Jahl-Rin wiped the grease from his mouth, and spat the tiny shards of bone and stringy
meat onto the table, beside his plate.
“If I have to eat another godsdamned quail this week,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna eat that fucken fat prick of a cook.”
He downed his whiskey, pushed his plate across the table and stood up, all in one swift and agitated movement. His foreboding presence was felt throughout the inn at the sudden, imposing action.
A large meat knife to the front left of his skull he had weathered from a long past bar room battle, had left Jahl-Rin with an impressive looking trophy, that travelled in a gracefully serrated arc along and down to the bridge of his wide, flattened nose. The subsequent nerve damage caused the left side of his face to drop slightly, and he was forever wiping drool that gathered in the pocket of his hanging lower lip. His fierce temper was matched by his skill with a sword, or a stick. Indeed, anything close by and handy he could pick up and use, to quickly end a fight before it began. Woe would come to those who fed this terrible temper. Jahl-Rin seemed to transform. He would seem larger… much larger. His skin would take on a darker hue, and though his voice dropped to a menacing, growling whisper, his rage-filled blazing eyes and spit hanging from his mouth, flicking this way and that… This would be the
last thing you would see.
“Marnard! Where you hiding, boy?” Jahl-Rin cast an inebriated eye around the crowded room. He and his men had arrived at the Sarls Bend Inn two nights previous. Within the hour, they pretty much had the run of the place. Two whole days and nights of debauched revelry that saw many of the local patrons quickly take their leave, lest they be subjected to the drunken torments of this bawdy, rowdy crew.
“Haha! Here he is, Boss!” Marnard felt two large hands clamp down painfully on his tired shoulders, before being dragged to his feet from behind some crates of wine. “C’mon boy. Whaddre ya doin’ back there? Did ya lose ya balls? Aahahaha!” Cold pricks of spittle tickled the back of Marnard’s neck and the stench of gods-know-what emanating from this goliath’s mouth, along with his slurred words.
“The boss called you. Move!” and with that, the poor lad was sent bouncing and spinning from one drunken bandit to the next, to unintentionally fall on one knee at Jahl-Rin’s feet.
“Get up, boy. Flattery will get you nowhere,” Jahl-Rin sneered at Marnard. “And many
thanks, my good man, for flushing out my little rat here”, he added, roughly patting
Marnard’s greasy matted locks as he stood up nervously.
“Most welcome, Boss” replied Jahl-Rin’s old friend and right hand man, Goatus Of
Torment… or ‘Goat’ in short. Leering cheekily, he offered his alpha a deep bow. A poorly
masked gesture of mockery, which backfired on the heavily intoxicated giant. The bow
transformed into a forward stumble, that culminated in a headlong pitch across a crowded table, to the uproarious laughter of his comrades.