TREVOR: DIPLOMACY & DRINK
How Trevor became the bouncer at the Cracked Weasel
Old Korvosa, was just that, old. It bore the scars of history, with structures leaning on one another like ancient comrades who’d been to battle and seen better days, their facades adorned with battle scars and weathered carvings. It’s buildings, constructed with uneven stones and thatched roofs, leaned precariously over the walkways, casting shadows that seemed to whisper stories of times long gone. Muddy pathways, remnants of recent rains, bore the marks of wagon wheels and boot prints, while the whiff of the town's communal muck heap lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly caught fish from the river.
Despite the grim surroundings, the Cracked Weasel pub stood as a beacon of warmth and camaraderie. Its sturdy wooden door, adorned with iron hinges, creaked open to reveal a haven of wooden furnishings, hearty laughter, and the clinking of tankards. Dimly lit by flickering torches, the interior was a warm haven against the harsh realities of the outside world. The pub's charm lay in its ability to provide respite from the gritty reality of the old town, offering a place where patrons could momentarily escape the bloodstained streets and find solace in the company of fellow travellers.
One tumultuous evening, a group of five unruly human thugs swaggered into the pub, their eyes glinting with mischief and blades dangling from their belts. They were clearly here to cause trouble. Silence, as loud as the grave descended on the pub as soon as they walked in, with every patron looking deep into their drinks as if igorning the threat that would save them from what was to come. Sirius Blackfire, the the stout and grizzled landlord with a weathered face, reached beneath the bar for his trusted club, but even he knew that wouldn’t be enough to stop these vandals.
As fate would have it, a down and out Half-Orc was walking past the pub with a priest of Serenrae at the same time as the ruffians walked in. The Half-Orc eyed the the five men cautiously and slowly walked up behind them. The priest followed.
"Alright lads, let's not turn this fine establishment into a battlefield," The Half Orc rumbled, his voice carrying a stern yet comforting tone.
The thugs exchanged glances, sizing up the imposing figure before them. Unfazed, the Half Orc continued, "Now, I've seen enough scraps to last a lifetime. How about we settle our differences over a pint instead of blades, eh?"
To emphasize his point, the Half Orc flexed a bicep the size of a cask, causing a ripple of nervous laughter among the thugs. Yet, his eyes twinkled with a kindness that belied his fearsome appearance.
"Now, I've got a smile that could warm the coldest heart, but I assure you, I can make this place colder than a winter's night if need be," the Half Orc declared, his grin widening revealing his very large tusks.
The patrons of the Cracked Weasel had fallen silent, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. A hushed murmur swept through the room as the imposing Half Orc, worked his magic with a blend of diplomacy and intimidation.
The would-be troublemakers hesitated, realizing the futility of challenging not only the Half Orc’s physical prowess but also his genuine desire for peace. One by one, they sheepishly sheathed their weapons, reluctantly nodding in agreement.
"That's the spirit!" the Half Orc exclaimed, clapping a meaty hand on the shoulder of the ringleader. "Now, how about we all enjoy a pint and some good conversation, like civilized folk?" And just like that the thugs asked the landlord for 6 pints. One for the Half-Orc. “7” said the Half-Orc. Don’t forget my friend Otto. He’s a good man. Man of the cloth”. Reluctantly, the thugs pulled another coin from their purses and handed it over to the landlord for another pint. This had proved to be an expensive night. Albeit, looking at the enormous muscles on the Half Orc, it could’ve been a lot worse.
The regulars, amazed at this outcome and the Half Orcs genial nature, exchanged glances of both relief and amusement, marvelling at the gentle giant's ability to quell potential chaos. Sirius Blackfire, watched from behind the bar, his eyes narrowing in approval. Known for his gruff exterior, even Sirius couldn't help but crack a rare smile at the Half Orc prowess in maintaining order.
As the thugs tucked into their pints, the pub's atmosphere shifted from tense to jovial. The patrons erupted into applause, cheering for the Half Orc deft handling of the situation. Some raised their mugs in a toast, while others patted each other on the back, grateful for the unspoken assurance of safety that the Half Orc provided.
In a corner, a group of musicians struck up a lively tune on their instruments, infusing the air with an infectious rhythm that encouraged the would-be troublemakers to join in the celebration rather than cause further trouble.
Sirius, wiping a mug with a rag, approached the Half Orc with a hearty chuckle. "You, my lad, have got a knack for turning potential brawls into impromptu parties. Remind me to buy you a pint after closing time. The Half Orc, still wearing his warm grin, nodded appreciatively. "Well, that’s very kind of you sir. Like my friend Otto always says, no harm in steering folks toward a better path, is there?" Sirius smiled again and replied “I like the way you think. What’s your name sir?” and the Half Orc replied “ Trevor”. “Pleasure to meet you Trevor and you Otto. And thank you. You’ve done me and my pub a great service tonight gentlemen.” And with that, Sirius handed the Trevor and Otto the pints the thugs had bought them and went back to serving his other patrons.
The ruckus having subsided, Trevor, the towering half-orc, surveyed the now tranquil pub with a satisfied nod. The patrons, once on edge, returned to their drinks and conversations, grateful for the gentle giant's intervention and the night carried on with merriment, the memory of the thwarted brawl becoming a tale to be shared among the patrons.
As Trevor and Otto were about to leave, Sirius beckoned them over with a knowing grin."Trevor, me lad, you've got the gift of gab and the presence of a mountain. I've been thinking," Sirius said, his eyes twinkling with a newfound idea. "How 'bout you make this more than just a one-time event? How about becoming the official bouncer for the Cracked Weasel?"
Trevor's eyes widened in surprise,looked at Otto, back again to Sirius with a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Well, that's a proper unexpected offer, Sir. I've never been one to shy away from lending a hand, but being the official bouncer sounds like a grand idea."
The pub's patrons, overhearing the conversation, erupted into cheers, raising their glasses in approval. Trevor, despite his imposing stature, radiated an approachability that endeared him to the regulars. His large grin and genuine care for the patrons had become a staple at the "Cracked Weasel," and the idea of having him as the official guardian of their favourite watering hole was met with unanimous enthusiasm.
Sirius clapped Trevor on the back, his gruff exterior revealing a genuine warmth. "It's settled then! From now on, you're the guardian of this fine establishment. Keep the peace, Trevor, and make sure no one tarnishes the good name of the Cracked Weasel”.
Trevor, accepting the responsibility with pride, replied, "You've got me word, Sirius. I'll ensure this pub remains a haven for good company and hearty cheer."
And so, the "Cracked Weasel" gained not only a bouncer but a beloved figurehead who embodied the spirit of Old Korvosan hospitality. From that day forward, Trevor stood guard at the entrance, his big smile and caring demeanour ensuring that any potential troublemakers thought twice before disrupting the harmony of the cherished pub in the heart of Old Korvosa
