Light from the tavern window illuminated the faces of the two wizards as they peered inside. Stynmar’s chubby cheeks rested against the pane of cracked glass and Grantheous’s beard tickled the adjacent frame. Fetlin, their apprentice, stood between them, staring into the tavern. All anxiously awaited the results.

Fetlin ran his fingers through his bright red hair and looked around. His masters shouldn’t be wandering around the docks of Palanthas, but they had to test the market and both had insisted on coming. Fetlin fingered the butcher’s knife he had thrust into his belt in case of trouble.

The Two-Handed Mug, like every other tavern located on the docks, smelled of salt and fish and sweat. The wood floors, made from slats of yellow pine, were discolored by blood and beer, reminding the patrons fondly of bar fights of old.

Inside, the raucous laughter of the sailors changed to cheers as two minotaurs kicked their chairs back and tossed a table aside. The minotaurs growled and snorted. Patrons jumped over the bar, where they could watch in relative safety, or ran out the front door, taking the fight as an opportunity to leave without paying.

The two minotaurs gave deafening roars and locked horns and arms. The mages looked at each other, worried. Stynmar shook his head disconsolately. Fetlin, who was supposed to be taking notes, had trouble telling the minotaurs apart. He saw that one had a scarred lip and the other a nose ring, and he wrote this down in case it later turned out to be important.