Loken
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*The most famous poet, playwright, altruist, and scourge of crime and Heresy, Lord Inquisitor Locken, stumbles onto the stage, slightly tipsy.*
Ladies and... gentlemen! Boys and girls! Arandor and Executor! Executor and Arandor! I'm glad to drink diluted ale and tequila-chased whiskey with you, and I want to tell you a little poem!
Of my own composition, as they say!
So... just a second...
*He takes a glass from one of the patrons, takes a sip, and puts it back.*
So!
The poem is called "Sunshine."
The sun is shining, it shines...
Hey! What the...!
Ex! Don't touch my glass! I didn't put it on the far end of the table just for you! What? What are you talking about? Go get another bottle from Alu! He's guzzling my tequila!
So... what was I talking about?
Ah!
Ar, play!
So...
The sun is shining, it shi...
Hey, you up in the gallery! Shut up! This is art! What? What "guy" are you talking about? What "phone"? I'll exterminate you. Be quiet up there.
It shines...
Plah! Anatoly! Leave Malus Codicium alone, demons like you can't read the cursed scripture anyway. Do I have to bring it back again at the owner's request as a funny little pet? Never!
I'm tired...
Well, I'm not in the mood anymore! You ruined it.
...
Damn it, I left my chainsword and power fist at home...
I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way...
*He grabs the nearest chair and slams it down on the head of the nearest gorilla-like figure with a protruding jaw and close-set, pig-like eyes, shouting something about damned heretics who always ruin the plans of honest people; thereby provoking a riot and a brawl in the tavern.*
*Tables and chairs fly everywhere, and some blurry figures are running around under the ceiling as a result of numerous kicks; chaos reigns everywhere. Arandor, with a furious cry, pounces on a thug reaching out with his dirty hands towards his signature lute; Executor, letting out a battle cry with clearly drunken undertones, begins to wield his octoplax fireproof spiked guitar, periodically taking a swig from a flask with some vile concoction; Lelya deftly stabs a heel right into the fat belly of a clumsy brute; Whirlwind strategically and methodically pushes back three thugs, delivering quick blows with a chair leg, and dodging their huge hands. The owner of the tavern, Alucard, begins to mutter something about the damage and calling the arbiters, but, seeing that words are of little use, he pulls out a well-worn shovel from under the counter, which he has clearly used more than once, and makes huge breaches in the crowd. Brackman leisurely takes a Kalashnikov from behind his back, removes the safety, pulls the bolt, aims, and... click. The magazine is empty. "Oh well, it'll do anyway!" - Brack didn't dwell on it for long, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, and making a couple of practice swings in the air before rushing into the thick of the battle. Locken, angry at himself for not having his sword, crashes into the crowd, whirling around like a hurricane, and delivering punches with his fists, covered in leather gloves with iron inserts. Sevr pulls out a strangely shaped censer from somewhere in his clothes, apparently specially designed for such extreme use, and eagerly joins the chaos around the bard.
The Monarch, not finding a throwing disc on his belt, begins to use unbreakable wooden plates for this purpose, inflicting no less damage.
The rest sit, admire the riot, and good-naturedly joke with each other, placing bets on the possible winner, and sipping rum through a straw
Ladies and... gentlemen! Boys and girls! Arandor and Executor! Executor and Arandor! I'm glad to drink diluted ale and tequila-chased whiskey with you, and I want to tell you a little poem!
Of my own composition, as they say!
So... just a second...
*He takes a glass from one of the patrons, takes a sip, and puts it back.*
So!
The poem is called "Sunshine."
The sun is shining, it shines...
Hey! What the...!
Ex! Don't touch my glass! I didn't put it on the far end of the table just for you! What? What are you talking about? Go get another bottle from Alu! He's guzzling my tequila!
So... what was I talking about?
Ah!
Ar, play!
So...
The sun is shining, it shi...
Hey, you up in the gallery! Shut up! This is art! What? What "guy" are you talking about? What "phone"? I'll exterminate you. Be quiet up there.
It shines...
Plah! Anatoly! Leave Malus Codicium alone, demons like you can't read the cursed scripture anyway. Do I have to bring it back again at the owner's request as a funny little pet? Never!
I'm tired...
Well, I'm not in the mood anymore! You ruined it.
...
Damn it, I left my chainsword and power fist at home...
I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way...
*He grabs the nearest chair and slams it down on the head of the nearest gorilla-like figure with a protruding jaw and close-set, pig-like eyes, shouting something about damned heretics who always ruin the plans of honest people; thereby provoking a riot and a brawl in the tavern.*
*Tables and chairs fly everywhere, and some blurry figures are running around under the ceiling as a result of numerous kicks; chaos reigns everywhere. Arandor, with a furious cry, pounces on a thug reaching out with his dirty hands towards his signature lute; Executor, letting out a battle cry with clearly drunken undertones, begins to wield his octoplax fireproof spiked guitar, periodically taking a swig from a flask with some vile concoction; Lelya deftly stabs a heel right into the fat belly of a clumsy brute; Whirlwind strategically and methodically pushes back three thugs, delivering quick blows with a chair leg, and dodging their huge hands. The owner of the tavern, Alucard, begins to mutter something about the damage and calling the arbiters, but, seeing that words are of little use, he pulls out a well-worn shovel from under the counter, which he has clearly used more than once, and makes huge breaches in the crowd. Brackman leisurely takes a Kalashnikov from behind his back, removes the safety, pulls the bolt, aims, and... click. The magazine is empty. "Oh well, it'll do anyway!" - Brack didn't dwell on it for long, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, and making a couple of practice swings in the air before rushing into the thick of the battle. Locken, angry at himself for not having his sword, crashes into the crowd, whirling around like a hurricane, and delivering punches with his fists, covered in leather gloves with iron inserts. Sevr pulls out a strangely shaped censer from somewhere in his clothes, apparently specially designed for such extreme use, and eagerly joins the chaos around the bard.
The Monarch, not finding a throwing disc on his belt, begins to use unbreakable wooden plates for this purpose, inflicting no less damage.
The rest sit, admire the riot, and good-naturedly joke with each other, placing bets on the possible winner, and sipping rum through a straw
Первый, кто был забанен за Правду.