A drink between friends.

Built like a dwarf with the height of an orc, Gregory Haylissh moved as quickly as a man of his stature could. He had reddish hair with hints of blonde, and a full thick beard that was the envy of every man. His bright blue eyes rested above cheeks that spent most of their time turned upwards in a wide grin. Gregory was what one might call a 'pragmatic optimist'. He looked at every situation with a logical mind, but always looked for a silver lining. Not an easy task in a nation betrothed to Hell.
 Nightfall had fast approached the working man as  he was wrapping up his work at a farmhouse being built just outside of Longacre. It was just another annoyance, another law he had to remember and obey to avoid incurring an infraction. Having grown up in Longacre, he was accustomed to losing a bit of his income to the Archbaron's guards for minor rule violations. Such was the life of a Chellish citizen.

 Thinking on it, Gregory had a growing realization that should he be caught, he would probably face a lot more than just a steep fine. The Archbaron's new minions were developing a reputation as an unpredictable group. Shooting women one day, saving a hospice the next. Brutal, weird, quiet, and overly friendly. The rumors were hard to make sense of. Looking around and getting his bearings, he switched directions and headed down an alley way towards Hemsmouth Way. It would take him uncomfortably close to the jail - seemingly the headquarters for the Archbaron's men- but it was home to the only friend he knew would let him stay until dawn. The thud of leather boots echoed through the night, coming down the intersecting alley. "Devils take me!" he cursed quietly, ducking into a closed doorway, and sucking in his gut, the only hiding space available to him. He prayed for Iomedae's courage to steel his nerves and keep him as unmoving as a statue. Daring to only move his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the man called Wyran, a Thrune if the rumors were true, and reportedly the most unstable of the group. Seemingly in a hurry, he continued through the alley, not seeing Gregory. The man gave a slight exhalation of breath, relieved. He counted 10 seconds before stepping from the doorway and peeking to make sure the Thrune was well on his way. As he peered down the alleyway at Wyran who was rapidly walking towards the jail, something bumped him on the back of the head.  Panicking, Gregory half jumped, half fell to the grimey stone ground. Looking up, he felt his blood turn colder than Cocytus ice. A hulking monster peered down at him, two snorting pets at it's heel, their size and bulk the very image of a hellish beast to the terrified peasant. The light of the full moon behind the trio, illuminating their savage forms, making them appear even more ferocious. Their stench was powerful. 'This is the last experience I'll ever have. The smell of this thing...' Gregory thought to himself. "P-p-please..." he stammered, hardly a whisper. How he wished he had something defensive to grasp. His kingdom for a carpenter's hammer.

"I am no threat to you." snorts the beast, its voice deep and growling. "It's with him." it says, looking in Wyran's direction. "Go home, Greg. There's nothing here but death."

He crawled to his knees, already running before he had fully risen, his knees trembling. Never before had he run so fast, moving entirely on instinct fueled by terror.

"WYRAN THRUNE!" Gregory heard the monster bellow, echoing through the otherwise quiet city. Gregory found himself at the doorway of his friend, Killian Marsh. Looking over his shoulder, he pounded the wooden door, still too scared to speak, an irrational fear that words might draw the monster to him.
"Who in the Nine Hells is at my door!" Shouted a voice. Opening the door, a thin man, nearly the opposite of Gregory, stood in gray night clothes holding a lit candle. Beardless, pale,  and with faded hair not quite brown, not quite gray but an ugly, unnamed color somewhere between. Gray eyes, which had seen unspeakable atrocities, the man was unmistakable as a son of Nidal, the nation of eternal dusk and night.
"Get in, you foolish oaf!" hissed Killian, grabbing the big man at the wrist, even as Gregory tried to knock at a door already opened. With a surprising strength, he pulled him in and snuffed the candle out. "Well over an hour past curfew, Greg. What are you doing out this late?"

"D-d-drink please, Killy. I need a drink. The hard stuff. My-my nerves." stammered Gregory, his heart thumping. He helped himself to an empty chair and the stalwart table.
Having already noted his friends delerious state and anticipated his need for drink, Killian was already finishing the pour on a double shot of Demon Balls tequila. Gregory wrapped his ham-sized fist around the glass and threw it back, tapping it back against the tabletop.
"One more, Killy. One more." spoke Gregory, eyeing the closed door as if it might burst into splinters at any moment. Killian obeyed. Gregory raised the glass midway to his mouth, then stopped.
"One more double, Killy." clarified  Gregory, an unusually serious tone in his voice. Killian complied, and Gregory imbibed.
After a stretch of minutes, Gregory finally spoke.
"Towns going to Hell, even faster than the rest of Cheliax, Killy." Gregory spoke, the liqour settling his fears.

"What did you see to make a man as big as an ogre so afraid?"
Killian questioned.

"Now that I'm thinking clearly. I feel a bit foolish. I've heard the stories, I know the tales from travelers. Didn't see nothing as bad as I know you've seen, Killy, being from Nidal and such. It was scarey, sure, but what I think scared me the most, or at least my nerves on edge, was that Thrune fellow. Just wasn't expecting...wasn't expecting to see one of Asmodeus' own following him. Great big beast, two big horns from its face, fierce looking eyes, cloven hooves...and gods be all, the smell . Was going after the Thrune. Seemed full of Hellfire and deadset on settling a score."

"A fiend going after one of the Archbaron's own? Strange developments. Perhaps some sort of demon set loose?" pondered Killian, taking a swig from the Demon Balls bottle.

"Things are changing, and fast, Killy. Talk about this Angel Knight, and Glorious Reclamations. Staelish has been chased out, these new deputies are as wild and unpredictable as a group of murder hobos. Not sure what to be thinking of it all." Gregory said, finally breaking his stare off from the door to look at Killian, desperate for advice.

"Take it from me, a survivor from a nation enthralled to a god who wants to flay us alive and stitch us back together, lay low. Don't get involved. Let the ones with the armor and swords fight it out."

"I know what you mean, but seems like we could be in for big changes, maybe something better, if this Angel Knight could make good on her promises." said Gregory, his voice almost pleading, as if wanting Killian to gift him a measure of hope.

The Nidalese man would have none of it. "There is always someone willing to make promises to you in order to get you to throw yourself on a sword." he said, a harsh tone in his voice.

"I'd like to think I could help them in other ways, Killy. I'm not a fighter or some knight. But I'm strong. And I can build. Maybe...maybe I could make a difference."

"Greg, dear friend, the only difference you'd make is 101 bodies nailed to a Devil's Cross or hung from the long end of a short rope instead of 100 bodies. Let it rest, friend."

"Damn it, Killy! The tiefling! The one with that magic gun, he killed Mindy! The Parson's girl. She was a good girl, she was! Just turned 17 winters. Beautiful, and kind. It was...it was more than wrong...it was..." Gregory stumbled, the liquor beginning to effect him.

"Vile. Abominal. She was too kind. Kind even to a wrech of a man like me. I knew her. The only reason I ever went to The Last Stand. Too kind for the likes of Cheliax." spoke Killian, a hint of sorrow infused in his voice. "One more drink, a single, to Mindy Parsons." Gregory spoke, half asking, half demanding.
"I'll drink to that. Cheers, to a pretty dove gone too soon." said Killian.


The bottle put up, Killian hauled out a feather pillow and spare quilt, placing them in Gregory's hands, the thick man swaying slightly. "Sleep. Lets remember her fondly, but forget this Angel Knight nonsense. Okay, friend?"

"Sleep, yes. I'm still weighing my other options, friend." replied Gregory, a stupid grin on his face.