The history of Tamriel is full of heroes. Each as unique as an individual snowflake falling from a crisp winter sky. Some have used ridiculously large biceps, complemented by equally large trunks and legs, to get the job done. They save the citizens using brawn, encased in steel, fearing no one and nothing. With quick wits and quicker sword thrusts they carve a path through evil the way Uriel Septim carves a road through thick Cyrodiil forests.

Others use their minds to overcome obstacles relentlessly set before them by the bandits and evil masterminds of the world. With a flick of the wrist they create devastating fire, cracking lightning, and other atrocities one would not wish to make friends with. They delve into tombs of knowledge to better understand their foes, memorizing weaknesses, finding habits, and generally making the life of evil doers miserable.

Barin was neither hero of might or mind. The closest he came to wearing armor was a steel flask he kept secured at his hip, never more than half empty of his favorite ale. His idea of mind power was spinning elaborate tales in his favorite tavern to all that would listen. He was a Breton, small frame, dark auburn hair, pale skin.

Barin entered the tavern and inclined his head in greeting to Skirus, the Nordic bartender. He had a wide girth and powerful arms. The dark hair that once had roots in his head decided one night to hold a meeting, the meeting went bad when one hair, always known as a trouble maker, incited a mutiny. War ensued between the grays and the browns, the grays won but were so weary from the fight they decided to find better living quarters on the ground. The browns, wanting to redeem themselves for losing, moved south to the Nord's arms where they currently reside, plotting their coup.

“Remember that time I was beset by five Dremora Lords? I narrowly escaped with my life! The beasts stood frozen with fear at the sight of me. What other hero has ever frozen ONE Dremora Lord, eh? Tell me that!” Barin said after downing two ales and starting in on a third. His brother buried his face in a mug as he listened to the rant, for the sake of humanity he spoke up.

“It was a wax museum, brother”

Barin didn't skip a beat, “Wax! Ha! Even in their frightened state they managed to throw deadly poison-tipped spears in my direction. Fools, a master acrobat can't be hit by such trivial instruments of war.”

“You knocked over a weapons rack.” His brother corrected.

The drivel continued, “Surely, dear brother, you remember the time that Wood Elf tried to assassinate me with his bow.”

Barin’s brothers eyes danced a jig on his forehead in confusion, “Oh, you mean when he was aiming for the Nix Hound but missed?”

“I snatched his arrow from the air!” Barin said, mimicking the movement with a drunken flip of his wrist.

“You picked it up off the ground after it glanced off a rock and bounced off three trees.”

“I'll show you,” Barin said, rising suddenly from his chair, “I'll go prove myself right now!”

The Breton stormed out of the tavern, fourth ale in hand, mumbling as he weaved his way down a narrow alley. It was at this point that Barin noticed a real Dremora Lord was walking down the same alley towards him. How the red and black skinned other-worldly being came to be walking down an ally in the middle of a busy city is not important at this time. What is important to know is Barin was scared, very scared.

He took a step back but tripped over a barrel, flinging his mug full of ale into a passing guards face. It is no coincidence that the passing guard happened to be the captain of the city guard. The guard, blinded by the alcohol, yelled and flung his shield into the air, it landed with a loud crash on the roof of an adjacent building. A rat, only looking for a meal but getting a shield to the tail instead, shot along the edge of the building and into it's nest but not before toppling a rack of spears. One spear glanced off the roof and skewered the Dremora Lord, killing him instantly.

The captain of the guard looked through watering eyes at the sight before him. A small pale Breton stood over the Dremora, spear in hand.

“Citizen, oh great and mighty warrior, slayer of the Dremora and Champion of justice, you have saved my life! Come we shall celebrate immediately!”

Barin eyed the spear, glanced at the dead Dremora, then looked up at the beaming captain of the Guard.

“Ah, yes, you know, all in a days work for us hero types.”

The pair marched back to the tavern, Barin had another story to tell.

Nice...is that how all bar tales start? A guy getting drunk and then saving someones life on accident...

Very nice, perhaps the best work I've read from you. I like the incidental hero setup you started off with and the style you write with. Very nice.

i enjoyed it, i liked the humor and the oddities such as the hairs holding a meeting LMAO

You are a very bad person. Having a carbonated beverage go up one's sinuses and out the nose is painful. Fast, funny, and wonderfully weird. A gem.

I'm glad you all liked it, it was my first attempt at humor and I wasn't sure if I got it right. So far it seems like I have. I tried to make it Douglas Adams-esque.