Varkesh StonefistThe tavern was already buzzing when the party rolled in, battle-weary but victorious. The scent of stale ale mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to their gear, but none of that mattered. Tonight was about celebration. The quest was done, the enemy defeated, and Varkesh Stonefist was already soaking in the spotlight like it was his birthright.
“Hell yeah, we did it!” Varkesh bellowed, slamming the heavy tavern door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. He strode in like he owned the place, shoulders back, chest out, his greatsword strapped proudly across his back. His light green fauxhawk gleamed under the dim lantern light, and his aqua eyes scanned the room, daring anyone to look away.
“Drinks on me! Get your asses over here!” he called out, slapping a table hard enough to make the mugs on it jump. The other patrons turned to look, some amused, others annoyed. Varkesh didn’t care. This was his night.
The rest of the party followed behind him—Jorin, the human cleric, always fussing with his robes to make sure no bloodstains lingered; Serai, the elven ranger, her sharp eyes never quite relaxing even in a tavern; and Dorn, the dwarven fighter, already grumbling about the quality of the ale.
Varkesh dropped into a chair with a loud thud, kicking his boots up onto the table. “Did you see me out there? Fuckin’ unstoppable! That bastard didn’t know what hit ‘im!” He threw his arms wide, mimicking a sword swing. “One swing—bam! Down he went. No one’s standin’ after a hit like that. Hell, I’m still sore from the recoil.” He grinned, flexing his arms dramatically. “Not that it matters. I’m the damn best, and you all fuckin’ know it.”
Jorin chuckled as he slid into a seat across from him. “Aye, we know. You’ve only reminded us a dozen times since the fight ended.”
“Gotta make sure it sticks,” Varkesh shot back, grabbing a mug of ale from a passing server. He took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t no one out there better than me with a blade. You all saw it.”
Serai leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We saw you nearly take Dorn’s head off with that swing.”
“Details.” Varkesh waved her off with a smirk. “What matters is that bastard hit the dirt, and we’re still standin’.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “C’mon, admit it. You were impressed.”
Serai rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’ll admit you’re loud.”
“Damn right I am!” Varkesh laughed, slapping the table again. “Ain’t no point in doin’ great shit if no one hears about it. What’s the point of glory if you keep it to yourself? Hell, I’ll scream it from the rooftops if I have to.” He raised his mug. “Here’s to me, the real fuckin’ champion!”
The toast earned a few scattered cheers from nearby tables, mostly from those who’d had a few too many drinks already. Varkesh basked in it, grinning ear to ear.
Dorn finally plopped down beside him, grumbling under his breath. “Champion, eh? You forget who pulled yer ass outta that skirmish?”
Varkesh waved him off. “Nah, I remember. But it’s my night, Dorn. Let me have it. You’ll get your turn to shine when you’re as fuckin’ pretty as me.” He winked, earning a snort from the dwarf.
Jorin leaned in, his expression more serious. “And what if someone did outshine you, Varkesh? What then?”
For a moment, the bravado faltered. Varkesh’s grip on his mug tightened, his gaze flickering to the scarred knuckles of his right hand. The insecurity was brief, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface.
Then he shrugged it off with a grin. “Ain’t gonna happen, mate. Not while I’m still breathin’. And even if it did… well, I’d just have to show ‘em why they’re wrong.”
He leaned back, taking another swig of ale. The tension passed, the moment forgotten.
“Now stop broodin’ and drink up,” he said, pointing at Jorin with his mug. “Ain’t no room for gloomy bastards at my table tonight.”
The party settled in, the mood lightening as the ale flowed and the fire crackled in the hearth. Varkesh continued to regale anyone who would listen with tales of his exploits, embellishing each story with crude humor and exaggerated gestures.
“Did you see the way that fucker’s head came clean off? Like a fuckin’ melon! Hah! Should’ve charged ‘em for the show. Ain’t no theater better than me in action.”
By the end of the night, Varkesh was on his feet, leading a raucous chant with the tavern patrons, his voice booming over the din.
“I’m the best! Ain’t no one better!” he roared, pounding his chest. “And if anyone disagrees… you know where to find me! But for now, another round!”
The crowd cheered, mugs raised high, as Varkesh basked in the noise.
“Hell yeah, we did it!” Varkesh bellowed, slamming the heavy tavern door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. He strode in like he owned the place, shoulders back, chest out, his greatsword strapped proudly across his back. His light green fauxhawk gleamed under the dim lantern light, and his aqua eyes scanned the room, daring anyone to look away.
“Drinks on me! Get your asses over here!” he called out, slapping a table hard enough to make the mugs on it jump. The other patrons turned to look, some amused, others annoyed. Varkesh didn’t care. This was his night.
The rest of the party followed behind him—Jorin, the human cleric, always fussing with his robes to make sure no bloodstains lingered; Serai, the elven ranger, her sharp eyes never quite relaxing even in a tavern; and Dorn, the dwarven fighter, already grumbling about the quality of the ale.
Varkesh dropped into a chair with a loud thud, kicking his boots up onto the table. “Did you see me out there? Fuckin’ unstoppable! That bastard didn’t know what hit ‘im!” He threw his arms wide, mimicking a sword swing. “One swing—bam! Down he went. No one’s standin’ after a hit like that. Hell, I’m still sore from the recoil.” He grinned, flexing his arms dramatically. “Not that it matters. I’m the damn best, and you all fuckin’ know it.”
Jorin chuckled as he slid into a seat across from him. “Aye, we know. You’ve only reminded us a dozen times since the fight ended.”
“Gotta make sure it sticks,” Varkesh shot back, grabbing a mug of ale from a passing server. He took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t no one out there better than me with a blade. You all saw it.”
Serai leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We saw you nearly take Dorn’s head off with that swing.”
“Details.” Varkesh waved her off with a smirk. “What matters is that bastard hit the dirt, and we’re still standin’.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “C’mon, admit it. You were impressed.”
Serai rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’ll admit you’re loud.”
“Damn right I am!” Varkesh laughed, slapping the table again. “Ain’t no point in doin’ great shit if no one hears about it. What’s the point of glory if you keep it to yourself? Hell, I’ll scream it from the rooftops if I have to.” He raised his mug. “Here’s to me, the real fuckin’ champion!”
The toast earned a few scattered cheers from nearby tables, mostly from those who’d had a few too many drinks already. Varkesh basked in it, grinning ear to ear.
Dorn finally plopped down beside him, grumbling under his breath. “Champion, eh? You forget who pulled yer ass outta that skirmish?”
Varkesh waved him off. “Nah, I remember. But it’s my night, Dorn. Let me have it. You’ll get your turn to shine when you’re as fuckin’ pretty as me.” He winked, earning a snort from the dwarf.
Jorin leaned in, his expression more serious. “And what if someone did outshine you, Varkesh? What then?”
For a moment, the bravado faltered. Varkesh’s grip on his mug tightened, his gaze flickering to the scarred knuckles of his right hand. The insecurity was brief, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface.
Then he shrugged it off with a grin. “Ain’t gonna happen, mate. Not while I’m still breathin’. And even if it did… well, I’d just have to show ‘em why they’re wrong.”
He leaned back, taking another swig of ale. The tension passed, the moment forgotten.
“Now stop broodin’ and drink up,” he said, pointing at Jorin with his mug. “Ain’t no room for gloomy bastards at my table tonight.”
The party settled in, the mood lightening as the ale flowed and the fire crackled in the hearth. Varkesh continued to regale anyone who would listen with tales of his exploits, embellishing each story with crude humor and exaggerated gestures.
“Did you see the way that fucker’s head came clean off? Like a fuckin’ melon! Hah! Should’ve charged ‘em for the show. Ain’t no theater better than me in action.”
By the end of the night, Varkesh was on his feet, leading a raucous chant with the tavern patrons, his voice booming over the din.
“I’m the best! Ain’t no one better!” he roared, pounding his chest. “And if anyone disagrees… you know where to find me! But for now, another round!”
The crowd cheered, mugs raised high, as Varkesh basked in the noise.
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