I decided to do a silly writing exercise because I can’t sleep and I love coming up with silly things for my characters to do.
So here you go, one bar scene with my two Sylvari, my boyfriend’s Human and Charr, and my friend’s Norn. I won’t be sad if nobody reads this but bless you if you decide to.
Jonquil shook his head at the strange company he kept, stranger now that they were in a certain Queensdale pub. Lhyssandra had insisted, as she was practically a queen there after drinking three consecutive miscreants under the table. Odion, the hulking Norn, had crammed himself into a corner and refused to move after a few drinks. He was still there now, poking a stick into the fire and watching the sparks fly, occasionally hollering for more mead. Darren, his not-date, had been his usual shy self even after the alcohol. In fact, he’d clammed up even further, choosing instead to stare intently at a prominent knot in the counter as if he was afraid to blink. The human bartender had made some crack about his being attracted to the wood there, as he was a plant himself, but neither he nor Jonquil was drunk enough to laugh at it.
Jurral was seated at the far end of the bar for a reason. It may have been self-inflicted exile, but it was for the best. Jonquil was reminded of this as Jurral nearly lit his paws on fire for the third time that night. Who had let him bring a lighter in here anyways?
Oh, right, he had. But if questioned, he planned to blame Lhyssandra. The human was the guild leader anyways.
“But could I have one olive? No, I will need two, no, three olives. I need to see if olives effect the palatability and the ignition rate of these mixtures. Do you have those little sword pokers? Good, I need a few of those,” Jurral growled at the bartender. He then squinted through his comically tiny goggles as he poured a shot of one mixture into a tumbler of something else. The counter was riddled with tiny scorch marks, and he’d already singed an eyebrow off.
The bartender sighed, but the charr did pay well, so he offered the requested items after a moment of searching.
Jonquil was beginning to feel warm and a bit dizzy. Alcohol tended to hit sylvari earlier and harder than their red-blooded companions, but it wore off just as quickly.
Another patron, some farmhand by the looks of it, stumbled into Darren’s chair. The larger sylvari didn’t seem to notice as he had his gaze locked firmly on that single knot. He clenched his fingers into his thighs a little harder, but otherwise didn’t budge an inch.
Lhyssandra had just finished punching someone’s face in when Jonquil glanced in that direction. He found the sight of a heavyset man passed out on the floor next to their guild’s petite lady so amusing, he locked his legs around his stool to have a good hard laugh. His laugh was a bit high-pitched and annoying, and he knew it, so he stuffed half of his fist into his mouth to try to stifle the noise. It didn’t completely work, and he ended up crying in laughter in a matter of seconds.
By now, the whole pub was beginning to erupt into a brawl, so rather than be left out, he decided to have a bit more fun. As a mesmer, he could turn minds against their masters by shifting and bending light. Most of his trade were skilled in making perfect illusions of themselves, so convincing that their opponents could feel every illusory punch even as it sailed right past them. But Jonquil was very proud of his imagination, and took his trade one step further.
As one man raised his fist to land a heavy blow, his opponent flickered in place, his face replaced with a grotesque distortion. The drunken brawler jumped, then punched anyways, his eyes closed to the monstrosity. His fist collided with nothing, and the illusion broke into shreds of magic left behind - tiny pink mesmer butterflies. He swung his fists again and again, each person he hit breaking into showers of the little bugs until he tired himself out and sat pitifully on the floor of the pub.
Jonquil was now laughing so hard that no sound was coming out, his leafy head laid on the counter as he watched his illusions shatter to the chagrin of the man attacking them.
Odion had left his corner after the brawl started, shouting streams of vaguely insulting nonsense at his foes as he punched them. No matter what race or height they were, he always went for the face.
Darren was still having a staring contest with the counter even amid the chaos, and now he looked like he’d be sick if he lost.
Everything stopped. All heads swiveled back to the bar, which was now on fire. Jurral was furiously patting at it with a booze-soaked rag. Lyssandra didn’t hesitate to dump a bucket of mop-water across the table and Jurral behind it. She then resumed wrestling a farmhand who’d apparently been bold enough to try groping her. Jonquil had never seen a human lose a hand before, and he very nearly did that night.
“Everyone, shut UP!” Darren hollered over the ruckus, then slumped onto the bar.
