A hurled tankard slammed Gax in the side of the head, splashing warm ale across the green skin of his face and wetting the thin strip of long, dark hair tied in a tight knot at the back of his head. A hush fell over the patrons of the Smashed Helm. Even Darsil’eit, his elf companion, stared at Gax with raised eyebrows and her mouth slightly agape. Gax licked the ale dripping down his wide, flat nose, then rose from the table.
Wood groaned and protested as he spun toward the whoreson responsible for his dripping face and the sharp pain about his eye. A drunk man stared dumbly at him, seeming quite sober though Gax knew he’d imbibed heavily, as was usual for Helric.
“Gax, gods above, man, I didn’t mean it,” he stammered, clasping his hands together. “Was but an accident, I tell ya. Nothing more, promise. Tell him, Doran. Tell him, dammit!”
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