—He lied. He had to have been lying. I know that for a fact. After all, I knew all about that mess of a man. Siridan was the loudest person to ever stay in the Redscale Sip Inn, so the chance of any regular not knowing everything about his life was essentially nonexistent.

He couldn't ever shut his mouth when he was drunk. He'd get into fights, tell anyone who'd lend an ear his various stories of ridiculous events that could not have possibly happened, and most importantly— He always had his noisy friend with him.

It was famous, you know – that adventuring party. It didn't have a name or anything, but people recognized it wherever its members went. Paa'il, in particular… There was no separating him and Siridan.

"Brothers in arms," they called each other, though their similarities ended with their love for pointless scuffles, their weakness for alcohol, and their long, unpaid tabs.

Unlike Siridan, Paa'il served as a voice of reason until he was intoxicated. If there was anything that could stop his 'brother' from stirring up trouble, it was having that cold, judging stare pinned upon him.

His looks might've not been a quality he boasted about, but if I were to evaluate him as a man, his piercing blue eyes and rigid build made up for his otherwise lousy, average looks.

If I had ever gotten my hands on him and a hairbrush, I might've even made him look attractive until his raven-black hair got dirtied by his next bar brawl. He was unforgettable. A force of personality like his is rare to come by.

I wish I got to be better friends with Paa'il, honestly. I should have built up the courage to talk to others more before he died.

I knew that Siridan was rotten from the start, though. Sure, he was handsome, but he used to always have a stupid smile on his lips that practically spelled the word 'Trouble,' and meeting his pale-yellow eyes had never failed to startle me.

No one with half a brain dared initiate a conversation with him – though that's not to say he didn't get much company.

The Redscale Sip is full of morons just like him. It fit him perfectly. From dusk till dawn, he always had his long, silver-colored hair draped over someone's shoulder, sometimes a victim of his flirtations, and on others, a drinking buddy.

I still don't get how he managed to sneak that sword of his into the inn despite the rules, but you'd bet that thing was always at his side. I could've sworn it was glued to him. It's a shame the same couldn't be said for the coin pouch he always conveniently forgot to bring with him.

To that day, he hadn't broken the habit of coming around to drink himself stupid, but he hadn't been spotted smiling or hanging out in the company of others in a very long time. As usual, I was working my shift, serving drinks, and putting up a futile effort to keep the place clean.

Some other drunken idiots had already managed to paint the floor with something that smelled so foul that I dared not look at it directly – though I suspect they couldn't keep their drinks down – and of course, it fell to me to clean that up.

See, I used to be a regular at that place, but I got a job there not but two weeks before that incident. Zakuli, the old innkeeper, chewed me out as soon as I convinced him to let me work for him. He probably wanted to scare me off or something.

I had my reasons for wanting to work there, and he eventually got off my case, but that didn't mean he'd let me take it easy. As it turned out, the guests didn't plan to, either.

"Huh? Fuck off! I'm already sittin' here! It's not my problem you want my chair! Go shove your shit-stained boot up your ass – you barely just wiped it clean at the doorstep, you little-"

Sure enough, there it was. The usual argument that travelers and newcomers had with him. I planned to mind my own business. It's not like I could've stopped either of them.

"Move." 

Siridan's tired tone suggested that he had already said it once before, though I hadn't overheard it the first time. I heard the scraping of wood and boot against the floor and turned around subtly, only to steal a glance as the stranger rose to his feet.

Through the corner of my eye, I could already tell that he was a half-giant – Siridan was tall even with that sluggish slouch, so seeing anyone towering over him was rare.

"That's my chair," his drunken voice trailed. His head tilted lazily to the side, his empty stare unperturbed by the half-giant's aggressive demeanor or imposing stature. "…And this is my table."

I don't know what came over me. Perhaps a tiny part of me felt responsible for knowing what could happen if I didn't interfere.

But even then, I should've stayed the hell out of it. I knew better than to raise my voice or step forward when things began to escalate between two meat-heads who couldn't solve their differences without someone losing teeth.

Unlike the two of them, I had no investment in this argument. Unlike the two of them, I couldn't defend myself if their violent anger redirected to me.

And yet, despite my better judgment, I clutched the platter I was holding against my stomach to suppress the turning sensation that bubbled up with my fear.

I cleared my throat right as the half-giant grabbed and lifted the drunken swordsman by his shirt, then spoke up in the most earnest, concerned, and sympathetic tone I could muster.

"—Sir! Um. I understand you're upset with him – and all of us are – but you really shouldn't."

I gulped down the feeling of a large rock manifesting in my throat, took a deep breath, and made the mistake of uttering a warning that, in hindsight, was guaranteed to get me into trouble with both of them.

"He'll kill you."