It was a quiet night in the tavern; it looked like there would be no trouble this evening. The drunkards in the corner were of the quiet, giggling variety, and unlikely to cause problems.
The barkeep, busy washing ale mugs with his rag, did not look up when the door swung open. If he had, he would have surely dropped them and they would have shattered across the floor.
"One of your finest" said the newcomer.
"Right up."
With his back to the stranger, the barkeep opened the keg funnel and poured the frothy ale into the now-clean mug. After it had foamed to almost overflowing, he turned and set the mug on the cracked counter, and looked up.
The figure before him was of mammoth proportions, easily being two feet taller than himself. Large and powerfully built arms protruded from a simple black robe, and his head was clad in a well-weaved straw farmer's sun guard. Below the hat, were two beady eyes buried deep in a face covered with black and white fur. His expression seemed to be naturally thoughtful, with a slightly visible smile.
Here, of all places, stood a member of the elusive Pandarian Empire, Brewmasters without peer. The barkeep was frozen in fear and awe of the living legend standing before him, and any other thought on his mind had vanished. The Brewmaster's smile grew a bit, and he lifted one of his large hands to the ale, easily slipping the barkeep's stunned arms off the lager.
The Brewmaster nodded and sought out a table, oblivious to the stares directed towards him. A table, already occupied by a young and equally stunned soldier, became his destination. The Brewmaster approached, and held one of the chairs around the table.
"Mind if I join you?"
The soldier did not reply. The Brewmaster seemed to interpret this as an affirmative, and sat down.
They remained there for some time, the Brewmaster gently sipping the ale, oblivious to the soldier's stare and astonishment.
"Interesting blend, eh?"
The soldier said nothing.
"A tad of mageroyal and kingsblood, with some Westfall wheat-" he trailed off, took another sip, and exclaimed, "O-ho! Plus a pinch of briarthorn for good measure. Very good, indeed. A nice balance."
It was at that moment in which the drunkards, already not thinking clearly, chose to act. Heading towards the Brewmaster, they surrounded the table on three sides, glaring. The Brewmaster paid no attention.
"You" said the leader, nervously.
The Brewmaster looked up, and his grin became a warm smile.
"Me" he replied haughtily. "Name is Bara, would you like to join us for a drink? Or two?" He held out his hand, and when no response was made, he picked up the brew again, and continued his drinking.
"We don't like your kind, not here" said the drunk. The soldier seemed to break out of his trance at these words.
"You fools, he is no evil. There is no Horde-"
"He's an outsider" replied the man, slurring his words and cutting the soldier short.. "He don't belong here."
"My friends, my friends, unto what sin must I be punished?" A dangerous glint was growing in his eye, but his warm and friendly smile never waned.
"Look-"said the drunk, and suddenly cast his hands around The Brewmaster's throat, as if to choke him.
He never got the chance. The Brewmaster's hand, lightning fast struck the drunk in the kidney hard, dropping him to the ground. His foot rose as if in response to his hand's actions, and swung in a sweeping arc that threw two more across the room and across tables, where they landed hard and unconscious. The soldier rose, accidentally slamming another in the stomach with the chair head. The rest fled quickly, outside and away from the tavern.
The Brewmaster stood up, taking a final, deep draught of the ale, emptying the mug of its contents. Heading toward the bar with the empty lager, he left in on the bar.
"Very good ale, friend" said the Brewmaster, leaving a fistful (and what large fists they were) of coins the counter. He motioned to the soldier. "Put that one's tab on this. Goodbye, and good brew to you!" he said with his never-faltering grin, and walked out the door into the silent night.
The barkeep's eyes went to the pile of coins. In a town when copper coins were the common currency, the Brewmaster had left not a stack of copper, nor a pile of silver.
It was gold. A moderate fortune in front of him, the barkeep gathered the heavy coins and weighed his pockets with them. He would give all who remained in the bar a free round of drinks, maybe even two, he thought to himself. His family would never go hungry again, and money would still be left to help the town through these hard times.
But in between his thoughts, he saw a shadow slide out of the tavern. Although only a silhouette, he was able to recognize it as the goblin who had delivered his shipment of goods. But he paid no heed-
Some things weren't your business.