Jack was bored. He snarled, and kicked the chair in front of him to the ground. He'd been stuck in this place for ages. The ale was bland, the bread stale, and even the air seemed to bear the stink of boredom. The waiter trambled, as he approached Jack's table. Without a word, Jack's glass was filled with the best ale in the house - which wasn't very good. Jack sighed, as he took his glass, and took a swig. It was as bland as boring as he'd expected in this bland and boring little hamlet in the boring little field with it's boring little people.
Jack didn't like small places. This was ironic, seeing as how he was quite small, standing up to the chest of most men. His diminutive size aside, however, he was an intimidating man. He wore a plain white tunic with slight half-cleaned blood spatters, a bright red cape, and a belt of fine leather, from which hung two long daggers. His boots were of the same fine leather as his belt, one of them containing an extra knife. His face and hands were covered in scars from a variety of weapons, as if he'd run naked through an armory, or gotten on the bad side of a small army. The scariest thing about Jack, however, were his eyes. They were the eyes of a killer. Eyes that darted around the room, only to settle on you for an unsettlingly long time, sometimes staring into thin air for no apparent reason. They were the eyes of a man who would stab you in the gut, and not even blink, before trying to get the blood out of his shirt.
Jack had been called here by the owner of the house. The man had told Jack of a group of bandits nearby, and Jack, being his usual heroic self, had jumped on the opportunity to wipe out a group of evildoers such as that. He'd travelled miles, through snow and rain, honing his dagger, ready for the taste of blood. Bards would sing tales of his heroism, and he'd have some great material for his next book. Perhaps he'd finally become the famous hero he'd hoped to become. However, when he'd arrived, the bandits had moved on. Apparently, one of the villagers had boasted that they'd called on a killer to deal with the bandits, and the bandits had done the smart thing. Jack had not been amused.
Sighing, Jack stood up. He'd waited for three days already for the bandits to return. Not only that, but the villagers had refused to pay him. He'd had to stab two of them just to get them to give him his money. This had been a bad week for Jack. However, a smile was slowly creeping across his face. Jack had certain instincts. An instinct for adventure. An instinct for danger. And an instinct for murder. Right now, he knew something was going to happen. It was a kind of tension, like the gods were on the edge of their seats, watching the spectacle of life unfold below them. Jack wasn't planning on missing out.
Jack sttod up without a word, the villagers around him fearfully moving out of the way, as he made his way to the door. He retrieved a wide-brimmed red hat from the stand, a white feather portruding from it artfully. He opened the door, breathing in the air, which was filled with excitement, as he walked out into the sunlight. It was time for a walk in the woods, thought Jack to himself.