Four steps over the edge

[Fort]

Frall sat there, shifting in his seat uncomfortably as he watched the grizzled northeners down their shots of vodka.
There was always a thrill in betting, always a sense of adreniline when you knew your next meal was on the line, this was how Frall lived, and this was how he was going to earn his way out of this hell-hole.

"Fuu...fuuu...fuu..." stuttered the more intoxicated of the drinkers, pointing skywards with deliberation. The crowd stepped back as he swayed in his stool; Frall's heart stopped in his chest, his grubby coins held firmly in his sweaty palms, NO! He was so sure about this bet, he was positive about winning, he had sensed it.

The young oracle gulped and closed his eyes, divulging into the nether, swimming in the informative pool of revalations, breathing unending, in deep procession. Yes, he could smell it, the stench of whiskey and vodka, a strong stench - much stronger, the bet simply couldn't end yet!

CRACK. With aggressive furore, the intoxicated drinking partner brandished the bottles in both hands and cracked his opponent on the head - in seconds the dingy tavern was brawling over the winner of the contest.

Frall shrieked as a bottle flew overhead and nearly hit him in his weasly face. Crawling under the table and sucking his thumb, the oracle reasoned that the prediction came out correct, now if only he could smell, or even HEAR the future, that would help him infinitely.

"Mummy," he whispered as his table was overturned and a short, hairy man flew overhead.
Hands and knees perpindicular to the adjacent floor, the smellacle crawled his way over to the door, gibbering slowly to himself all the while.
"Just a little closer," he murmured, "please, please don't stab me, please..."

A horror beyond imagining stopped this train of thought immedietely, completely out in the open, knelt in front of the doorway - it began to open.