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Thunk. "Nice throw, Marty," one voice shouted, a snicker quickly following his words. "Shut up Bill," came another, more frustrated voice. Shouts and curses rang out as a group of men competed in a throwing competition at the Brown Butler, a pub in the west side of Talgot, the capitol city. The Brown Butler was a special pub located in thief territory, the west side.
Each night, right before sundown, drinks were half off, and there was occasionally a throwing knife competition. Tonight, the competition was fierce. A 200 shekel prize was on the line. Thieves of all different kinds gathered at the pub, usually for a cheap drink and a chance to test one's skills. Thunk. "Well Bill? What do ya' say te that?" A near-perfect throw, which hit right around the center of the target. "No way," Bill said, groaning. More shouts erupted from the crowd as the competition went on, various other people jumping up to try for the prize.
In the midst of all this, at the far corner of the pub, sitting at a booth far enough from the action was a lean bounty hunter. This bounty hunter sat at attention, his back straight and his black, leather-covered chainmail armor stiff along the padding he wore underneath. "You said that all I needed was a sword," the bounty hunter said, his booming voice faintly laced with anger as he stared intently at his company, a plate-armored individual with a heavy falchion leaning against his seat.
"Aye, I said a sword, not a needle, ya' prick," replied the man in armor, his thick scottish accent dull echoing out of his helmet as he spoke. The bounty hunter gritted his teeth, and in a second, flicked his saber out of the sheath, planting it into the backrest of the booth right beside the armored man's head. "Does this look like a damn needle to you Drake?" the bounty hunter said, spitting out the word needle like it was filth. A few other people looked over at the sudden display, but Drake, unmoved by the display, responded, "Aye. Ya' might use it like a cuttn' blade, but it's a needle ta' me. Ya' need a real sword, Flake."
After a second of thought, Flake reluctantly pried his weapon from the booth and sheathed it, his eyes narrow. A wench began passing bye, but Drake shot out his arm, nearly hitting the woman's stomach, and said, "Wench, I'd care for an a'le." The woman looked over at the man, saw the hole in the backrest next to his head, and turned around immediately after to heed his wish. "You know, Drake," Flake started, closing his eyes as he relaxed in his seat, "I heard a pebble was all it took to take down a giant."
Drake grinned, his expression invisible from behind his helmet as he retorted, "Bu' a big sword makes i' a hell of a lot fa'ster." Thunk. Cheering erupted in the crowd as a man got a near bull's eye, his knife off-angledly hanging from the target. "These amateurs look more drunk by the minute," Flake commented, frowning once again as the wench returned, quickly placing the ale in front of the armored man before hurrying off. "A'm next," said Drake, lifting the visor of his helm to reveal a fair, sharp-cheeked face below, "Bottom's up mate."
With that said, Flake rolled his eyes and stood up, throwing a small bag of shekels on the table. "Don't forget the tip," Flake added, watching the wench walk away, "and tell me who wins the competition when I get back, eh?" Drake stopped drinking for a moment to laugh, then continued guzzling his drink as the bounty hunter walked away, his metal-soled shoes shaking the floorboards with each step. A few people looked over and called out to Flake, recognizing his armor. He ignored them, and they let him go, too sober to annoy him.
The bounty hunter withdrew into his mind as he contemplated what to do next, heading right for the barely-usable door. "How on Earth am I going to do this?" he asked himself, looking at his calloused hand as he paused, a few feet from the door. A small group of men passed by in front of him, walking by the door as it opened, a female hand holding the knob. The crowd seemingly got louder, reminding Flake of what he forgot.
Flake then instantly turned back around and briskly walked back to the booth he was at, watching as Drake put his empty mug back on the table. "Just a minute here," Flake said, frowning at the man, "what is my task? You said you'd tell me." Drake flipped his visor back down, then quickly responded, "Prove yer' worth. It's as simple as that." Flake nodded, then said, "And how do I do that, exactly?"