The group gathered in the Muddled Mimic before heading to their celebration. Festivities filled the city in celebration of their liberation from the predator that had stolen so many of its residents. Even the near deserted tavern Grom and Syril currently called home was decorated for the occasion, though that had been the work of a certain infatuated waitress who knew the real heroes of the day.
Sal, the proprietor of the inn, never one to do anything more than silently serve drinks and collect money hadn’t been around for a that day, and the waitress—whose name still remained a mystery—took the initiative on her own.
“You look so handsome Grom,” she said, fixing his collar, though it didn’t need fixing.
He was wearing the simple white high collared tunic that was standard dress for clerics, embroidered with the symbol of his alleged god.
The outfit had been a gift from the waitress, and Grom had accepted it with shaking hands when it had been presented to him.
“Do you love it?” she asked, misinterpreting the shaking as excitement. “I’ve noticed you don’t have anything with Cland’s symbol on it, and I thought it a shame. Syril gave me some of your party funds to go make sure you were appropriately dressed.”
“Aye,” Grom said, affecting a Revan dwarven accent. “It’s somethin’ alright.”
“You’re just going to light up the room in it, I know it.”
“Aye, that’s me fear,” he said, picturing all the ways a creative god might smite him for falsely donning such a outfit.
Before dressing in private, he prayed a brief prayer for mercy, though he wasn’t sure to who. Suddenly he got the strong impression that he was being watched, and he spun around, inspecting his room and finding it empty.
He narrowed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling.
“Could it be?” he asked, then shook his head.
Whatever he’d just experienced, he’d not felt malice in the presence, more amusement if anything. He was still coming to terms with the strange powers he’d gain unbidden, and he sometimes found it best to not ask too many questions.
With a deep breath, he donned the tunic, holding still afterwards, not daring to look up at the potentially impending bolt of lightning.
“Does Cland even do lightning?” he asked himself aloud. “Ellen’s right. I really should read a book.”
In the tavern, Grom had come down to find Syril leaning against the bar in an ornate doublet in forest hues trimmed with silver to give the impression of a moonlight forest.
“Don’t say a word,” Grom had said, the moment before the waitress had come to fix his collar.
When Bill arrived, he was also wearing a tunic, though it barely fit over his hulking frame and he moved awkwardly to avoid popping a stitch.
“I had to go pick out something new but the tailor didn’t have anything in my size,” he explained.
“Why didn’t you have them—you know—tailor it?” Syril asked.
“No time,” Bill said. “I picked this up on the way over.”
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Syril sighed, shaking his head.
“You two. At least you didn’t show up in armor.”
As if summoned by the words, the door opened to reveal Ellen, clad in the same robe she’d been wearing that morning.
“You know this is a fancy party, right?” Syril asked.
“Yeap,” Ellen said. “You boys clean up nice.”
“If you knew, why are you dressed like we are going out on a mission,” Syril asked.
“I’m a wizard,” she said, as if that explained it.
When no one got her point, she continued.
“Robes don’t fit any occasion,” she said. “So wearing them anywhere is always equally as acceptable.”
“I don’t think that tracks,” Syril said.
“We are going to be in a room of people puffed up in fancy finery, without weapons or armor,” she explained. “Part of that is so everyone can see that everyone else came unarmed and ill prepared for battle. Aside form flaunting wealth and power, it’s the main reason everyone dressed up for big get togethers filled with people who hate each other. I could play along and wear a dress, but even in a dress, I can kill everyone in the room with a sneeze and the twitch of my fingers. So, since I have no wealth to flaunt, nor the desire to do so, and I can’t exactly leave my lethality at home, I mine as well be comfortable.”
“Ye didna mention not wanting to flaunt yer power,” Grom said.
“I know,” Ellen said, smiling. “Sometimes its nice to be the least stabable one of the group.”
“I’m still pretty hard to stab,” Linar said, popping into existence next to them, dressed in a white shirt with a black silk vest over it. His pants were also of black silk to match. His magic cloak was draped over his shoulder, the scarlet of its inside giving off a menacing impression.
“You look like you’re part of the wait staff,” Syril said. “And how long were you waiting for that opening?”
“Oh, do I? Weird. What a coincidence,” Linar said, not trying to sell the deception.
“What weapons do you all have?” Syril asked.
“Weapons?” The bar maid asked. “Why would you need weapons?”
“Umm,” Syril began, searching for a lie.
“We’re extra security,” Grom said.
“Oh, of course you are!” she said.
They decided it best not to speak of their vampiric suspicions, especially not around a waitress who was bound to not take too kindly to finding out her boyfriend was lying to her about his upbringing and the fact that he didn’t know her name.
Syril was fairly certain he could find out her name, but he was enjoying the show of Grom struggling.
“I am a weapon, as we just went over,” Ellen said.
“I can’t really hide an axe,” Bill said. “But I can handle myself well in a brawl.”
Linar opened his vest, showing that it was lined with throwing knives and daggers.
“I’ll just rip a leg off a table er somethin’ if it comes to it,” Grom said. “Or, I dunna, smite our foes from the heavens or somethin.”
Syril nodded, pulling a miniature flute from his doublet.
“Let’s go celebrate the heroic vampire slayers,” Syril said, meaningfully.
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