The King's Command
A few days later, you arrive at the small village of Moorstead to resupply. While the rest of the company heads to the General Store, you visit the local tavern for a drink. Swinging open the door, you see the place is fairly deserted, save for a few figures huddled quietly in the corner.
“Barkeep! you shout flipping a coin on the counter. “Give me a round of your finest."
The man behind the bar nervously eyes the corner and looks back to you saying, “I’m sorry, Milord, but our stores have run dry. We're all out.”
“Run dry? Then what are those fellows over there drinking?” you question pointing to the figures in the corner.
Drawing their attention, the largest of group stands and walks menacingly toward you. Judging by his size, he wasn’t someone many people disagreed with.
“Didn’t you hear the man?" he spits. "He said 'run dry'. Now why don't you run along before things get ugly."
"Before things get ugly?" you reply putting strong emphasis on "before". "I think that ship sailed the moment you walked over here."
“Boss, look how well-dressed this one is. Maybe we should ask him for a 'charitable donation'?” one of the thugs in the corner suggests. “He looks alone too...”
“Gentlemen, please," you reply trying to diffuse the situation. "Can’t we just enjoy our drinks in peace? I’m a bit weary from my journey and would much rather prefer to relax, rather than make you look like fools. Well, even greater fools I should say.”
“Empty your pockets, noble shit, and you can leave unharmed. We’ll even give you a drink for the road since we are such ‘gentlemen’ as you put it,” the ringleader threatens.
“(Sigh) Can’t I go anywhere without attracting the locals? And why does everyone assume I’m a nobleman?” you muse to yourself. “Alright, calm down. Let me see how much I have on me.”
You reach into your cloak pretending to look for your coin purse and pull your hand out with your middle finger raised. “Here’s my donation, fuck face!”
In the back corner, the gang kick down their chairs rushing towards you. The brute closest to you winds up his meaty fist and fires it towards your head. Sensing the blow, you slip underneath the punch and drive his face into the bar. Splinters fly in the air as you turn your attention towards the approaching mob. The first thug is met with a side kick to the gut, tripping the thug behind him. With three disposed, you take the offensive with a flurry of punches and elbows dazing the remaining attackers. Distracted by your sudden offensive attack, the thugs are hardly able to launch one of their own. You pick each one apart, exploiting the holes in their defense.
“Who... are you?” the brute utters coughing and spitting blood.
“I’m just a man who needs a goddamn drink,” you answer swinging over the bar to search the bottles.
Light bursts into the room as the door flies open. Garrick and Caitlyn enter leading a group of soldiers with their weapons drawn.
“What the fuck happened here?" Garrick inquires. “You risk our entire mission pulling stunts like this."
“I wouldn’t say that. It looks like the Prince can handle himself in a fight, though you’d never know by looking at him.” Caitlyn says with a wink. “I just wish you would include me during your little scuffles. It’s rather selfish not to share the fun.”
One of the soldiers steps forward twiddling his well groomed mustache. “My Prince, we best not tarry. Clearly you needed no help here, but I’m afraid we can’t afford to delay our mission. We are under a strict command from the King.”
“Will is right. We already loaded the supplies. Let’s get moving,” Garrick says.
“Barkeep! you shout flipping a coin on the counter. “Give me a round of your finest."
The man behind the bar nervously eyes the corner and looks back to you saying, “I’m sorry, Milord, but our stores have run dry. We're all out.”
“Run dry? Then what are those fellows over there drinking?” you question pointing to the figures in the corner.
Drawing their attention, the largest of group stands and walks menacingly toward you. Judging by his size, he wasn’t someone many people disagreed with.
“Didn’t you hear the man?" he spits. "He said 'run dry'. Now why don't you run along before things get ugly."
"Before things get ugly?" you reply putting strong emphasis on "before". "I think that ship sailed the moment you walked over here."
“Boss, look how well-dressed this one is. Maybe we should ask him for a 'charitable donation'?” one of the thugs in the corner suggests. “He looks alone too...”
“Gentlemen, please," you reply trying to diffuse the situation. "Can’t we just enjoy our drinks in peace? I’m a bit weary from my journey and would much rather prefer to relax, rather than make you look like fools. Well, even greater fools I should say.”
“Empty your pockets, noble shit, and you can leave unharmed. We’ll even give you a drink for the road since we are such ‘gentlemen’ as you put it,” the ringleader threatens.
“(Sigh) Can’t I go anywhere without attracting the locals? And why does everyone assume I’m a nobleman?” you muse to yourself. “Alright, calm down. Let me see how much I have on me.”
You reach into your cloak pretending to look for your coin purse and pull your hand out with your middle finger raised. “Here’s my donation, fuck face!”
In the back corner, the gang kick down their chairs rushing towards you. The brute closest to you winds up his meaty fist and fires it towards your head. Sensing the blow, you slip underneath the punch and drive his face into the bar. Splinters fly in the air as you turn your attention towards the approaching mob. The first thug is met with a side kick to the gut, tripping the thug behind him. With three disposed, you take the offensive with a flurry of punches and elbows dazing the remaining attackers. Distracted by your sudden offensive attack, the thugs are hardly able to launch one of their own. You pick each one apart, exploiting the holes in their defense.
“Who... are you?” the brute utters coughing and spitting blood.
“I’m just a man who needs a goddamn drink,” you answer swinging over the bar to search the bottles.
Light bursts into the room as the door flies open. Garrick and Caitlyn enter leading a group of soldiers with their weapons drawn.
“What the fuck happened here?" Garrick inquires. “You risk our entire mission pulling stunts like this."
“I wouldn’t say that. It looks like the Prince can handle himself in a fight, though you’d never know by looking at him.” Caitlyn says with a wink. “I just wish you would include me during your little scuffles. It’s rather selfish not to share the fun.”
One of the soldiers steps forward twiddling his well groomed mustache. “My Prince, we best not tarry. Clearly you needed no help here, but I’m afraid we can’t afford to delay our mission. We are under a strict command from the King.”
“Will is right. We already loaded the supplies. Let’s get moving,” Garrick says.