A month or so later…

Agnar kicks open the door, three or four darkwood boards jammed under his arm. His foot goes through the door, it takes him a few moments to get his foot extricated from the splintered hole. He turns the knob and opens the door with remarkable aplomb.  He is drunk.

Echo-dactyl flaps through a large bay-window, sending glass everywhere, and slams against the opposing wall. She is very drunk. Carbunkle is mostly nude, except for a thin white toga draped around his genitals — he levitates through the broken window, sipping genteely on a martini. He is old-man drunk, which is to say unbelievably hammered but with a profound sense of dignity.

Boss Kreed, sitting at his massive darkwood desk opens his fat jowls to call for his guards…when Fin appears behind his chair, and wraps a firm arm around the lumber magnate’s throat. The monk is not drunk. That would be deeply inappropriate. He’s just very, very centered.

The lantern archon, Wick, giggles drunkenly — causing all present to briefly wonder how a lantern spirit even imbibes — then points a tiny fire-finger towards Kreed.

“We’ve come to discuss – hic–disourse?–no, hic– discuss the redistrubutions—retributions—of the Darkwood Lumber wealth amongst the poor workers of Flappy Bird Hollow!”
Witty repartee, and proper pants-shitting follows.

Corben leans out of the wheelhouse, one hand on the wheel. He blinks a little more than he should, and keeps idly tossing his chakram into the air and catching it in his teeth. Haskeer lies snoring in the prow, completely oblivious. The half-orc had easily held his own drinking in the Royal Gardens, even tossing back a bottle of Purple Rot-Gut with elan, and singing some classic orc chanteys with the Vagabonder. But then a page had arrived with a gift for Haskeer, left by a traveller for ‘Oscar Spider-killer’ — one of the many gifts that had flooded their lives in the past weeks. But the note had referenced the page by name, so he had made sure to bring it right along. A simple clear bottle, with a sweet-smelling clear liquid. The note attached had said — For the crew of the Lodestar, some Dragon Drank on us. To the Queen! – The Gang at the Diner

Haskeer had laughed and taken a mighty swig, and the bottle was passed around. Then ideas were had. Then the crew was clambering through the garden, to where the ship was parked. They had plenty of time, and this adventure was long overdue.

Corben grimaced as the crew boards. The Truescales and Brightflames had been excited to be invited along on this grand adventure, and they had made a mighty pile of darkwood on the deck in an alarmingly short time. Carbunkle is the last to board, hauled bodily to the ship by a red-haired woman in a low-cut bodice. She plants a warm kiss on the snoring gnome’s forehead then flops him over the stone rails of the ship.

“Now that Darkwood Lumber is owned by the people of Falcon’s Hollow — should we really be stealing all this wood?”

A witty, drunken retort.

“Well, we don’t have time to put it back. We have to haul ass back to Caleron, we can’t have the groom be late for his own wedding!”