[Magus]

The newcomer sat sipping his wine. The barkeep had risen, but did little more than glare at the half-elf, a mixture of fear and animosity in his dirty eyes. The half-elf glanced at him, then flipped a few gold onto the counter as an afterthought.

Without warning a hand slapped into his shoulder, splashing red wine all over his tunic. The hand forced him around, and he found himself faced with a disheveled mess of a human, a stupid grin on his face. The newcomer eyed him, a displeased look on his face.

"Hail!" said the brute loudly. "Mind if I join you?"

Before he could answer, the human was already sitting next to him, hands folded over each other, leaning on the counter next to him, the same fool grin still plastered over his face.

While the man prattled on to no one in particular, the half-elf withdrew into the winding corridors of his mind, trying to recall where he was, why he was there. He was in a tavern…green something…Green Griffin. What was he doing there? He glanced at his wine glass. Drinking wine. But there was no wine. He looked at his shirt. I spilled it. Then he looked at the man. He made me spill it. His displeased look returned. He should teach the fool a lesson. Bah, what was the point? He looked at his wine glass. He needed more wine.

He glanced at the bartender. The man glared at him angrily. What was his problem?

“More wine.”

The barkeep reddened. “Get out.”

To Hell with it. He began to rise.

Suddenly some men in leather armor burst in. They said something--he wasn’t really paying attention--and then the drunk beside him dropped to the floor and began to slither to the door. Odd as it was, he gave it nothing more than a cursory glance before sitting down. He heard some cries, and then the men were gone, most of the patrons with them. He glanced around. The tavern was almost empty.

“Hi friend, nice weapon you have there,” said a pleasant voice behind him. He turned around. A man in black studded leather stood before him, his face handsome and clean-shaven. “Could I have a closer look?” He eyed the sword by the half-elf’s side with intense curiosity.

His hand strayed to his katana reflexively. He felt a tingle of warning. Something wasn’t right. He eyed the stranger silently, on his guard.

The stranger shook his head. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way,” he said with a small smile. He snapped his fingers, and several figures arose around the room: a man in fine black robes, a burly looking fighter in battered half-plate, a shady-looking man in black wool garments that obscured his face, and a bored man in splint mail, his eyes brightening at the prospect of some action. The fighter lifted a huge great sword from his back, while the man in splint mail pulled out a sturdy longbow. The other two eyed the half-elf calculatingly.

The rogue pulled out a pair of wicked-curved daggers. “Care to reconsider?”

The half-elf’s gaze encompassed his opponents. “Go to Hell.” He took a sip of wine with his free hand. It was empty.

“As you wish.” The rogue leaped forward, daggers extended for the kill. The half-elf hurled the wine glass and drew his katana almost in a single motion. The glass shattered in the man’s face, dazing him, as the katana streaked out and sliced him in two. The fighter came barreling at the half-elf, overturning tables as he passed, while the two black-robed figures chanted in the language of magic, and the archer loosed his first arrow.