There's a guy staggering around outside a tavern, in a fashionable puffy shirt and a pointed hat that possibly means he's a student wizard, or possibly that he's a poser, or possibly just that pointed hats are in vogue.
He's trying, in a local upper-class accent and a drunkenly desultory fashion, to antagonise somebody. Anybody who'll bite, by the looks of things; which nobody is.
"Somebody's son, I'd wager," the paladin murmurs. "Taunting, knowing nobody's willing to oblige, for fear of the father."
"Weaker son of a weak chieftain," the berserker says dismissively.
"Let's go back that way before Malia catches up, and find somewhere else to drink," the archer says wearily, arm linked through the berserker's. "Gods, but I don't have the energy to keep her distracted tonight, I just want mead and a bath and to sleep indoors," and starts to steer them around. "—Oh, son of a harpy-swiving eggler—"
The wizard is already sauntering deliberately down the street, eyes fixed on the belligerent youth, smile bared.
"One town without a tavern fight," the archer moans. "Is that so much?"
The berserker looks between the pointy-hatted figures, the distance between them closing. He unhooks his arm from the archer's, pats her back.
"Ulfrun—"
Three of the big man's strides see him sweeping past the staggering sot's back, grabbing a handful of shirt; dragging the youth away with a yelp and flailing arms. The berserker sharply jams the toe of his sandal beneath the lip of a streetside wooden cover, and kicks it up with a mighty flex of his legs.
The youth's shriek is cut off as the nightsoil pit's lid crashes back into place.
Malia stops dead in her advance, standing in the middle of the street, looking startled. The big man turns, smile wide and guileless at all of them.
"Another tavern, aye?" he says unhurriedly.
