“Why would he say we are too loud?” asked Darak. “We are not so loud as the Sons of Fire.” He nodded to the inebriated Dwarves at the next table, currently in the middle of a traditional mining song. Feista’s eyes lingered on their table for a moment, held there by something elusively familiar.
“Yeah, Lightlings can be like that sometimes. They want you to be quieter or… you know. Not make a big fuss out of things,” said Burt. “You just gotta roll with it.”
The Kobold’s answer prompted resigned sighs and nods from most of the table, but Asherzu looked frustrated.
“Why must we roll with this?” the chieftain demanded. “We are citizens of Andarun, NPCs the same as everyone else. Why must we be quieter?”
“Well, I—uh…” Burt gulped and flapped his jaw wordlessly before his searching eyes landed on Feista. “You want to help me out here?” he asked.
Feista didn’t, but now Asherzu’s violet eyes were locked onto the Gnoll with all the sudden intensity of a mountain thunderstorm. “Uh… sometimes in the interest of keeping the peace—”
“What good is an unjust peace? Why keep it? No, this will not stand.” Asherzu raised a hand to summon the waiter.
Feista’s tail curled under her chair. Most of the others feigned sudden interest in their cutlery. Burt began grabbing bread. “I’d eat while you can,” he advised.
“Yes? Is everything well?” said the waiter, sliding back up to the table.
“The Sons of Fire are louder than we were,” Asherzu told him. “If we were too loud, and they are louder still, you must ask them to lower their voices.”
“I… ahm… I really don’t think that will be necessary.” With Novian timing, the Dwarves hit an especially boisterous chorus, and the waiter nearly had to shout to be heard over their song.
“But what of the state of the kingdom? Is it not true that the king is declared dead?” said Asherzu. “Will other guests not be disturbed?”
“We, ahm… we all handle our grief differently, do we not?” said the waiter.
“Then why did you ask us for quiet?” said Asherzu.
The waiter held his empty tray like an improvised shield. “Ahm… madam, I-I-I do not appreciate what you’re implying.” He looked to Feista as though she could help.
“If we all remain calm, I am sure we can work through this,” said Feista.
“I am very calm,” said Asherzu levelly. “I am calmly asking why I must remain so calm when the Sons of Fire are allowed to sing at the tops of their lungs.”
The Dwarves, for their part, were no longer singing. A few of them had taken notice of the confrontation. One of them gave Feista a helpless shrug.
“I… ahm… I am feeling very threatened right now,” sputtered the waiter.
“Why are you threatened by a question?” asked Asherzu.
The Scribkin pointed an accusing finger at Darak. “Him! He’s looking at me like he wants to kill me!”
“This is how I look at everyone,” Darak rumbled.
“To be fair, you do want to kill a lot of peop—ow!” Burt cut off when he caught Asherzu’s elbow to his ribcage.
“We are citizens of Andarun dining out,” said the chieftain. “We do not solve our problems with violence. Nobody need feel threatened by us.”
“Usually,” Burt grumbled, rubbing his bruised chest.
“Nevertheless!” The Scribkin was starting to alternate between several shades of crimson as some alchemical mix of embarrassment and anger bubbled under his skin. “You… you have been very aggressive! I’m just doing my job!” He looked to Feista for help.
But Mrs. Hrurk’s gaze was locked on the Dwarves’ table, or rather, an object on the wall behind the nonplussed Dwarves. “That’s Finnen Yarp’s drum,” she said.
“Ahm—” the waiter began.
“That’s my ancestor’s war drum,” Feista said, pointing to a tattered instrument hanging between an imitation great axe and a stuffed cockatrice. “You make it so clear that we’re not welcome here, so clear that you don’t respect us, and now you have our ancestral drum, an heirloom stolen from my tribe, nailed to the wall amongst your cheap trinkets!”
The waiter struggled to react to this new line of attack from his flank. “I—ahm... you may be mistaken—”
“Those beads tell the history of my clan! I know them better than you know your mustache!” snapped Feista. She pointed to a couple of scraps of tattered gray dangling from the base. “Those are Finnen Yarp’s ears! That’s my family’s drum!”
“Ahm, I am sure we purchased that—”
“Bones to what you bought!” barked Feista. “How can you buy someone’s heritage!? Generations of my people lived and died by that drum, and you dare hang it on your wall so Lightlings can stare at it while they eat overpriced fish and cheap bread!”
The Scribkin’s mustache bristled. “How dare you—!” he began.
Mrs. Hrurk did not remember much of what transpired next. There was shouting, and the crash of a chair on the floor as someone stood too quickly, and a high-pitched wailing that she had thought was a child but turned out to be the waiter. Then something massive closed around her like a snapping jaw, and the world became a blur of black and crimson.
It was some time before her senses came back, filing in one by one like embarrassed schoolchildren returning from a headmaster’s office. First, she felt the irregular, gentle drips of a light drizzle falling on her fur. Then the earthy smell of damp cobblestones drifted into her nose. She heard concerned murmurs and the pattering of rain. When she opened her eyes, Chieftain Asherzu and the senior leadership of Warg Inc. stared down at her. Finally, her memories came crawling back, hobbled under the weight of her shame.
Feista sat up, mortified. “Did I say—”
“You did,” said Asherzu, kneeling next to her.
“And did I—”
“You might have, but Darak restrained you. The Gnome is unharmed, save for his honor.”
