Storm clouds roll and roil across a threatening sky. Iron-cold rain begins to pelt the cyberscape as a lone rider approaches the Night of Joy, long thought to be the most noxious, pretentious, salacious (and a whole lotta other -iouses) watering hole in the whole of the Ancient Worlds...

The rider, clothed only in a black cloak and breeches, rides a magnificent steed, the glistening, frothy coat of said animal a hellish, sepulchral black. You may be asking yourself..."How much more black could this horse be?" And the answer would be..."None...more black..."

The man's thunderous voice rips form his barrel chest like a peal of not-so-distant thunder...

Onward, Buttercup! Full tankards await at our Night of Joy!"

As said boutique comes into view through blinding sheets of bullet-like rain, The man known as the Black Brehyrion reins in his leviathanic mount...

Whoa, whoa! WHOA, I said! WHOA, you stupid nag, WHOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Suddenly, and without warning, the colossal equine comes to a stunningly abrupt halt, launching the black-clad Celt through the air like...like...well...like a flying Brehyrion, I guess.

With a clangorous crash, the huge Brigante man crashes through the front door of the Night of Joy, sending oaken flinders that used to be a door careening through the astonished patrons. He tumbles once, twice, thrice, and finally comes to rest near the feet of one Neotne, who seems less than impressed with an inebriate, soaking-wet Celt prone at her feet.

The man rises nobley, brushes back his unruly mane of black, limewashed hair, straightens his cloak about his impressively broad shoulders, adjusts the glittering falcata at his narrow hip, cracks his neck audibly, and nods serenely to the other patrons...

Zoot alors! What a great bar! This round is on Big Papa C!