| Before Philosotankard | Existential Dread |
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Harg, The Philosotankard
"Regret is just memory wearing too much cologne."
Hi Harg, Hi Pibble
To call Harg a drunk would be to miss the point entirely—he is a philosopher of the highest disorder, a bard of unspoken sorrows, a sage of suds. He is thickset and warm like a half-soggy hearthrug, eyes sparkling with clarity despite the ale-soaked fog he lives in. His cloak was once a curtain, his shoes were once his neighbor’s, and his seat at the Brazen Burp might as well be nailed to the floor.
He believes deeply in the importance of “gut-thinkin’,” and treats each sip of ale as a ritualistic uncovering of truth. Sometimes those truths are brilliant. Sometimes they are SPLORP. And always, Harg insists the opposite of a thing is rarely what you think it is.
Despite what one might expect, Harg is not a fool—he simply does not trust things that make too much sense. His insight comes in bursts, and when it strikes, even seasoned scholars have found themselves wondering whether the man has peered into a scale’s very soul… or just got lucky mid-ramble.
He is beloved in the tavern for his grand, sweeping gestures, his ability to toast to anything (“To socks!”), and his maddening yet magnetic monologues. Some say he once drank a thimbleful of condensed scale essence, mistaking it for syrup. He says that’s nonsense—and if it were true, “I’d probably be even more brilliant.”
Traits
- Wisdom Beyond Words – Can intuit complex truths, but rarely explain them usefully.
- Unintelligible Brilliance – Often wrong, occasionally cosmically right.
- Tankard Philosopher – Believes ale is the lens through which truth is clearest.
Pibble, The Whispering Wonderfool
"Reality’s the prank ye play on yerself."
If Harg is the mountain of muddled thought, Pibble is the wind that whistles confusedly around it. Thin, twitchy, and a bit too fast in his movements, Pibble looks like he’s permanently surprised by life. He’s a man in whom thoughts bloom like fireworks—brilliant, chaotic, and likely to leave scorch marks.
Where Harg builds drunken monoliths of philosophical nonsense, Pibble provides the sparks, the questions, the terrible and beautiful ideas that set the table on fire (literally, once, during a debate on napkins). He speaks in riddles he doesn’t know are riddles, and sometimes utters truths that make sober minds weep.
His signature move is the solemn whisper of some invented concept—"Plorf," “Pre-gret,” or “Obliblivity”—and the even more solemn nod that follows. He’s rarely aware he’s said something profound, and even less aware that others have started quoting him.
Despite his jittery demeanor, Pibble carries a kind of innocent intensity. He once wooed his wife with a three-hour monologue on how sandwiches are time-travel, and she’s been shaking her head and loving him ever since.
Traits
- Pre-gret Master – Knows things are going to go wrong and does them anyway.
- Unpredictable Muse – Inspires art, laughter, and dread in equal measure.
- Booze-Oraclist – Can only prophesy under heavy inebriation.
Together, Harg and Pibble are more than a pair of fools. They are a phenomenon. They are drunken gravity wells, drawing in thoughts, truths, and unfortunate listeners into their spiraling descent toward metaphysical absurdity. And yet… when the tavern is quiet, and the fire is low, and the last clink of tankards has faded—they remain, two souls unmoored, finding sense in nonsense.
Their debates have stopped fights, started romances, inspired poetry, and, on one memorable night, resulted in the spontaneous naming of a child (“Welcome, lil’ Splorpina.”)
Some say they are touched by a scale. Others say they are cursed by one.
But everyone agrees: They make the Brazen Burp feel like home.