Searing 3, 121
"Ah, come on Franky! We want you to play!" yelled Turin. Franky just chuckled, continuing to wipe down flagon after flagon.
"And who will serve you rowdy lot while we play? Y'all know I'm the only one here."
The skunk Rathari kept at it though, a teasing smile on his face. "We won't pester if you're playin'."
Franky already knew he was going to play, he was just seeing what he could toy out of them. He snorted, laughing, "That'll be the day. If ya ain't pesterin', I ain't makin' money. Not that you'd ever stop, Turin." The Rathari put on a dramatic face, clutching at his chest. Then an elf lass in some strange velvet vest dress... thing chimed in, "What if we put in for a barrel?"
Franky was definitely not going to look that gift horse in the mouth. "Alright, alright. I'll go tap a fresh one, get your money's worth. Real fresh."
A Grackle, Pierret, piped up, squeaking over the laughing crowd, "Ya got any of that stuff from home? That local stuff tastes like iron."
Franky, having already started toward the kitchen stopped, turning back to the crowd, an eyebrow cocked, his arms crossed, "The Imperial Stout? You think these local yups can hold that water?" The bright red haired goblin known as Radish Head cackled loudly, "Only one way to find out!"
Franky laughed heartily, "Alright, I'll grab it." He then shouted to the whole of the room, "Last call on hot food, snuffin' the hearth." There were no takers, so he nipped into the kitchen, taking the roasting birds off the spit and popping them onto the table. He then tossed a bucket of water on the ashes, sending steam up through the chimney of his large cooking hearth. He then walked down the steps to the basement, unlocking it from the key that hung from his neck, grabbing the lantern and lighting it.
Franky strode through the large basement, knowing exactly where he kept his kegs. He moved to the corner where he kept his half barrels. Restocking a full sized barrel was a day shift ordeal, but he could manage one of the half kegs. He took a deep breath used his breathing to tap into the stored power innate to Hobgoblins. He rarely ever had to use it, but he kept it on constant storing just in case he needed it. He felt his muscles expanding, as his stored strength flowed into them. His white shirt, normally a bit loose, rolled up at his forearms and open at the neck was now form fitting. He bent down at the knees, wrapping his arms around the half barrel, making sure to keep his back straight, just as his old man had taught him. He hefted the barrel up, and with a second breath, heaved it from his chest to his shoulder.
As Franky stepped out of the warm kitchen in the warmer, smoky bar, he relished the surprised looks as he carried the barrel with what appeared to be ease. He knew it to be short lived, but it was good to let those who didn't know his kind intimately to be left in their surprise. He stopped by the bar, grabbing some barrel shims with his free hand, then carried the lot over to the table, setting down the shims on the end of the table, followed by the barrel. He then ducked back to the bar, grabbing a tap, the barrel, and a swill bucket. The bucket sloshed, being half full of a dark, murky liquid. He set it on the floor, lining up the augur, keeping the tap tucked away in his little fingers. His arms worked quickly as he bore through the barrel, then just as it began to leak, his arms sped up, going faster on the drilling, before yanking the augur out and jamming the tap in. Pulling the rag from his belt, he cleaned up the lip, and saw no leaks and smiled. A perfect tap was a good luck charm.
He called out to the room, "Get your refills now, I'll be in this game for a bit." Franky walked behind the bar, and quickly filled the orders of the people not wanting to be a part of the game. Franky gave them more generous pourings and most seemed to notice and appreciate it. Once he'd served all who wanted it, he gathered up thirteen pint flagons, bigger than the normal flagons he served. He ran some quick numbers in his head. He knew there to be one hundred and twenty four pints in a half barrel. There were nine people at the table, with him making ten. That was twelve pints each, with some to spare. He normally charged for a pint bout six coppers, but this was a special import, not always an easy one to come by. Eight coppers a pint, twelve pints a person, ninety six coppers. He rounded it up to a nice even one gold each.
Franky set twelve of the flagons on a serving tray and carried it out. He also reached up and grabbed a bottle of some goblin mead, for himself. "One gold each to play, the barrel is y'all's to share." He went around the table, using the thirteenth flagon in his hand to catch the coins everyone paid up with. Once he got everyone's payment, he set the flagon of coins back behind the bar. He then filled each flagon quickly, giving a healthy, black head on each of the brews. He began setting the flagons in front of everyone, enjoying the curious looks on the faces of those who'd never had it before.
Once he reached the seat saved for him, in the middle of the table, he smiled. Then he went through the ritual he always did at the beginning of a game. He held his pint up, "Karesh!" and proceeded to look each participate in the eye before bringing the cup to his lips and taking a deep draw of the stout that held tones of coffee and licorice and a hint of cinnamon. A surprising combination for some, but also helped to disguise the fact that this particular stout was about twice the strength of most beers he served here. It was going to be a fun night.
Franky pulled out a double deck of playing cards, "Who here doesn't know how to play the Dragon King's Cup?"
