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Raven smiles at the medicine man, but his attempt at being pleasant comes off as unsettling instead; his grin is just a little too broad, his eyes, which flicker a dull red beneath his jet black and teal hair, are just a little too crinkled. "No, no, this happened a long time ago. She wasn't done with me, so I got back up." After a moment he looks at the townie, his face markedly more serious. "Say, have you seen any angels around here? You know, white wings, holy robes, chorus of horns, that sort?"

Bags takes the case. He takes each pipe out in turn, carefully sniffing at the tobacco in each one. He presses the tip of his left bony, long index finger into each little bowl to test the compaction of the tobacco.

it's just that i was wondering

maybe the tobacco was a game playing aid

i wasn't sure because i'm not smoking it but i can tell that you are about to lose a piece

but i am going to smoke this pipe and try and observe its affect on my chess acuity

Bags selects the whale pipe and moves over to the fireplace. He rummages briefly through the front of his coat, pulls out a brownish crew sock, and uses it to catch some of the fire in the fireplace. He lights the pipe, aggressively pulling so as to create a large cherry, then shakes out the sock and stuffs it back into his coat. A smell like sweaty old plums lit with butane wafts from the smoke seeping out of his outermost layer.

He returns to the game and stares at it intently, puffing the pipe steadily.

Pattrick Stonepants has never once in his life arrived anywhere on time, and he's never once been bothered by it. He shoulders through the door of the Sudden Pig trailing a smell of pipe tobacco, wet duck feathers, and something else .... (Smoked Mayonnaise???)

Observes the people in the bar, and puts 2 silver coins on the table.

I'll have whatever these get me.

He sets both down, slides the mug across the bar to you, and stands the micro cow up on the bar. It wears a tiny halter, and he loosely ties the loose end of the reigns to a rail running along the other side of the bar. The pocket cow looks up at you with its round eyes and lets out a small plaintively moo in a small high register. It sounds kind of like a cat's meow. You eye its swollen udders.

This whole act succeeds in breaking through my facade, and my smile un-twists itself into a mix of amusement and curiosity at the small cow, then friendliness as I beckon the small thing over. "Here, girl. Here," I half-whisper, trying to keep the cow relaxed. It isn't a hard cow to milk, given its size; what is lacking in dexterity is made up for in sheer size difference. The small cow lies down, relieved, as I cautiously drink the raw milk, and stare at the... chowder?... that appeared next to me while I was preoccupied with the cow. Service sure is quick here, unlike my employer... who am I even looking for? When the barkeep seems to have a moment, I ask. "I'm supposed to meet someone here. Do you know a Beryl?"

I put on my robe and wizard hat

You are now dressed like a wizard.

The locals at the bar all slide away from you. There is still a greasy smudge on the ceiling here from the last time a wizard patronized this tavern and accidentally self-immolated themself after getting piss drunk on cheap ale.

Q. Are there stars and moons on your robe? YES/NO

I doff my incredibly cheap Temu-quality blue wizard hat w/ poorly stitched yellow stars and moons, placing it on the bartop. Looking around the tavern, it's seen better days. "Been quite some time, barman." I saunter to a display of arms and armor, two swords crossed with explicit vacancy between the hilts - an empty nail hammered above.

I reach shoulder-deep into the purse-sized bag magically, and hoist out a shining blue shield with a white chevron pattern. "Old friend..." I say under my breath, lifting the shield to its home above the crossed swords.

Dusting my hands, back at my barstool, I eye the greasy smudge on the ceiling and shake my head, scoffing while downing the last half of my 8th warm ale. "Novisch...", I slur under my breath, lighting a match and setting myself aflame, blowing a hole clean through the roof, and wounding a barbarian who was acting too tough to take heed. Among my ashes on the floor the barman finds 2 gold coins to cover my tab, and a USB drive.

The barkeep looks around the back side of his Stripe iPad console, realizes there's no port for such a thing. He trudges to the back, opening an old broom closet where the bar's CCTV rig has been running on a legacy Windows 300AD beige tower for hundreds of years. Interrupting the "Pipes 3D" screen saver, he plugs in the USB drive, and the system hums to life. AUTORUN.exe executes, the screen fills with a pleasant blue gradient, two white chevrons and a swoop. A green progress bar fills a white vacancy. The barkeep shakes his head fondly...

"...The InstallShield Wizard"

One-Eye and One-Leg politely endure the weird and smelly sock-lighting process with a tight smile, and by pointedly staring at a fixed point on the wall over your shoulder, respectively.

"This guy is a goddamn sicko," One-Eye seems to blink in morse code at One-Leg, who misses the transmission by continue to stare a hole in the wall over there.

You diligently smoke your pipe as you observe the game. It tastes of blueberries and makes your head swim a little bit. One-Leg proceeds to soundly beat his opponent, and invites you to pull up a chair and face him as his next opponent. One-Eye retreats to another chair next to the fire.

It is time to either test the pipe's effect on your chess acuity, or to slink away.

Sure enough, right on cue, the tavern doors swing open to reveal a harried older gentleman, befrocked and berobed, seeming to struggle under the weight of dozens of different holy symbols around his neck and also pinned to his robes. He looks like something between a decorated general and an overzealous boy scout. He keeps his gaze down and his shoulders stooped as he beleagueredly shuffles over to the bar and orders a drink from the barkeep.

The barkeep with the long face and the bristled beard nods and swipes up the two silver pieces. He pours you a glass of flat, room temperature, watery ale. The cheapest ale in the house but also technically the nicest, since it's the only ale in the house and the same stuff that everybody else gets. It's a tall glass and a clean one, and it goes down nice and smooth.

Sheemster the tavern boy slaps a steamy bowl of Something Chowder down on the bar in front you bellowing HOWDA! as he does.

"So you're also with the Third Watch, I take it?" inquires the friendly barkeep.

Takes a slow pull of the ale, eyes never leaving the barkeep. An awkward 15 seconds. Smacks his lips, then turns round to face the others, clocking their appearance.