaped from bone. The neck was curved slightly, and a series of finely chiseled runic glyphs lined the sides. He dropped a thumbful of dried and ground Swiftthistle from a pouch at his belt into the bowl and lit the herbs with a wooden match. The ember glowed red, and the air about him was filled with the sweet, pungent aroma of the Thistle.

"Aye, then, so another round fer me new mates-" Gundnir paused and raised a brow as Binah returned, only to reveal that his barrel had been bled dry. A look of dismay washed over his gruff features. This look was did not dissipate as the she-Troll reclaimed her seat and leaned back comfortably. Gundnir could only imagine what wicked blades she hid on her lithe form.

"...'joo t'ink you can drink wid' Binah?"

Gundnir's blue eyes met the reds of hers. The Orc picked up the cup and raised it to her, exhaling lazily a plume of gray smoke.

"Let's see what'ch ya got, then."

[Binah]

Binah uncorked the jug and was almost overcome by the smell that assaulted her nostrils. It was sweet, yet pungent, and was strong enough to cut through the aroma of Gundnir's swiftthistle smoke. Maintaining her composure, she poured a measure of the brew into Gundnir's cup. After filling the Forsaken's, she tipped the jug into her own cup, but she didn't drink. Not yet. Instead, she reached a small bag from her satchel and shook her own dice onto the table. Nimble fingers untied the pouch from her hip and she jingled it a bit before dropping it heavily beside her cup. Not as full as I'd like, Binah thought ruefully, but hopefully that will change before the night's out. She watched the shaman's face closely, trying to read his level of inebriation as she raised her cup. "Whad'ya say we make t'ings more interesting? Meanwhile," she continued, touching her cup to his, "you can regale our friend here wid' de story 'bout how you broke dat tooth." With that, she tossed the liquor back in a single gulp.

[Gundnir]

Gundnir did indeed retell the story of his duel with the Orc Warrior. They battled in an old arena. The floor was sand- no, broken rocks. They were alone- er, he meant the crumbling stadium was full with screaming onlookers. The Warrior was seven.....ten feet tall, and his eyes blazed with orange fire.

"After I threw tha dragonkin ta tha ground, I dropped tha golem wit' me hammer, straight ta tha chin." Each action verbally explained was accented with a physical movement by the Shaman. "I called on a storm of legendary strength! Tha Warrior charged wit' his last bit o' will, and I brought tha fury of tha storm full force ta him!" Gundnir clashed his hands together. He finished his rather boisterous tale by flicking the iron-spike cap that had replaced his broken tooth.

"Now then," he exhaled with a puff of smoke. "More interestin' ya say?" Blue eyes fell to the dice she placed on the wood of the table. "Gundnir likes interestin'."

Without so much as smelling the offered drink, he tossed his own back and slammed the cup back to the table, his visage a mask of indifference.

[Binah]

The she-troll crowed gleefully as the hands were revealed - she had finally managed to outbluff the Forsaken warrior. Garrett was good, no question about that. Gundnir roared with laughter as Binah tipped the jug of liquor over the warrior's cup, filling it to the brim. "Drink up, mon. In fact," she continued as he gulped the drink down smoothly, "me t'ink you should 'ave ta take double ta catch up." She grinned and swept the pile of silvers to her side of the table, relieved that she did not have to take another sip from the bartender's jug. She had been losing to Garrett consistently, but after she had taken her "loser's drink", she was careful not to speak if she could help it, instead holding the liquor in the back of her throat until Gundnir and the warrior locked eyes before the next attack. Under the guise of sipping from her own flask, she surreptitiously emptied her mouth into the then-empty bottle and set it down beside her chair again in the flurry of excitement as the two scrabbled under the bowl for the dice. More often than not, though, she was forced to swallow the drink in favor of a well-timed laugh or a response to a question - a price she had to pay to avoid raising suspicion.

Gundnir had lifted his dice by then and extended his fist to her. As Binah collected her own dice, she became aware of a prickling on the back of her neck. "Firs' time against'joo, shaman," she said with a grin, and used the moment before she touched her knuckles to his to survey the room in one quick glance. There - over Gundnir's shoulder, near the door.

He was a troll, almost unnaturally tall for his kind - he leaned against the wall almost invisible in the shadows as he sipped from his drink. The dim, hazy air in the bar made it impossible to ascertain any more in that quick glance. He had been staring at their table - at whom, though, she couldn't tell.

Binah met Gundnir's flinty blue gaze once again, but she was distracted now. Nothin' ta worry 'bout 'less dere's somet'ing ta worry 'bout, girl. The dice fell to the table and together, the rogue and shaman slammed the bowl down. Fire and ice collided in their battle of wills, Binah's crimson stare unwavering as it battled with Gundnir's icy one.

She saw the figure shift against the wall, and her eyes flicked sideways in alarm. Too late, she regained control of herself - Gundnir's face cracked into a broad grin. Nah, girl, bettah ta be prepared for de stone dat nevah falls den ta be hit in de head by de one joo didn' expect.

Shut up, Binah told herself. She would rather have lost the hand to the orc than have backed down from the stare. I didn', nah. Nevah. Keeping a tight rein on her features, she ignored the troll as Gundnir spoke the challenge.