Chapter Text
The bar was a bar. That was sure.
It had dim lighting and scratched floors with a jukebox that always skipped just enough of the song you know to be annoying but not worth commenting on.
Darrak was pretty sure they were only here for a lead. Well, originally atleast, but seeing Maris shit-faced and mumbling about some magical know-how was super fucking funny. Even if he didn't understand any of what the man was saying.
The bar itself wasn't that big. A bit underground, more in word than in stance, but he could see some Toppsiders clinging to the edges. Scared for a taste of the underbelly, but desperately wanting to brag they were a part of it.
"Darrak!"
Jabb sat across from him. The Dragonborn had clearly decided to not intrupt whatever the fuck Mika and Maris where arguing about.
Which might just be the one time Jabb has ever had survival instincts.
"Do you think I should perform?"
Time to be a horrible role model.
Smiling to him, "Yes, god, please do." Darrak responded.
Nothing like a good fight to keep himself all entertained.
Even if the fight wasn't between them, or even had to do anything with them.
(Darrak had gotten bored of whatever those two were fighting about the moment they started bringing up magic; he wasn't a nerd enough to understand.)
Like a wet kitchen suddenly dried by cosmic powers, Jabb puffed up and grabbed his Banjo. Leaving his crossbow—
("It's a gun!" The irradesnt man says firmly, Mika shakes him "WHAT THE FUCK IS A GUN?")
—behind with Darrak.
Music plays. Dancing in the air like witches around a fire, it pulls the crowd's eyes towards it.
Jabb stands on stage, Green cloak (Darraks realizing how much green everyone in the Gang wears) hiding his face in an omniscient shadow: and sings.
It doesn't stir the bar immediately. Instead it builds the air in the room to a tight neck opening and then shatters the conditioner.
Mika and Maris end up fighting, it's not the real fighting they do against enemy's but that odd shuffling fight Darrak has seen Mika do with Jabb.
The bar tender, a man who looks fresh faced to the idea of adversity (but not stupid enough to stop *them*), meets his eyes. A question on the tip of the stranger's tongue.
"I'm with them." Darrrak confirms. Watching the asshats face twist with some form of contempt Darrak isn't sober enough to name.
Despite the shame he once felt, they are his family. Scruffy and mean, and down right blood thirsty, but he's never felt more *himself* then he ever had.
"I'm with them." He repeated once more just for himself. "They wouldn't let me leave.”
That's the biggest relief Darrak has ever known.