“Beer or death?” came a voice behind me with a thick pandaren accent. I whipped around. The fuzzy bartender was standing in the shadows along the pub’s front wall, legs planted in a battle stance, a look of wariness, and fury, on his face. His ceremonial sword was unsheathed and held over his head. There were dark splotches on the blade that did not look ceremonial. He was probably two short steps from ending me. [link]
Artist: Michellethemit