#bit of a lengthier reply because of the Obvious transition >:^) we're really in it now mister krabs

[rafent]

A breathy laugh emitted from the Fell Dragon, little louder than a wind whistling around the loose sashes of a window. Only the amusement bright in carmine eyes disclosed that it had originated from him at all. "Your definition of help would deprive us of a chef. Indulge your perversion elsewhere. Or wait at least until I have been watered and fed."

But quiet soon settled over the room. A thick winding sheet laid astride a corpse, eclipsing any positive emotion that might have persisted in its absence - Rafal's own fleeting impression of congeniality included. His hostility returned, coldly tracking the movements of the tavern's newest additions solely by his peripheral vision, if not by the more expressive pursuit of Griss' own gaze as the five men squeezed into chairs. As one among their troupe peeled away.

He cared little for it at first. Whether four or five all of them were insignificant, hogs donned of gold, pearls, and ambergris; though, unlike the unruly beasts of a barn the feast they desired would not come from slop and hay. True to the other's warning, conflict thundered, followed shortly by an evocative sequence of shouts. One piercing squeal rising above the rest. . .inconvenient. A dead chef in their midst equated to an unborn meal. Hand propped against the back of his chair, he rose.

"—ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you're going?" Foisting up from his seat one of the four brigands brought himself around, his voice a mocking lilt, his grip an impudent shackle stretched around Rafal's shoulder. "I'd sit back down if I were you."

Another lifted himself in causal response - Rafal's slender fingers raised to constrict around his wrist with a sound like leather under duress. "I would make scarce such a filthy hand if I were you," he intoned darkly beneath the low hang of his brows.

A squeeze. A cry. The man's yowl rippled through the charged air and tore several more away from their seats. Amidst the quandaries of dreary intentions and bloodless stalemates, here existed the shining certitude that two surviving fragments of a long dead Gradlon knew better. He released the squalling brute, hands curling by his sides in readiness. "Griss!" Rafal barked, kindled with flame. "Now is the proper time to bare your fangs. Show them a taste of—"

A taste of—

. . .a taste. . .of. . .

. . .

Griss. Rafal. Those names faded to a merciless tide that swallowed them all. Hungrier than the emptiest dragon, crueler than the greediest human; an abject distortion with whims that no force could deny. The cogs of reality jammed and failed to turn on its stasis. A monochrome film scrolled on a never-ending reel, wiped clean and rewritten with foreign memories. Accosted from the shingles was the perspiration of morning dew frozen in midair never to touch ground.

In count of all such strange occult happenings, only one thing proved certain beyond any shattered belief. A question.

—a taste of what exactly, Nil?

Another world resumed.

"H-Have a taste of this!"

On a failure's unversed war cry, new colors and new names painted the tavern in a gradient of reversal. Packed to full with squabbling patrons - hadn't it been empty? - a stray bottle cracked over the head of a drunkard - his hands had not been holding anything last he recalled - and, finally, Nil standing before Gregory in wide-eyed realization over the necessary violence needed to defuse unnecessary violence.

But he was quick to shed his sense of disarray for necessity if not for a friend. He tossed aside the remainder of splintered glass in his hand, quicker to haul its unconscious victim off the sage with a heave. "That was a close one! Are you alright, Gregory? You weren't hurt by the flying glass, were you?" Two owlishly large eyes brimmed with the concern of their inspection, then soon with yet another cause for their immediate worries. "If you can stand up—"

Crash!! A table upended within too-close proximity, sending plates spilling to the floor in tens if not hundreds of pieces. Nil gulped. ". . .um, you really should."

◜  ₊  —  𝓡  ˚  ₊ 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌