"And, and, and I said to him, ya need a handle wi'that, bruh?" The knight slurred as he took another enthusiastic swill, waving his mug of grog around in animated gestures that left half of it spilling into the ground. "An' he told me, not with a quill, I won't!"
And that sent the dozen or so crowded around him in another uproar, laughing generously as they traded bumps with mugs before chugging their booze whole. There were many a pat on the back or two for the storyteller, and a general call for another round of ale all around.
And soon the young, drunken man lasped into his next story, gesticulating wildly, speaking with great brass and boasts in between alternate chugs, now spinning some tale of dragons, two elven druids and an impotent old man. It was only too obvious that his talk was all boast and tall tales, but he was damn good about it, and as long as it entertained the crowd no one called him out about it. Every climax he built up to was met with a roaring cheer, every twist and turns met with gasps and naggings for more, and he always paused just the right amount of time to whet his audience's stomachs, anticipating for more, before dropping the final, clinching line. After which would often by succeeded by swooping yells of victory, a roar of approval and yet another barrel of ale emptied.
"...And he was this, big, bouldering lizard, huh?" He gestured, miming the flap of great, enormous wings, which drew a shuddering gasp or two from his avid listeners. "Great nasty eyes, yellow like sick blight, like, and his claws each larger than a scimitar, see? Red flames and black smoke curling from his snout, huh, like there's this hellfire churning in the furnace of his scaly gut, huh!" He spoke in a cur, coarse accent of rural Connoloathian, and judging from his slangs and jargons it was evident he had been a military man. His hair however, long, uncombed, was starkly different from the conscripted, neat military do, nor was his bearing, wearing an ensemble of shabbly-clod together pieces of armor in various states of oxidization in no formal manner whatsoever. He had a thin scar across one eye, and multiple piercings on one ear.
Raising his mug and taking a long draw from the brew again, he let out a satisfied sigh and wiped the foam off his sleeve. "And then-" Cue the dramatic pause. "I let me sword down n' cleaved the mean beastie like a shallie!!!"
The crowd burst into a frenzied round of cheers and chortles again, mugs raised and toasting in the air in the jubilant delivery of the punchline.
Taking a pause, Aran broke away from the gathering, pausing to accept a few manly grips and approving remarks on his way out. Red in the face and light on his feet, it was a miracle alone who he'd managed ten steps with his feets crossed like that, but he did manage to reach the other end of the bar. Tripping slightly, he stumbled and reached for the nearest support of a table, accidentally knocking over a jug in the process. "Oops." He mumbled drearily. "Sahrry."
