Quest - It's All Their Fault!

What is happening? Are… Are these NPCs fighting? Philadelphia crossed his arms, staring intently at the married owners of the tavern that served as his respite from the storm outside. Well, his and Freedom’s respite. He wondered if the storm inside was a more acceptable trade for the storm outside. Maybe the storm outside would be less troublesome than this storm inside. His stomach grumbled. Ugh, this wouldn’t do.

Philadelphia took a quick look around him and everyone seemed to be in a terrible mood, an unhappy mood. This was no way to run a business. At least that’s what he thought to himself. It’s not like he actually knew what it was like to run a business. That was his parents’ thing, her parents’ thing, and Philadelphia would rather not get involved with that kind of business, the business of business.

“Caw caw!” he yelled out, slamming his palms on the counter, rising to his feet. “Wife and husband, please get a hold of yourselves! Look at your customers! Is this how you both want everyone to come in here to feel? We’re all hungry. There’s a storm outside. We just need to be fed and not have to contend with another storm, this storm, inside. Please! I implore you both! Feed us!”

The couple, each taking the opposite end of the room, both crossing their arms, raised their respective eyebrows at Philadelphia. Freedom, the self-proclaimed Eagle King’s eagle familiar, was indifferent to what was going on, sitting prettily on top of Philadelphia’s head. Almost on cue, both the couple screamed at Philadelphia, “No pets allowed in here!” Shocked at their harmonious anger, the husband and wife turned to look at each other, longingly, for a split second, before turning away once again, scoffing and hmp-ing. It seemed that Philadelphia’s righteous effort was in vain.

“Caw caw!” Freedom called out to him, rolling her eyes. (Yeah, smart move, butt face.)

“I know, I know, Freedom,” Philadelphia quietly got back to his seat, frowning, scowling. “I should think of a better way to fix this marital problem. Or else, everyone here goes hungry, especially us.” He looked outside and scowled even harder at the storm. If only the storm wasn’t out there, maybe they would have just looked for another place to eat at. Alas, the storm was out there, and in here, and something had to happen to fix this crap. Maybe he should just impose his royalty? Maybe he should stabbed one one of them to show his dominance? Ack! What should I do?! Dang married folks! Caw caw!

 

It was hard enough to get any sort of service in this place on the best of days, which today most certainly was not. There didn't seem to be any particular method to the madness, any longer. The couple which ran the tavern, which once tried to match the busy pace of the day with friendliness and effort, now slouched on opposite ends of the establishment and glared daggers... sometimes even threw daggers... at one another.

The husband, a rotund man with massive sideburns and a neatly wound heavily waxed mustache, made his stand at the bar where he was armed and armored by so much glassware. Regular patrons and town drunks served as human shields, and a sign hung above the bar read in hastily scrawled chalk 'free round to anyone that accidentally gets a knife thrown in their back' so as to convince the lush louts to risk the wife's poor aim. The Spirit of Victory was strong in the husband; rather, a spirit called The Victory was held in one of his hands, sipped directly from the bottle at regular intervals as he tried his damnedest to bury his sobriety in a shallow grave every time he saw his hag of a wife.

Except perhaps she was no mere hag. Though not so young, she was neither an old maiden, and there was still a beauty and charm to her... when she wasn't looking at, speaking of, reminded about, or remotely in the vicinity of her bastard of a husband. At those times, it was best to imagine something not dissimilar to mixing the worst parts of a harpy, a banshee, a tornado, sixteen angered geese chasing you, and a rabid wolf, as if the Antichrist had stumbled into a Build A Bear and decided to go to town. She made her stand in the kitchen, was was across the tavern from the bar, where she was protected by swinging saloon style doors, and a small window where finished orders could be picked up by the serving staff in order to give to patrons.

There was no serving staff, for all had fled to safer waters. Now, any that ordered food had to go up themselves and collect it, hoping against hope the wife wouldn't notice them and begin talking to them... for once she did, they were doomed into a myriad of polite conversation from which they could not escape, least they themselves incur her terrible choleric by reminding her of her bore of a husband due to their rudeness.

Nikephoros had suffered such dangers, and managed to get his stew and a fresh loaf of bread. He had made it past the minefield of rickety tables and squeaky floorboards that would alert the wife to his presence as he, like a turncoat, took her well prepared meal across the establishment to sit at the bar. Where her bastard of a husband lurked, stealing another one of her fine customers with his... with his...! And how she might go on about it, at length and length.
He had taken such risks, and quietly was enjoying the spoils of his victory at having avoided such dangers, when another spoiled the evening.

First, they were loud... and that simply was not going to help the situation prevent itself from turning into a shouting match.
Secondly, they kept slamming tables and the bartop with the hands as if to emphasize some invisible point. One such slam caused the stew to slop out of Nikephoros's bowl, onto the counter top, wasting a sizable portion of his meal. He turned his head slowly, oh so slowly, to glare in annoyance at this... strange... bird boy person, and his pet eagle which context said he had named Freedom. The storm outside was bad enough. He did not need the situation to explode in here, most of all when his food was going to be the first casualty like this.

 

At a loss for a quick fix to get a quick meal, Philadelphia surveyed the place. Surely, someone in here had an idea? As he made eye contact with the tavern's patrons, it seemed that most of them were quick to look away, seemingly not wanting to be a part of all the commotion. Yet if no one acted fast, all of them would go hungry. Well, most of them, anyway. Some bald Yladian already had his food and it seemed like he didn't appreciate fancy plummage. Philadelphia glared at him back, "Hey, m'dude, a little help?"

What would married people be fighting about? Philadelphia knew nothing about marriage or married people. In the real world, his parents didn't have any time for him, for her. They were always too busy with the family business. Basically, he took care of himself, fed himself, clothed himself, and all that jazz. He didn't have any problems with money, considering his parents were pretty rich and to an extent he was pretty rich. He could do whatever he wanted to do, including gorge on all the cheesesteaks he wanted. Hmm... Cheesesteaks... Maybe he should just log out and grab himself a cheesesteak.

No! He slammed his palms on the counter top again, probably wasting more of the Yladian's food, though Philadelphia would be quite oblivious to that. Logging out and getting himself a cheesesteak would be an act of cowardice, of selfishness. He was the Eagle King! He needed to prove his strength, his valor, his cunning. There are people going hungry in this tavern. They must be fed. He must be fed.

"Caw caw!" Freedom called out to him again, having been disturbed his rash violence. Sort of. (I swear to glob, you need to stop doing that, you jerkface. You're just as annoying as those married owners.)

Philadelphia turned to Freedom with a scowl, "I know, Freedom. This cannot stand! We have to be fed! WE HAVE TO BE FED! FEED US! FEED US! FEED US!"

The self-proclaimed King of Eagles started an annoying chant that he intended for everyone else to do the same. Everyone else, however, just found him more annoying than ever, glaring at him, sighing, not a single soul wanting to do the chant with him. That did not stop Philadelphia's effort, though, and he pretty much just continued chanting his stupid chant. If anything, maybe he would end up annoying the couple into submission.

 

It seemed that whatever it was that ran this strange bird boy shorted every so often, causing spontaneous shouts and slamming of fists upon furniture. Surely it wasn't a functional brain, for no human acted in this manner. Well... none that weren't eating glue and counting to purple on all twelve fingers while having their ass wiped by their sister-mother.
But regardless of Philadelphia's possible incestuous origins, the fact remained:

He. Was. So. God. Damned. Annoying.

Slop. Slop. Slop. The stew continued to slosh and to spill with each pounding of the bar's counter, the oddly dressed man shouting at his pet bird and demanding to be fed by the owners of the establishment. He had even gone so far as to start trying to incite the rest of the establishment into joining his odd little rebellion against reason and manners, though thankfully everybody remained seated and quiet, just sort of staring at him in a "please don't wear my skin" sort of fashion. Nikephoros, staring at his now ruined meal, felt an eye twitch with each pound of the counter's top, each cry of the starving man to be given something to eat.

FEED US! FEED US! FEED US! FEED US!
It was there, within his mind now, twisting and turning like a hot knife, raw against the nerve of his patience. He could deal with amateurs. He could deal with imbeciles. He could deal with the cruel, the petty and the vain. With the heroic, and with the meek. But there was a reason that he, Cornelius Baxter, actor extraordinaire, had not ever once worked with children unless absolutely forced by the most ironclad of contracts.
Children. Were. A menace. And this... this bird boy was so obviously a child playing a man's game, and failing to act the part.

Quietly, the elven man turned in his seat to inspect Philadelphia more carefully. He looked... new to the game. Weak, still, much like Nikephoros himself was. But less disciplined, which hopefully meant less coordinated and clever. If it came to a fight, the elf ought to have the upper hand.
Then again, that blasted bird... He'd have to do something about that. But first, he had to deal with the real threat: that loud mouth. Acting quickly, the elf snatched up the loaf of fresh bread and thrust it at the man's head, stuffing it into his mouth when Philadelphia opened it to once more cry out in demand of food.

"If you want something to eat, chew on this," he growled, releasing the bread and holding his hand out to the side. A ranseur materialized there from out of his inventory, one moment looking rough but lethally functional... and the next moment, the length of the polearm was resting on one of Philadelphia's shoulders, almost as though he were about to be knighted... before Nikephoros twisted the weapon in his hands and pulled upon it, pushing Phil's body down and slamming it into the bar top's dirty and ominously sticky counter.
"Now be quiet, sit down, and wait to be s-"
Wait to be what? Wait to be served? Wait to be saved? Wait to be sold to human traffickers and forced into a life of terrible slavery as a supermarket pastry chef? Whatever Nikephoros had been about to say was cut off suddenly as the bird leaped into action. Well, flew, to be more exact. Not at all enthusiastic about its master being attacked if only because this disturbed its perch upon his shoulder, Freedom went on the offensive. Gasping, Nikephoros lunged backwards and out of the way, falling across the bar himself. Reaching to the side, he grabbed a long wooden spoon meant for stirring pots, and raised it just in time to catch the razor talons of the eagle as they swiped in towards the elven man's face.
"DAMN YOU, FREEDOM!" he shouted, struggling to hold the spoon up and the powerful predator back as feathers filled the air along with an ominous wooden cracking sound. That was the spoon... about to break, from the sheer strength of its little bird feets. Well. That made sense. The fuckers did used to be dinosaurs.

 

Everything had happened so fast. One moment, Philadelphia was chanting "feed us" over and over again, and the next, his face was hurting on the sticky counter. Gross! As he tried to regain his senses, trying to intelligently determine who or what had attacked him, Freedom was making more noise than he had ever heard her make. Were those her wings? Of course! Her nest had been attacked, surely she'd be spurred into action by such vile undertakings. And her talons were in full berserker mode! She was counter-attacking! She was pretty pissed off. Hell hath no fury than a female eagle disturbed!

"Caw caw!" Freedom was on a frenzy, scratching the Yladian's spoon, his weapon of choice, with her strong talons. That was, until she finally broke through, crushing the silver utensil, which was actually a wooden spoon, like one of those really huge spoons for stirring pasta and maybe some trouble, with powerful rage. There was fire in her eyes, murderous fire, and she glared at @Nikephoros like a jilted ex-lover about to take her cheating boyfriend's life. (You messed with the wrong majestic creature, Knife Ears!)

Before she could rip the Yladian's eyes out, however, Philadelphia grabbed her out of the air. Freedom squawked and screeched and screamed as loud and as angry as she could, but it was for naught as her human had managed to clip her wings with his bare hands. That and Freedom's energy was all too focused on getting her revenge that she wasn't thinking straight. If she had, then maybe she'd have just bitten off Philadelphia's fingers and went on her merry psychotic way.

"Easy, birby," Philadelphia purred trying to calm Freedom down. It was working, though mostly because the majestic creature was tuckering herself out. The whole charming her back to her senses, especially courtesy of Philadelphia had never worked, and it never will. Freedom was too used to the human that anything he'd do, she'd simply take for granted. Just like a baws hen. "No need to peck..." He turned to Nikephoros with a wink and grin... "Get it?" ...before continuing his train of thought, "...a fight. Everyone's just testy on account of the storm inside and outside this place and being hungry, that's all."

It took Philadelphia a few minutes of pressing both hands over the eagle's body, careful not to crush her of course, not that he could've, before Freedom finally calmed down. She still kept her eyes on Nikephoros but at least she was no longer trying to murder him. Not physically anyway. If this bird had telekinesis, the Yladian would probably be dead. That or they'd duke it out on the mental, astral, whatever plane. Philadelphia doesn't read comics or watch any anime. That's not how he rolled.

He turned to the Yladian as well, eyes narrowed, "What's the big idea, buddy?! If you're not going to help get everyone food, then stay out of the way. Don't be part of the problem. Be part of the solution!"

"Caw caw!" Freedom joined in, eyes on Nikephoros as well. (I'm going to bathe the starways in your blood.)